In October 1867, a young woman arrived at my Leavenworth infirmary holding a handwritten marriage proposal from a brain-injured Civil War veteran.
Armed with what I thought was irrefutable evidence, I returned to the infirmary, the surgical ledger clutched tight. But the scene that greeted me stopped me cold.
George and Eli Finch had taken over the front common room of the infirmary. A battered trunk sat open, spilling Thomas’s few belongings onto the floor. Eli was sifting through Thomas’s shirts, holding one up to the light as if assessing its value.
George sat at my consultation desk, my desk, his large frame dwarfing the chair. He had a stack of papers in front of him, Silas Crain’s notarized deed among them, and was scratching notes with one of my own pens.
My medical bag, containing my instruments and personal logs, was pushed to the side, almost out of reach.
“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded, my voice tight with disbelief.
George looked up, a slow, insolent grin spreading across his face. “Just making ourselves comfortable, Doctor. Silas arranged it. We have a temporary family authority affidavit, you see. Says we’re responsible for Thomas’s care.”
He tapped a crumpled paper on the desk. It looked legitimate, though hastily drawn.
“And his property,” Eli added, still sifting through the clothes. “Someone needs to manage his affairs while he’s… indisposed.”
“You are disrupting a medical facility,” I countered, pointing to my desk. “That is my consultation space. And those are my patient records.”
George merely shrugged. “Plenty of room elsewhere, Doctor. We need to be close to Thomas. Keep an eye on him. And on everything else.” His gaze lingered on my medical bag for a moment.
He stood up, blocking the path to Thomas’s private room. Martha, who had been trying to get past him, stood frozen, her face pale.
“Martha, you can’t go in there,” George declared, his voice firm. “Family business. Private. Thomas needs his rest, away from… influences.”
Martha’s chin trembled. “But I just wanted to read to him. He likes it when I read.”
“No,” George stated flatly. “No more of that. Thomas needs to prepare for his new arrangements.”
Thomas, hearing the commotion, appeared at his doorway. His eyes darted between his brothers, Martha, and me. He made a low, distressed sound, like an injured animal. He took a shaky step forward, then another.
Eli saw Thomas. “Now, now, little brother. No need to get excited. We’re just here to help.” He took Thomas’s arm, his grip surprisingly firm, and gently but insistently guided him back into his room.
The door clicked shut. Thomas was inside, isolated. Martha stood outside, her hand still reaching for the knob.
I felt a surge of rage. They weren’t just disrupting my clinic; they were actively harming Thomas, using their claim of kinship to legally abduct him, right under my roof. They had seized the ward.
“You cannot keep me from my patient,” I said, my voice low and dangerous.
George merely crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “We can. And we are. Until we take him where he needs to go. For his own good, of course.”
The surgical ledger, which had felt so powerful moments ago, now felt like a fragile piece of paper against the impenetrable wall of family authority.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours