The Scientist's Experiment: Chapter Seven

“I still don’t fully understand why we need Carla’s input.” Zeke grumbled.
He folded his arms, not unlike a pouting child. It being only the second day of postoperative recovery, he was still in a great deal of discomfort, but Zeke could feel himself healing. He was slightly less tired than before, and though the abdominal pain was still persistent, the former was still progress in his mind.
“Carla’s a professional, and she knows what she’s talking about. I realize you do as well, but you’ve never dealt with surgery before, and neither have I. She has.” Frieda said, gently squeezing his shoulder.
“I’m right here. I can hear everything you’re saying.” Carla said, scowling at Zeke with pure contempt.
Carla sat on a wooden stool at his bedside, still completely clueless as to what her wife and Zeke were conspiring on. Despite this, she was bound to her profession as doctor, and intended to help in any way she could. She opened her satchel and pulled out a pair of surgical scissors.
“Are those sanitized?” Zeke asked, glowering.
“Don’t upset yourself. They won’t be going under your skin. As long as you behave, that is.” Carla said, smirking at her own joke.
Carla pulled away the sheets of his bed, exposing his bandaged stomach. She took the scissors and began snipping away strips of the gauze, all the while Zeke was sinking into his pillows, gripping the sheets with anticipation. She pulled off bits of bandaging as more of his abdomen was seen. At last, a long, tightly stitched, darkly stained scar was seen. Zeke allowed himself a moment to take it in, trying not to get overwhelmed by reminding himself it wasn’t as bad as he imagined. The scar sprouted  from his pubic area and traced all the way to the top of his navel. He reached out and gingerly traced it with his index finger. It was rough in texture, like sandpaper, and he quickly withdrew his hand, feeling somewhat overwhelmed.
“I think I just want to sponge it a bit to remove some of the excess buildup, and go from there.” Carla said.
“Check how the wound feels. It was pretty warm yesterday.” Frieda said.
Carla did as Frieda suggested, holding the back of her hand against the scar. Zeke cringed at the touch.
“It is a bit hot, but I’m not convinced yet there is an infection. Here Dr. Howell, rest this under your tongue.” Carla said, procuring a thermometer from her bag.
“Yes ma’am.” He grumbled.
Zeke observed as Carla soaked a small rag in a bowl of cold water and sat back down on a small stool next to his bed. Carla gingerly dabbed at the stitching, flecks of dried blood detaching each time. The scar was tender, and Ezekiel flinched each time the cloth made contact. After a few minutes, the stitching was clean, and it looked significantly healthier than when it had first been revealed. Carla proceeded to sniff the rag before returning it to the bowl. Frieda raised her eyebrow at that action.
“In the case of a bacterial infection, there is almost always a predominant odor. Aside from the scent of dried blood, there is no smell.” Carla explained.
“Well?” Zeke asked, managing to balance the mercury thermometer in his jaw.
Carla removed the object from his mouth, held it to the light, and shook her head.
“There is no infection. You’re fine.” She said.
“Are you quite sure? You said yourself that the wound was hot.” Frieda asked.
“True, but he lacks every other symptom. His fever’s gone, there’s no souring at the scar, the discharge is of normal color and consistency, and the skin around the wound is pink instead of red. If there ever was an infection, his body killed it off awhile ago. He’s going to heal up nicely, I think.” Carla explained, smiling lightly.
Zeke watched Carla replace her equipment in her satchel. She snapped it shut, turning to the bedridden anatomist.
“I suppose I’m off, then.” She said.
“I shall pay you for your visit. Let me get my purse.” He said.
“It’s fine. Don’t trouble yourself.” Carla said, waving him off.
“Please. Let me show my gratitude.”
Zeke swung his legs over the side of the bed, placing an arm on the headboard.
“Don’t get up. I can retrieve it.” Frieda offered.
“No. I had to leave this bed sooner or later.” Zeke said, carefully getting to his feet.
Once he was standing, however, the act of walking turned out to be a much bigger effort than he imagined. His muscles felt as if they’d been replaced with bricks of lead, and the unbearable exhaustion had returned almost instantaneously. He managed to take a few steps before having to pause, gripping the bedpost. His stomach was cramping and his feet hurt, but he was immensely relieved to be upright again.
“Need some assistance?” Frieda asked.
Dr. Howell shook his head firmly, feeling a surge of independence, and slowly progressed towards the vanity. Upon reaching the destination, he leaned heavily on its surface. He took a few deep breaths, wearily sitting down on a nearby cushioned seat. Zeke picked up his velvet purse and fished out a small bill.
