Page 98 of The Frozen River

“A handful of times. In France. Mostly in children. Often the seizures come in clusters. Lots in a day. Or for several days in a row. Then nothing. Weeks can go by. Months before another one. If you are very lucky, they never come back after childhood.”

“Are they deadly?”

“They can be.”

“Is there no treatment? Nothing I can give her?”

“Oui. Valerian. Skullcap. Horseradish. In various preparations. There are other things too, but none of them grow here. And I wouldn’t give them to a child regardless. Les herbes might do more damage than good. She is too young.”

“When? How old must she be?

Doctor is unwilling to give an exact answer. “Beyond childhood… if she lives that long.”

“Will it cause damage?” I tap my left temple with a finger. “Here?”

She gives me a weak smile. “I cannot say.”

When I look up, Betsy Clark is at the window, Mary’s little head against her shoulder, watching us. “I suppose we should go tell them.”

“Non. You will tell her. They are your friends. Your patients. They called for you.”

“And I called for you.”

“Which is why I came. Otherwise I would not have interfered.”

“Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

“I am glad to help,” Doctor says. “The people in this town revere you. That is why they come to me, sometimes, you know.”

“No. They go to you because you are more skilled.”

She shrugs as though the point is up for debate. “They come to me when they want to preserve your good opinion.”

“Not all secrets are bad,” I argue.

“Just because a secret isn’t bad doesn’t mean it’s harmless. Speaking of which, how is your other patient? The Foster woman?”

“As poorly as you would expect. And growing ripe with child.”

Doctor sets one hand on my shoulder. Smiles. “Bon courage.”

Bon courage. Be of good courage. Courage is good, I think, wishing that I had more than a grain to spare.

As Doctor walks to the barn to collect Goliath, the rain turns hard and cold. Like stones tossed by an angry boy.

Hail.

Hell, why not make a bad day worse?

Epilepsia.

Epilepsy.

It makes so much more sense now. I have read of this disease in three different Shakespeare plays but didn’t know what it meant. Brutus described Julius Caesar as having “the falling sickness.” Othello raged and foamed as if he had “fallen into an epilepsy.” And Kent told Cornwall in King Lear that he wished “a plague upon your epileptic visage.” Leave it to the Bard to name a thing that has hitherto gone unnamed. This realization is no victory, however.

I turn back to the cabin to give Betsy and Charles the news.

Wednesday, February 24—Snowed and rained and hailed. I was called to see Charles Clark’s daughter who is destitute by reason of the fits epilepsia.