Free The Forgotten Room by Karen White Page B

as regret. “No. I just dabble in pen-and-ink sketches. Before Uncle Sam asked me to visit Europe and shoot Germans, I was an art dealer with a gallery in Charleston. My grandfather, however, was a well-known painter. You may have even heard of him. Augustus Ravenel.”
    I stared at him for a long moment, wondering if I’d heard correctly. I remembered how his last name had seemed familiar to me, and now I knew why. “Augustus Ravenel was your grandfather?” I sat down in the chaise, mindful of the errant spring. “My mother loved his work. Whenever one of his paintings appeared in a gallery here in New York, she would take me so I could study it. I always wondered why we didn’t own any of his work. My father was a lawyer, and I know we could have afforded a small painting at least. But my mother wouldn’t even consider it. I daresay it would be an odd coincidence if I owned a piece of your grandfather’s artwork now, and here you are, my patient.”
    He smiled, his odd eyes watching me closely. “You said your mother would take you to galleries so you could study the artwork. Are you an artist, too, Doctor?”
    â€œSadly, no, despite my mother’s deepest wishes. She had a love for art although no talent for it. She hoped that I might, so I spent years taking art lessons, but I was a severe disappointment. And then my father died of lung cancer when he was only fifty, and that sealed my fate. I decided then that I was going to become a doctor.”
    â€œThat couldn’t have been easy, going against your mother’s wishes. And to pursue a career not many women aspire to. You must be a very strong woman.”
    When Dr. Greeley said the same thing, it wasn’t meant as a compliment. But coming from Captain Ravenel’s mouth, it sounded as if he were calling me Cleopatra, the Queen of Sheba, and Mata Hari all at once. I felt my cheeks coloring again, and looked down at the sketch to hide my face. “The likeness is remarkable. If I hadn’t known for sure that you’ve been unconscious for most of the time you’ve been here, I’d accuse you of spending a lot of time studying me.”
    He was silent for a long moment, and I glanced up, thinking he must have gone back to sleep. Instead, his eyes were focused on me with an intensity I was unfamiliar with but from which I couldn’t look away. Quietly, he said, “That’s because I’ve been drawing your likeness since I was old enough to pick up a pen.”
    Afraid he might still be suffering from delirium, I opened my mouth to ask him to explain, but froze as I stared at the wall behind his bed.
    I could debride an infected wound, amputate a limb, and wipe up bloody vomit without batting an eye. I could even flatten a rodent with an iron skillet and not blink. But the one thing I could not abide was a cockroach, most likely stemming from a childhood incident involving one of the six-legged bugs that had fallen into my bathtub while I was in it. And at the moment one of the mahogany-colored insects was currently crawling up the wall behind the captain, its long antennas casting grotesque shadows onto the white wall.
    Before I could think, I screamed.
    Captain Ravenel sat up suddenly, his face paling from the sudden movement of his still-injured leg, then looked at the wall behind him. He snagged a square of gauze from his bedside table, then reached outhis hand and cupped it over the cockroach, effectively imprisoning him within his long-fingered fist.
    Utterly humiliated, I wanted to whip out my diploma and tell him that I’d graduated from medical school with honors, that I had replaced my own shoulder in its socket without passing out, and that I thought that people who fainted at the sight of blood shouldn’t be allowed to have children.
    His voice belied the smile behind his words. “Don’t worry, Doctor. The only reason why I didn’t scream is because I’m