“It’s ten for the visit, right?” He said, holding the money in her direction.
Both Carla and Frieda knew Carla charged extra for at-home appointments, but she nodded to the affirmative anyway.
“Stay on your feet. Keep out of bed as much as possible, and you’ll recover a lot quicker. And when both of you come to your senses, and decide to let me in on what you’re up to, perhaps I can be of further assistance.” Carla said.
Frieda threw Zeke a slight glare, wanting him to respond.
“We’ll see.” He said.
Carla then turned to her partner.
“Seeing as you’ll be his primary caregiver for the next few weeks, I best give you some more instructions. Let the stitches air during the day, bandage them at night, and clean the wound every other day. The stitches should come out around day seven, possibly day eight depending on his condition. No soaking baths until the stitches have been removed, but do make him wash up. He smells.” Carla said.
“I heard that!” Zeke snapped.
“Well it’s true! Also, make him put pressure on his abdomen when coughing, sneezing, or laughing. A pillow is the easiest tool. It cuts down on the pain and can avoid popped stitches. And try to get to a point where morphine is only given before bedtime. Can you remember all of that?” She asked Frieda.
“I think so. I’ll consult you if I have more questions. Thank you for coming out here.” Frieda said.
Carla walked over to the patient, and leaned in close.
“Treat. Her. Nicely.” Carla warned Dr. Howell.
“Don’t I always? Besides, she’ll be returned to you tonight. I believe I’ll only need daytime assistance from now on. You’re welcome.” Zeke said.
“Good. I’ve missed her.” Carla said, straightening up a bit.
She snatched her satchel from the end of the bed and walked over to Frieda.
“Thanks for looking him over.” Frieda said, pecking her wife’s cheek.
“Of course. Hate to run so soon, but I have patients waiting. See you tonight.” Carla said, planting a kiss on Frieda’s lips before showing herself to the door.
The door shut, and Frieda turned to Dr. Howell, countenance bitter.
“Why didn’t you tell her?!” She hissed.
“It’s not time for that yet.” Zeke said, rubbing his jaw in thought. He could feel stubble beginning to form, and decided he needed a shave.
“So you DO intend to inform her about this?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He said, pushing himself onto his feet.  
The heaviness returned, as did the weariness, but he pressed on. Step by step, he shuffled to the door.
“Where are you going now?” Frieda spouted.
“Bathroom. Blunt as she may be, Carla’s right. I need a little freshening up.” He said, flinging the chamber door open.
Ezekiel stumbled towards the next room, arm wrapped around his pained stomach, hugging the wall. He finally made it to the lavatory, Frieda shadowing him during the harrowing trip. Zeke stopped in front of the sink, hands gripping the edges, panting furiously, afraid he might collapse. He looked into the mirror, a sweaty, pallid face staring back.
“Good Lord,” he said, “I look awful!”
“What did you expect? You’ve been in bed for about two days straight.” Frieda reminded him.
“Frieda, do you see the drawer by the tub?” He breathed, ignoring her commentary.
“Of course.”
“Inside, there is a shaving kit inside a wooden box. Can you get it for me?” He requested, trying his best to ignore the stiff ache in his middle.
Frieda followed Dr. Howell’s instructions, found the kit, and set it on the edge of the sink.
“Do you need assistance?” She asked, watching him create a white lather in the bowl.
“I can handle it. I’m feeling rather independent today.” Zeke said, a mischievous grin on his face.
Frieda leaned against the bathroom wall, feeling rather bored, but not wanting to leave him alone. Zeke still looked very weak, and she feared he might need an external physical support. Frieda wanted to be readily available.
“Why do you shave?” Frieda asked, after a few minutes into the process.
“Because hair is constantly regrowing.” Zeke answered, smirking as he rinsed the razor under the tap.
“That’s not exactly what I meant. Men usually have some form of facial hair, moustache or otherwise. But you’re always clean shaven, and it makes you appear younger.” She explained.
“Isn’t youth what people strive for?” He said, raking the blade across his jaw. A gathering of cream and ginger stubble collected on the razor, and was plunged under the water again.  
“That wasn’t exactly a compliment. I more meant you look like you’re only sixteen. So, why wouldn’t you want to seem older?” She said.
Zeke paused, leaning against the sink, mulling the question over.
“I suppose it has something to do with my father.” He finally said.
“Your father?”
