Page 33 - Fever 1793

of nature for her to lie in bed with the sun so high.
At last Rowley rose from the bed. We waited for him to speak, like a congregation expecting the
minister’s benediction.
“It is not yellow fever,” he said.
Grandfather sighed in relief.
“But Dr. Rush says yellow fever is spreading everywhere,” Eliza said.
“Dr. Rush likes to alarm people,” Mr. Rowley replied. “There is a great debate about this pestilence.
Yesterday a physician I shall not name diagnosed yellow fever in an elderly woman. Her family threw her into the street. She died, but she didn’t have yellow fever. It was all a mistake. I use the diagnosis sparingly. And I assure you, there is no fever in this house.”
Grandfather beamed.
“See, Matilda? I was right. We have no cause to run out of the city like children scared by a ghost. Lucille will be scolding us by sunrise,” he chuckled.
Rowley wagged his finger at Grandfather.
“I wouldn’t predict that,” he said. “She’ll need more than a good nap to recover. Be sure to bathe her every four hours and keep her clean and cool. I’ll give some remedies to your servant. And now,” he said, holding out his hand and showing his gray teeth, “my fee.”
Giving my mother a bath felt upside down and backside front. I didn’t want to do it. Daughters aren’t supposed to bathe their mothers, but Eliza could not manage alone.
We moved my bed to Grandfather’s chamber and replaced it with the tin bathing tub. Every four hours, we filled the tub with hot water mixed with black pepper and myrrh. The worst part was dragging Mother from her fitful sleep and getting her to sit in the water. The fever had taken hold of her senses, and she wept, calling my father’s name.
While Mother dozed in the tub, we stripped the linen from her bed and laid on fresh. She was supposed to drink dittany tea sweetened with molasses, but it tasted too horrible. As soon as we had her back in bed, Eliza emptied the tub and put more water on to boil.
Mother shivered so hard, her teeth rattled. Even with all the blankets in the house on her, she could not warm. She lay under the faded bedding like a rag doll losing its stuffing, her hair a wild collection of snakes on the pillow, her cornflower blue eyes poisoned with streaks of yellow and red. It hurt to look at her.
After the sun set, Eliza set a candle by her bed.
“Your grandfather is sleeping at old man Carris’s house,” she explained.
“Just as well,” I said. “Are you going home?”
“I must,” she said. “My brother is expecting me.”
I nodded. Eliza lived with her brother’s family. They would be very worried if she didn’t come home. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “I think she’ll sleep through the night.”
Eliza kissed my forehead. “Don’t forget your prayers,” she said. “I’ll come early and try to bring a
doctor with me.”
After she left, I locked the doors and closed the shutters. A church bell struck ten times and I shivered.
The coffeehouse was filled with shadows and dark noises. I took two extra candles from the clothespress and hurried upstairs to watch over Mother.
She did not notice when I entered the room. Her face was pulled taut in pain, and she jerked in her sleep.
I so wanted to touch her. The tops of her hands were roped with muscle and veins, but her skin was wrinkled and soft. Had she ever enjoyed anything? Had every day been a struggle? Perhaps death would