he met Dr. Hazzard on the wharf as she disembarked from the launch from Olalla. Margaret numbly complied. In some ways, she was thankful. The time alone would help her regain her composure. She sat and waited.
But as her eyes wandered over the doctor’s desk, something caught her attention. She was uncertain what it was. What had she seen? She continued reviewing the contents of the room, wondering about the doctor’s practice, just what her renowned fasting treatment actually entailed. Again, she returned her gaze to the great oak desk that stood in the room like a monolith. This time, what caught her eye was a blue leather writing pad. It seemed familiar. She stood and leaned forward to inspect it further.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
It was Claire’s. It was positioned among the bric-a-brac of table fittings as if it belonged to the person who sat behind the desk. But it was Claire’s. Margaret Conway was about to reach for it, when a loud voice cut through the room.
“Miss Conway, I am Linda Hazzard.”
Startled, Margaret settled back into her chair. The Williamson girls’ closest companion moved her lips to speak, but Dr. Hazzard apparently would have none of that. She had seized her office’s quiet air and was not about to share it with anyone else. She did not offer condolences; she did not extend her hand in greeting. Later, Miss Conway would say she was very thankful that she did not touch the doctor’s hands.
And in time, no matter how much would pass, she would never forget the words the doctor used or what she showed her.
“She began to tell me at once that the girls had come to her in a very bad state of health; in fact, when Claire came to her office—the first time she saw her—she was purple in the face and in a shocking state of health and she dropped into a chair and said, ‘Mrs. Hazzard, I have come to you to be cured or to die.’”
As Dr. Hazzard further described the sisters’ decline, Margaret fumbled for something on which to write. She wanted to make note of what was being told to her. Relatives would inquire, and she was in such a dizzy state she felt she might forget what was being said in that office in the Northern Bank and Trust Building.
“There was no hope for either one of them,” she said, stopping for a moment as her eyes traced the thin line that was the direction of the Australian woman’s gaze.
Margaret was studying the desktop once more.
“You can use this pad, it is Claire’s.”
“Yes, I know.”
Though neither woman realized it at the time, the exchange was like a challenge of sorts. A war was about to be waged. And the good Lord willing, no prisoners would be taken.
Margaret ran her hand over the supple blue leather that bound the pages of the treasured little book. Why did the doctor have this writing pad? Why indeed?
Next, as if there could possibly be more upsetting revelations, the doctor told Margaret of the postmortem examination she had conducted on Claire’s remains.
“Miss Williamson’s liver was so hard I could not get a knife to penetrate it . . .
“The blood in one of the heart’s valves was so dry it powdered in my fingers . . .
“Her intestines were so small, so infantile, you could not have passed a lead pencil into them . . .
“The only organ that was sound,” the doctor concluded, as she straightened up her desk, “was her lungs.”
As Margaret tried to grasp the meaning of each detail the doctor set before her, her mind seized with grief and horror. When Dr. Hazzard launched into a litany of her credentials, her patients being the “highest class of people,” her success with those whom other doctors had written off, Margaret Conway barely listened. Her attention snapped into place when Linda Burfield extended a strange offer.
“Would you like to see
But as her eyes wandered over the doctor’s desk, something caught her attention. She was uncertain what it was. What had she seen? She continued reviewing the contents of the room, wondering about the doctor’s practice, just what her renowned fasting treatment actually entailed. Again, she returned her gaze to the great oak desk that stood in the room like a monolith. This time, what caught her eye was a blue leather writing pad. It seemed familiar. She stood and leaned forward to inspect it further.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
It was Claire’s. It was positioned among the bric-a-brac of table fittings as if it belonged to the person who sat behind the desk. But it was Claire’s. Margaret Conway was about to reach for it, when a loud voice cut through the room.
“Miss Conway, I am Linda Hazzard.”
Startled, Margaret settled back into her chair. The Williamson girls’ closest companion moved her lips to speak, but Dr. Hazzard apparently would have none of that. She had seized her office’s quiet air and was not about to share it with anyone else. She did not offer condolences; she did not extend her hand in greeting. Later, Miss Conway would say she was very thankful that she did not touch the doctor’s hands.
And in time, no matter how much would pass, she would never forget the words the doctor used or what she showed her.
“She began to tell me at once that the girls had come to her in a very bad state of health; in fact, when Claire came to her office—the first time she saw her—she was purple in the face and in a shocking state of health and she dropped into a chair and said, ‘Mrs. Hazzard, I have come to you to be cured or to die.’”
As Dr. Hazzard further described the sisters’ decline, Margaret fumbled for something on which to write. She wanted to make note of what was being told to her. Relatives would inquire, and she was in such a dizzy state she felt she might forget what was being said in that office in the Northern Bank and Trust Building.
“There was no hope for either one of them,” she said, stopping for a moment as her eyes traced the thin line that was the direction of the Australian woman’s gaze.
Margaret was studying the desktop once more.
“You can use this pad, it is Claire’s.”
“Yes, I know.”
Though neither woman realized it at the time, the exchange was like a challenge of sorts. A war was about to be waged. And the good Lord willing, no prisoners would be taken.
Margaret ran her hand over the supple blue leather that bound the pages of the treasured little book. Why did the doctor have this writing pad? Why indeed?
Next, as if there could possibly be more upsetting revelations, the doctor told Margaret of the postmortem examination she had conducted on Claire’s remains.
“Miss Williamson’s liver was so hard I could not get a knife to penetrate it . . .
“The blood in one of the heart’s valves was so dry it powdered in my fingers . . .
“Her intestines were so small, so infantile, you could not have passed a lead pencil into them . . .
“The only organ that was sound,” the doctor concluded, as she straightened up her desk, “was her lungs.”
As Margaret tried to grasp the meaning of each detail the doctor set before her, her mind seized with grief and horror. When Dr. Hazzard launched into a litany of her credentials, her patients being the “highest class of people,” her success with those whom other doctors had written off, Margaret Conway barely listened. Her attention snapped into place when Linda Burfield extended a strange offer.
“Would you like to see
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