Sold on a Monday: A Novel

The sign on the front door of the house hung a bit crookedly, but its message, printed in block letters, was abundantly clear.

UNLESS EMERGENCY

DO NOT DISTURB DR. BERKINS

ON WEEKENDS

Lily paused a mere moment before knocking. She had come too far, in every way, not to see this through. It had taken another half mile of walking to reach the town doctor. Akin to her family’s deli, his home doubled as an office. It was a one-level house, painted rust red with white shutters. A woven welcome mat appeared well worn from use.

She knocked again.

Rising warmth from the sun, absorbed by her coat, caused her lower back to perspire. Her palms slickened around her purse handle as she observed the area. Another house stood to the right and one to the left, a half acre between each, yet she could hear only the soft chirping of birds. Perhaps the weather had lured the neighborhood out for a spring picnic.

Then footfalls echoed from inside. Shoes on a hardwood floor.

Lily straightened, assembling her greeting.

The door opened to a man who looked to be in his midsixties. He had a slender frame and a pleated forehead, and held a linen napkin in his grip. “Yes?”

“Dr. Berkins? Hello, my name’s Lillian Palmer. I apologize for bothering you on a Sunday.”

“Feverish?”

“Pardon?”

“Your face, it looks flushed. Other symptoms?”

Thrown off, she had to reset her thoughts. Classical piano music, with light static, played in the background. “No, sir. I’m here about a personal issue.”

He released a heavy breath, acknowledging the nonemergency. Nonetheless, he stepped aside. “Come in, then.”

Appreciative, she nodded. After he shut the door behind her, she followed his slightly hunched form into a room just off the entry. There he clicked on a lamp, set upon a rolltop desk against the wall, before shuffling over to a window to close the curtains. A brass chandelier glowed over a doctor’s table in the center of the space, and a china closet displayed medicine bottles and other supplies, more evidence of a converted dining room. Fittingly, the air smelled oddly of chicken soup and antiseptic.

“I’ll be finishing my dinner in the kitchen while you remove your undergarments,” he said. “When you’re ready, open the sliding doors over here.”

It finally hit Lily how her personal issue had been interpreted. She wouldn’t be surprised if her flushed cheeks were now beet red. “But…Doctor—”

He flicked his wrinkled hand. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” His tone dragged, having clearly spent decades comforting modest women with the very same words.

“Truly, though. I’m not here about an illness. I mean, that is why I came. Just not about mine.”

He tossed aside his napkin and crossed his arms, signaling her with a weary nod. Another familiar tale.

“If I may, I’d like to ask you about Geraldine Dillard.” Lily paused, allowing the name to register.

Dr. Berkins said nothing. Yet he knew her. More than that, he knew something about her. That much was plain in the set of his jaw, the firming of his lips.

“Please understand, I normally wouldn’t intrude upon another person’s privacy. But Ruby’s teacher, Mrs. Stanton, shared that Mrs. Dillard had a ‘condition.’ I was hoping you could tell me more. You see, I have concerns about her children for good reason.”

The doctor’s arms were still folded, but he appeared curious about Lily’s motives. A predictable reaction. Reporters and physicians had this much in common: at their core, they were solvers of puzzles and riddles.

“Go on,” he said, hence Lily gladly did.

In essence, she repeated what she had told Mrs. Stanton, stressing how much it would mean to learn the true factors behind the fate of the children. To know that their outcome was the best one possible.

The doctor seemed unmoved. When he responded, his manner was professional and measured. “I have a policy, you understand, of not revealing patients’ records. Particularly to those who have no ties as kin.”

Why had she expected otherwise? She was a stranger off the street, not even from their community, asking for a person’s intimate information.

She was running out of ideas—and time. The drive to Philadelphia still lay ahead.

“That being said,” he continued, “these are unique circumstances.”

Stunned for a moment, Lily neglected to answer. She simply watched him bend beside his desk and finger through the low file cabinet.

“I gather she had suspicions for a while, of it being tuberculosis,” he said. “When she came to me in the fall, she was coughing a fair amount of blood. Soon after, without the children to care for…” He pulled out a folder and skimmed his notes. “Indeed, I recommended she consider the Dearborn Sanitarium, over in Bucks County. There are nicer places, of course, but it’s an acceptable facility for those of limited means.”

Lily vaguely noticed the classical tune had ended. The soft static from the needle on the inner record had become the sole sound in the house.

She pushed herself to ask, “How long do you think she has left?”

“Had, I would say, sadly. I estimated no more than…two months. Three at best.”

She recalled the woman in the picture, fingers splayed, half turned away. Same as the chief, most readers had viewed the pose as one of shame. They had no idea they were seeing a mother whose stunted life would not include the young boy and girl huddled before her.

Lily’s heart sank, weighted by the unfairness of it all.

Now she understood—not just why Geraldine had given up her children, but why she would take money in return. Care at a sanitarium would not be free.

These were the thoughts that persisted in Lily’s mind as she soon walked toward the depot. In fact, she startled when she glanced up and stood a stone’s throw from her destination.

“Lily,” Ellis called to her. He had been leaning against his car, waiting. He stepped toward her looking eager to confer. But his expression quickly dimmed, undoubtedly mirroring hers, as she prepared to share the news.