Page 21 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Dr. Kerr sat back, putting his instruments away in his kit.

Mother crossed the room and moved to press the cloth to Father’s head, but he nudged it away. “No, Rose. Please.” He pulled the bedspread high under his chin, the shivering movement of his arms beneath the counterpane testifying that the chills had not yet passed, defying the sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Are you the doctor, now, my dearest?” she asked gently, pressing the cloth to his forehead. Cyril watched her tender ministrations, her worry barely apparent in her clenched jaw. But still apparent. Cyril and Oscar exchanged looks.

After a moment, Father calmed. Mother waited on the doctor, who wrote in his notebook.

The man closed the book with a snap. He looked up, first at Cyril, then his mother. “Pneumonia.”

Mother put her hand to her chest and Cy stepped forward, pushing away the initial fear gripping his chest. “Pneumonia,” he said. “But he hasn’t a cough. Are you certain?” Cy was no expert, but he was sure a cough was associated with the infection.

Dr. Kerr frowned and stood. “I’ve heard of cases that come on quietly, with no apparent irritation of the lungs until after onset of fever. Those can be more dangerous, as they go too long without diagnosis. I would expect, in your father’s case, that the infection is established and that a cough will soon appear.”

Cy glanced at his mother. “Can it be treated?”

“Can it be stopped?” Mother asked, her voice catching.

“You have two options, Mrs. Burke. One, we keep him as comfortable as possible, allow the fever to peak and rage, and after several days, either it would break in a drenching sweat and your husband would recover, or … the infection would win.”

Cy needed no further interpretation of what that meant.

“And two?” Oscar asked.

Dr. Kerr straightened. “There is a treatment. Behring’s antiserum therapy.”

Cy blinked. “Behring? The Nobel Prize winner?”

“The same.”

Only a few years earlier, Emil Behring had been awarded the prize for discovering an antitoxin for diphtheria. Cy had read of it in the papers. Mother approached, placing her hand on Cy’s arm.

“Continue, Doctor.”

He folded his arms, his fingers stroking his chin. “How to put it plainly? A serum is raised, incubated, in horses. The resulting substance is rich in antibodies—cells capable of cleaning infection.”

“Horses?” Oscar scoffed.

Mother gasped. “Is that possible?”

“Yes, ma’am. Very simply put: the serum is extracted, administered to the patient, and then we wait.”

“And the risks?” Cy’s father had taught him, in investing and in life, that there were always risks.

Dr. Kerr nodded. “The treatment is expensive and labor-intensive. It would require the removal of your father to the Victoria Hospital in London.”

Cy’s heart squeezed. He flickered a glance at his mother as she gripped his arm, and he covered her hand with his own.

“There is a potential risk for adverse reactions to the serum itself, as there is with any foreign substance entering the human body. Results are mixed, as studies are ongoing, but there have been successes.” The doctor addressed Mother. “It would give your husband a fighting chance, Mrs. Burke. Doing something, instead of nothing. The earlier the treatment is administered, the better.”

Mother looked up at Cy, her eyes misted over, and her quivering chin lifted. “I will go with him to London,” she said.

He knew the sacrifice and courage behind her words. He looked to Oscar, who nodded.

At that moment, sacrifice and courage became the emblems propelling his own future forward. He knew the risk. A serum might save his father. Cyril would save his family.

Taking the risk gave them the best fighting chance.

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