Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (22 page)

Back in the surgery, Tim reviewed his anatomical charts and the notes he had made. Satisfied, he checked Jonathan and found he was sleeping deeply, and assessed the light.

“This is much better,” he said. “Still, I'm afraid there won't be sufficient light directly on Jonathan for me to see well enough.”

“I can take one of those shiny steel trays over there,” William said, gesturing toward the items on a nearby tabletop, “and hold it by the lantern, to make it direct the beam, and the reflection off the steel will make it brighter.”

“Very good,” Tim said. He opened the box containing the microscope that the Beckhams had given him, and unscrewed the magnifying tube from its heavy mounting. While William worked on the lantern, he explained to Richard and Henry what he needed them to do during the operation. Jane would stand by to assist them. When he finished, he asked if they understood. Everyone did.

William brought over the lantern. The light, now contained and directed through a two-inch-wide slit, gave Tim most of the illumination he needed. But not enough.

“William, this is excellent work,” he told the gardener, who was proving to be a more skilled handyman than Tim had realized. “It will be fine for the beginning of the operation. But it will be impossible to angle the light far enough downward when I have to remove the small parts of the tumor. When the lamp is tilted, there's a danger the oil might spill into the top chamber, or onto Jonathan.”

William furrowed his brow in thought, as did Henry and Richard Beckham.

“A mirror,” Jane announced suddenly. “That's the answer.”

“What?” asked Tim.

“The reflection off the tray gave me the idea,” she said. She stepped over to her handbag and removed a small hand mirror. “If William holds the lantern and directs the light at the mirror, I can use it to reflect the light right where you need it, Tim.”

The four men looked at each other, astonished at the simplicity of the solution.

“And I thought
I
was clever,” William said ruefully.

The five of them scrubbed their hands and donned surgical aprons before taking their places. William held the lantern and Jane the mirror. Richard Beckham would hand Tim the surgical instruments and help Tim deal with the bleeding. Henry stood ready with the microscope tube. He would hold it for Tim when the situation called for close, careful work. Tim and Jane undressed Jonathan and washed him. All was ready.

Tim stood next to the table, grasping the scalpel that Richard had handed him. He took a deep breath and spoke.

“Remember, no matter what we do, or how hard we try, this child may not survive the operation,” he said. “Or if he does, the operation may not succeed, and he'll get better for a time, only to have the tumor return. And because the tumor is so close to his spine, there's a good chance that in removing parts of it, I may damage the nerves and leave him paralyzed. None of you will be to blame if things go wrong. The responsibility is mine.”

Tim looked at each of his companions, gauging whether his little speech had given them the encouragement he intended. Jane's eyes showed determination. William seemed equally resolved. Henry, more sensitive than his friend, betrayed his concern with the slightest quiver of his chin. Richard Beckham, despite his experience assisting Tim with previous operations, had fear in his eyes. He had not known how serious Jonathan's condition was, nor how risky the surgery would be.

Tim took another deep breath, steeling himself for the long and complex operation. He raised the scalpel, his hand shaking. His breathing grew more rapid. This will not do, he warned himself, not when the slightest quiver of his fingers might paralyze Jonathan for life, or the smallest error in an incision could leave a portion of the tumor behind to renew its assault on the boy. Dropping his hand back to his side, he struggled to restore his calm.

Tim took another look around, hoping that the others had not noticed his nervousness. As he did, he was momentarily startled to see two other figures in the room. Side by side along the far wall stood his father and old Scrooge.

Tim stared at them, and they returned his gaze. Bob Cratchit's familiar features wore their usual smile, and his eyes shone with love and pride. Scrooge's eyes conveyed the same emotions, and he, too, was smiling. Tim's astonishment quickly gave way to understanding. Now he knew why he had experienced the visions. Mr. Scrooge and his father somehow knew what he would have to do here, and they had been preparing him for this moment. He realized who had first directed Ginny and Jonathan to his office, who had found them in a bitterly cold alley in the middle of the night and sent them to his house, who had told Richard Beckham to buy the microscope. Tim knew, and with the knowledge came a surge of confidence he had never felt before. His hands no longer shook. His breathing was deep and steady.

