Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night. Barbara J. Taylor

she thought, and scolded herself for thinking such things mattered.

      “Any other pain?” the doctor asked as he removed the stopper from a bottle marked, Laudanum.

      Daisy shook her head slightly.

      “Thank God,” Owen said, “Thank God.”

      “An ounce of prevention,” Doc Rodham said. “Open up.” He placed several drops of medicine onto her waiting tongue. “And four drops every two hours,” he said to Grace, who nodded.

      “What about the hospital?” Owen asked.

      Grace whirled around, looked directly at her husband, and said, “We’ll not go there again, Owen Morgan. Not after Rose. Not ever.” She turned back and looked to Doc Rodham for confirmation.

      Doc Rodham shook his head. “No use,” he murmured, “she’d not survive the . . .” He glanced at his patient. “Home is the best place for her just now.”

      Although most of Daisy’s clothing had either burned or fallen off, here and there, flecks of fabric cleaved to the skin. Had the doctor not treated his share of miners over the years, whose bodies were burned in explosions, he might have mistaken the remnants for seared flesh, but as he later explained, he could tell the difference between the two. Charred cotton curled up at the ends. Burned skin pursed beneath the surface. Doc Rodham soaked a piece of linen in saline solution, wiped the affected areas, and peeled the fabric off with tweezers.

      “Now let’s see.” He worked at a particularly stubborn section on her torso. “How long have we known each other?”

      “Nine years,” Daisy said.

      “That so?” He picked the loosened material away.

      “You delivered me,” she said, as if surprised he’d forgotten such an important fact. She eyed her father, but he was turned toward the window.

      “You don’t say.” Doc Rodham spun around to his work table, palmed a syringe, and swung back toward his patient. “You sure have a good memory.” He pricked only the largest blisters, the ones stretched to the point of breaking.

      Grace grimaced at the sight of the needle, but Daisy seemed not to notice. “Tell me a story.”

      The doctor gently patted the pierced blisters with cotton batting, soaking up the fluid. “Which one would you like to hear?”

      “About the day I was born,” she said.

      “Now that’s a good story,” he replied, saturating several linen strips in carron oil. “March 1, 1904. Bet you thought I wouldn’t remember.” He placed the bandages on top of skin that was only burned, not broken. “You weren’t in any hurry to come. Kept your mother waiting all day. When you finally got here, we knew right away that you were special. Most babies squall when they’re born, but you came to us singing like an angel.” He turned, measured out a portion of boric acid, and mixed it into a jar of Vaseline.

      “You’re teasing. Babies don’t sing.”

      “My point exactly.” He spread the ointment onto the remaining pieces of linen and placed them on the areas where the wounds were open. “Never heard a singing baby before or since.” Once all of the burned areas had been treated, Doc Rodham layered cotton over the linen cloths and wrapped bandages over the batting. “That’s how I knew you were special.”

      Alice Harris called from the doorway, and the doctor excused himself. “I don’t want to push myself on anyone,” she said softly, handing him two hot water bottles. “A sick room’s no place for folks that ain’t family, excepting you, of course, and the preacher when he comes. Holler if you need.” She disappeared down the hallway.