The creak of the door signaled Tim’s return, his boots tapping a steady rhythm on the wooden floor. Behind him, Dr. Stanton, his bag in hand, offered a nod of greeting. Amy watched as they approached.
“Good news,” Dr. Stanton said softly. “It’s only bronchitis, which doesn’t compare to Tuberculosis. You’re going to be fine.”
“Bronchitis?” Amy repeated, the word foreign yet somehow less frightening than the alternatives.
“Yes,” the doctor confirmed, stowing his stethoscope. “Keep up with the remedies. They seem to be doing the trick.”
A wave of relief washed over Amy, leaving behind a sense of hope as warm and comforting as the morning sun. “Thank you, both of you,” she said, finding strength in their presence.
“Nothing to thank us for,” Tim replied. “You’re my wife, and I need you healthy.”
“Get some rest,” Brenda said, standing to stretch. “You’ll need your strength for all those pies you’ll be baking.”
“But you’re cooking tonight,” Amy settled back against the pillows.
Brenda made a face as she nodded. “I’ll cook supper.”
BEATRICE APPROACHEDBrenda in the kitchen. “Where’s Amy?”
Brenda frowned. “Didn’t your father tell you she was sick?”
“Too sick to cook?” Beatrice asked, looking belligerent.
“For a while, yes. But she will get better. At least the doctor says she will.”
“Can I take her supper to her?” Beatrice asked.
Brenda shook her head. “No, we’re still keeping you away from her. She’ll be back to cooking soon.”
Beatrice sighed. “I want to help her.”
“Then let’s make supper together! That’s a way you can help.”
“I guess...”
Beatrice followed Brenda’s instructions on what to do and thought about how much she preferred cooking with Amy. She was ready for her to be well again.
