‘A Jar of Marmalade’ by Laura Kuhlmann

At first I couldn’t see anything wrong with the girl. She seemed to sleep peacefully in the rickety bed, covered by a yellowing sheet that was coming apart at the seams — standard issue for a small hospital in 1970 provincial Romania. The smell of bleach was overpowering. Silvia, the young nurse who had dragged me to the room, was catching her breath beside me. Her face was red and sweaty from the marathon she had run to find me — the only paediatrician on the night shift. 

“Doctor Bernevig, your husband called again,” the head nurse said from the doorway.

“I’ll call him later.” I waved her out of the room. “Could you open the window, Silvia?”

She squeezed herself between the table and the girl’s bed and fought with the window’s locking mechanism. It probably hadn’t been opened in weeks. Most of my colleagues were convinced fresh air made illness worse, but I’d seen otherwise. 

I leaned over the girl and shook her shoulder.

“Maria? Maria?” 

She didn’t move.

“I’ve been trying to wake her up for an hour,” Silvia said as she cracked the window open.

The two girls sharing the other bed in the room buried themselves under their blanket. I touched the radiator — it was lukewarm and leaking.

“I thought she was just in deep sleep,” Silvia continued. “I figured she could take the antibiotic half an hour later. Since then I’ve tried cold water, ammonia … I even poked her with a needle.” 

I looked at Maria, a thin twelve-year-old with long brown hair. I had admitted her that morning. Recurrent urinary infections after strep throat. The doctor in her village diagnosed her with nasal polyps and recommended her to an ear, nose, and throat specialist in the city. Maria’s family had taken out their horse and wagon and brought her to Buzău for a polyp removal surgery. I suspected the recurrent urinary infections had been caused by the last course of antibiotics. So I started her on a different antibiotic while I waited for the antibiogram results from the lab. I don’t like waiting. Waiting kills. I knew that all too well.

Maria’s hand was warm and clammy, but she didn’t have a fever. Her pulse was strong, her pupils equal and reactive. Why couldn’t we wake her up?

I glanced at the table. Maria’s family had left a small jar of marmalade for her. That jar was empty now.