Tim looked at his friends again. No one had noticed his distraction—they merely assumed that he was collecting his thoughts before proceeding with the surgery. Tim turned to Scrooge and the old man nodded. Tim shifted his gaze to Bob Cratchit. His father nodded, too. Tim nodded in reply. It was time to begin.

Chapter 21

T
im bent over Jonathan and began the operation. When he had exposed the egg-shaped tumor, he saw that eleven tentacles of varying thickness extended from it in all directions like the legs of a mutant spider. Three had reached Jonathan's spine.

Von Bergsdorf had advised Tim of his conclusion, based upon several experimental procedures, that it was better to remove the tendrils before dealing with the main tumor. This made sense to Tim, and he decided to use the same procedure. He would start with the tendrils that did not involve the spinal cord, and then turn his attention to the more dangerous tentacles along Jonathan's spine.

After adjusting the magnification of the microscope to a point where he could see the tumor's individual cells, Tim traced the path of each tentacle. He was pleased to learn that none had penetrated into Jonathan's chest cavity. He set to work removing the first tendril.

“Cataract knife, please,” Tim requested, and Richard handed him the delicate surgical instrument. Slowly and with the utmost care, Tim began excising the tendril. Squinting through the microscope lens, he had a clear view of the malevolent tentacle. Henry's hand never wavered to blur Tim's vision, and Jane kept the light directly where Tim needed it.

Once he had removed the tendril, Tim checked the area carefully and ascertained that not a single deadly cell remained before turning his attention to the next tentacle.

For more than two hours the procedure continued, Henry, William, and Richard rotating their tasks occasionally as their muscles tired and stiffened. At last, the eighth tendril was removed, and Tim called for a break.

In the waiting room, Tim saw to his relief that Penrose had gone. Henry, William, Richard, and Jane were happy to find that Bridget had anticipated their needs by setting out a pitcher of water and some glasses. Suspecting that the others might wish to speak privately, she said that she wanted to take a walk and asked Ginny and Lizzie to accompany her.

“Is everything going well?” Beckham inquired after the women had left. “I've never seen you do such a complicated operation.” His voice quavered with anxiety.

“So far there haven't been any problems,” Tim said. “I haven't gotten to the worst of it.”

“Are you sure you're not too tired to continue?” Henry asked. “I don't know how you can keep looking through that microscope for so long.”

“We can't stop now,” Tim replied. “I know this is trying. If any of you wants to stop, I won't keep you. I've asked too much already.”

“We're with you to the end, Doctor,” William declared, although Tim could see that even his energy and determination were waning.

“Then let's get back to work,” Tim said.

Tim removed two more tentacles, then finally turned his attention to the last and most dangerous one, which was located at a joint between two of the lumbar vertebrae. Tim's ability to excise it completely would determine the success or failure of the operation.

Noticing Tim pause, Jane asked him if everything was all right.

“The tumor hasn't reached the spinal cord yet,” Tim said, “and that's good. However, it is dangerously close.”

Jane looked at him, her expression reassuring. Tim gave her a quick smile and flexed his sore fingers. Taking the microscope tube from Richard Beckham, Tim increased the magnification before bending back over the boy. Cautiously, he used a probe to separate the disc from the vertebra. At a pace as slow as a glacier's progress, Tim removed every bit of the tendril. He increased the scope's magnification yet again, and closely examined the area. Not a single malevolent cell remained. He stepped back with a deep sigh of relief.

“That does it, Doctor?” Richard asked.

“All except the main tumor. That will be easier.”

After a brief pause to rest his tired hands and eyes, Tim removed the tumor. The process took nearly a half hour. Tim spent another quarter hour examining the child with the microscope. Assured that he had gotten every bit of the tumor, Tim sutured the incisions. Then he turned away from the operating table, exhaled, and smiled.

“Finished,” he announced to no one in particular.

“And?” Beckham asked.

“And Jonathan is going to be fine,” Tim said in a voice that brooked no doubt.