“As long as he lived, Father always had facial hair in one form or another. Most often it was a beard or light stubble, and always very abrasive to the touch. And consistently ill groomed.”
“So, through from your father’s appearance, you developed a distaste for facial hair?” Frieda asked, raising her eyebrow.
“Well, in a way, that’s true. What you do not know is that my father was a very cold person, not so much cruel or abusive, but serious no matter what the situation. It was a rare occasion indeed whenever he showed any sign of joy or pleasantry. I’ve no doubt I loved him, deep down, but to like him was a different matter entirely, which I didn’t. I suppose I’ve just always associated facial hair with being devoid of emotion or passion. Silly, I know, but there you have it.” Zeke explained.
“You and your father didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye, then?”
“He was a politician, I’m a scientist. He shirked the new, I embraced it. He believed medicine was a waste, I made it my career. There’s not much more I can say about that.”
Frieda chose not to respond, despite almost never hearing anything about the doctor’s family, she knew not to push him. He was intensely secretive, which made her all the more curious. With a few final swipes of the blade, Zeke was finished.
“Oh, that feels much, much better.” He said, wiping away the excess shaving cream with a warm washcloth.
“I believe this has been enough activity for the first day on your feet. Back to bed, then?” Frieda said, gesturing towards the bedroom.
“Almost. I think I’d like a change of clothes, and fresh sheets might be nice as well.” He said.
“I’m not your maid.” Frieda glared.
“You’re my extra set of hands for the moment whilst I’m healing. I’d appreciate your aid.” He said, teeth gritted into an irritated smile. He normally wouldn’t have been so on edge, but the pain was working his emotions like a puppeteer works a marionette.
“Fine. But no way in hell am I giving you a sponge bath. You’re on your own.” Frieda said, stomping off towards his boudoir.
“Good!” He cried, slamming the bathroom door shut.
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Several more days of recuperation passed, Dr. Howell’s condition improving all the while. The rest of the second day was spent in bed, with one more bout of walking around his bedroom. The third day, he walked all the way to the top of the stairs, before almost collapsing from exhaustion. The fourth day, he barely made it to the middle of the staircase, before having to be led back to bed in disappointment. The fifth day held more improvement, as he was able to get all the way to the library, and spent the rest of the day reading to amuse himself. The sixth day was the return to his laboratory, and he spent several hours working on the incomplete formula, but still became incredibly tired when night fell.
Each day the pain lessened, until all that was left was a persistent and dull ache in his midriff, and the morphine was whittled down less and less. Unfortunately, that’s when a new problem arose. The stiches itched in an almost painful way, and much like an addict kicking a habit, Zeke was going insane trying not to scratch. It was worse than chickenpox, or so he assumed, never actually experiencing the illness himself. After day three, solid food was reintroduced into his diet, which his stomach handled rather well. His appetite returned, and by day four he was back to normal on that level. So when day seven finally rolled around, Frieda saw no reason why the stitches couldn’t come out.
“I have a question.” Frieda stated, working her scissors under the third stitch.
“As long as you keep removing those catgut bastards, I’ll tell you anything.” He said.
Zeke lay flat in the middle of his laboratory table, much like he did a few days ago during surgery. Much like the surgery, he was relieved to be getting this over with. Once all the stitching was gone, he could be free to scratch like a cat to a sofa. Frieda was busy operating with a pair of surgical scissors and some tweezers, carefully removing each stitch individually, and for Zeke, the wait was unbearable.
“The other day, the day Carla visited, you were talking about your father.” Frieda began, not looking up from her project.  
“Yes…I was.” Zeke gasped in relief as the third stitch was pulled from under his skin.
“I was just a little surprised. You don’t talk about your past much.”
“Neither do you, Miss Asterson.”
Frieda considered this a minute, then came up with a proposal.
“Fair enough, I’ll make you a deal. Tell me something about your history, I’ll do the same for mine. A little quid pro quo, how’s that sound?” She offered.  
“Seeing as I have nothing better to do on this table besides stare at water stains on the ceiling, I accept your proposition. You first.”
Frieda tried to think of something interesting to begin the conversation, but didn’t come up with much. She simply decided to start with her parents.
“As you know, my mother and father live in New York City. Mother, Sarah, is a seamstress, Father, Edward, is a banker, and neither like me very much.” She said.
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated.” She sighed.
“You said you had a brother. Anything about him?” Zeke said.
“Friedrich. He’s twelve. Came out of nowhere, and that’s why he’s significantly younger than me.”