William stepped forward and clapped Tim on the shoulder. “You've done it, Doctor,” he said. “I knew you would!”

“I guess I did, thanks to all of you.”

To the others in the room, Tim seemed to stand taller, pride and triumph shining in his eyes. Henry and Richard Beckham slapped him on the back. Jane extended a hand toward him, then stopped. Tim clasped her hand tightly. “Thank you,” he said.

Having waited for more than five hours in a state of nervous tension while her son's life hung in the balance a few feet away, Ginny rushed into the surgery upon hearing the raised voices. Her expression as she entered was optimistic, but when she saw the still form of Jonathan lying on the operating table, panic overcame her.

“No, no, no! Tell me he isn't dead!” she cried.

Tim put a calming arm around her shoulders. “The operation went perfectly,” he assured her. “Jonathan is sleeping.”

“You mean he'll be all right?”

“It will take him a few days to rest and recover,” Tim said. “He has undergone a long and difficult procedure. With good care, he will be better than ever in a week, and in a few months he'll be just as active as any other boy his age.”

Ginny embraced Tim, copious tears of joy streaming down her cheeks and onto his neck and shoulder.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Cratchit,” she said. “Thank you. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

“You don't owe me a thing, other than to take care of this fine boy, and see that he grows up to live a good life,” Tim told her, recalling, as he spoke, Scrooge's words to his own parents.

Jane, recognizing how exhausted Tim was, interceded. “Come and sit with me here,” she said to Ginny. “We can watch Jonathan while Dr. Cratchit takes a rest.”

Tim walked into the waiting room and sat at his clerk's desk. His head throbbed painfully from the excruciating work. After peering with one eye through a microscope for hours, his vision was blurry. He barely heard the words as his clerk and servants continued to congratulate him. Bridget brought him a glass of water and he gulped it down.

“I want to thank all of you again,” he said. “I couldn't have done it without you.”

“Can we eat now?” Lizzie asked.

“In a little while,” Tim replied. “I want to let Jonathan rest another hour before we move him. Then we can go home and eat. I'm sorry to have spoiled your Christmas.”

“I've a suggestion, Doctor, if I may,” William said.

“Of course, William.”

“The pub I like to visit is open today, and they serve a good shepherd's pie. That would save Bridget from having to cook.”

“Who would have thought you were such a gentleman, William?” Bridget remarked with a smile. “You never stop surprising us.” Tim noticed that Bridget and Henry were standing close to one another, and that Bridget looked at Henry, not William, when she spoke.

“Aye, I'm a gentleman, all right.” William laughed. “A gentleman badly in need of a pint or two after a very hard day's work. That's assuming I have enough strength left to lift a pint after holding that lantern and microscope stock-still for hours. I don't mind telling you, Doctor, my arms ache.”

“They'll ache worse after we come back here tonight and finish loading Dr. Cratchit's things,” Henry observed, and everyone laughed a bit uneasily. They were all worried about what would happen to the doctor, now that he had severed his relationship with Eustace.

As if thinking the same thought, Tim looked at the top of the desk. The ledger was gone—Penrose must have taken it, he guessed. The cash box remained, and Tim noticed a sheet of paper protruding from underneath it. He slipped it out and saw that it contained an accounting of Dr. Eustace's commission from the Christmas Eve patients, a signed receipt indicating that Penrose had removed that amount of money from the box, and four underlined words at the bottom.

You will be sorry
, the message read.

Maybe I will be, Tim thought, but I am not sorry now.

Henry, Bridget, and William left in the carriage to fetch the shepherd's pie, Lizzie accompanying them. “I'm going to ride on top and help drive the coach!” she announced happily.

“Good,” William declared. “Then I'll ride inside and stretch out.”

“I'm going to take a walk and get some air,” Tim said. “Maybe it will help relieve this headache.”

“I'll go with you, if you don't mind,” Jane offered. Once they were outside, Tim took her hand. She squeezed his fingers.

“I hope that doesn't hurt,” she said. “Your hands must be sore.”

“That feels just fine.”

“I'm very proud of you,” Jane said.