“Friedrich and Frieda. Was that intentional?” Ezekiel snickered.
“Get stuffed. Anyway, it’s your turn.” She said, yanking the next stitch out extra quickly.
“God! No need to be so rough…well, as I said before, my father, Nathaniel, was in politics. He was the mayor’s consultant, and he was extraordinarily conservative. His deepest fear was public humiliation, or so I’m lead to believe. My mother, Adelaide, didn’t have a career. She mostly raised me and my brother, and that was it. I never thought to ever ask what her desires were.” Zeke said.
“You have a brother, too? How did I not know this?”
“William, my younger brother. He lives in Washington D.C. Married with three children. We’re not close. We used to be, but we’ve grown apart. Your move.” He said.  
“Let’s see now. My parents fought my decision to go to a university, and they fought even harder upon discovering my major. I had to support myself financially, which proved to be quite a challenge. Funny enough, I actually was a maid for a short period of time. I hated it, but it paid for my education.” Frieda said.
“That’s why you’re so sensitive about it.” Zeke said.
She nodded and placed the remnants of the fifth stitch on the tray, and started on the sixth. Zeke bit his lip as he thought about the next thing to tell Frieda.    
“My parents died of cholera,” he said. “My father was so against modern medicine, they didn’t ever seek help. I never even knew they contracted it; they were just suddenly gone.”
Frieda stopped in the middle of her task, not sure how to react to this darker reveal.
“What is it?” Zeke asked.
“That’s so tragic. Surely you must miss them terribly.” Frieda said.
“I did my grieving at the time, but I do not miss them. Besides, I get to live in the house of my childhood. The house itself is like an heirloom.” He smiled fondly.
“I’ve always wondered why you haven’t moved. You despise living in this backwoods town, but never discussed leaving. It’s the house, then?” Frieda said, removing the seventh catgut stitch.
“I lived in the middle of New York for some time, even after Emily was in my life. We inherited the house, a decision that their will didn’t cover, but William and I sorted out ourselves. He wished to stay in D.C. and close to his university. I just adore this old mansion. And, something else about you?”
“Alright. I was once a nurse, but only for a few months, and I hated it. The only requirements were to have bedside manners and hand things to the real doctors. I wanted to be a surgeon, but as a woman, there was no schooling for that. Even Carla doesn’t technically have a doctorate.” Frieda said, sounding annoyed.
“Then after you quit, you found my newspaper ad, is that correct?” Zeke finished.
“I worked a few odd jobs in between, but that’s basically it. I rented the room over Carla’s office, and somehow we fell in love, and made a pact not to tell anyone. And, here we are one and a half years later.” Frieda finished, almost finished with her given task.  
“Alright. What do you wish to ask me now?” Zeke said.
“Well, you never talk about Emily. What was your marriage like? Or, even, how was your career as a professor?”
Ezekiel thought about it. He’d never revealed anything about his marriage or job to anybody, including Frieda. The rare times he did, it was sparse, insignificant details. It was admittedly hard to talk about his late wife, as though he was still grieving, and the same for his work. He pondered whether he could muster the courage to even say her name. A lump formed in his throat, and thought it better he didn’t.
“I don’t wish to talk of those topics today. Another day, perhaps.” He said softly and grimly.
“Suit yourself. Hey! Get it? ‘Suture’ self?” Frieda snorted, removing another stitch.
“Hysterical. Please finish.” Zeke frowned, getting antsy.
A few snipped catgut’s later, Frieda was done, and Zeke felt immensely thankful. All that was left was a slightly raised, pink line that ran up the lower half of his abdomen.
“That must feel loads better. You’ve healed up decently.” Frieda smiled, washing her hands.
“Job well done, Asterson. It looks good. Calamine lotion?” He asked, pointing to her bag.
“Probably. Give me a second to-”
Dr. Howell didn’t wait. He sat up and began rooting around in her satchel.
“I can find it for you!” Frieda barked.
“I apologize, but it itches like the dickens. Aha!”
Frieda snatched the bottle from his grip, and before he could protest, she dampened a small washcloth with the lotion.
“Here. Place it over the scar. It’ll calm the irritation.” Frieda said, forcing him to lie back down.
“Sweet relief. I think I’ll enjoy a hot bath later.” He sighed, gently massaging the area.
And with that, Zeke’s road to postoperative recovery was over. Both were thrilled it was such a success, and that they miraculously pulled it off without any bodily damage, or loss of life. But, Zeke knew, with both excitement and angst, this was only the beginning.