Chapter 9 Help Wanted—Female #2
a sliding scale, according to what the patient can afford. In most cases, it isn’t much. And even then, they don’t always
pay.”
Over two weeks of interviewing, Viv had met five doctors in private practice. Every one of them seemed to be doing very well
financially, which begged the question.
“Why practice here then? Why not open an office in a different neighborhood and work for patients who can afford you?”
“You know, I ask myself that exact same question almost every day.”
Francesca leaned back in her chair, looking weary but also more relaxed than before.
“I grew up here. The Brookland neighborhood has always been a soup of nationalities and races. My parents came to America in 1907, opened up a little Italian grocery about three blocks from here. It’s a Laundromat now and my parents are gone, but I still live in the house I was born in on Kearny Street.
People call Brookland ‘Little Rome’ because there are so many Catholic institutions here, and I’m a product of that.
I went to church at St. Anthony of Padua and did my undergrad studies at Catholic University, a ten-minute walk from my front door.
“When I was accepted to medical school at Case Western Reserve, the homilies I’d heard and catechism I’d been taught growing
up followed me to Cleveland. Every time I’d think about joining some nice, lucrative practice in a suburb and treating businessmen
for gout or their wives for nerves and palpitations, I’d feel a prick of conscience and hear the voice of my sixth-grade teacher,
Sister Immaculata, talking about how much was expected from those to whom much had been given.
“So why am I here? Damned if I know. Blame the nuns, I guess.”
When Francesca turned out her hands and shrugged, Viv couldn’t help but smile.
“We had a Sister Immaculata at my parochial school too. She taught eighth grade, not sixth, but the speeches about service
and sacrifice were the same. If I had a nickel for every time the nuns told me to ‘offer it up’ after something bad happened,
I wouldn’t need to work for you or anybody else.”
“Yes,” the doctor said, gesturing toward the silver Sacred Heart of Jesus pendant Viv wore around her neck. “I pegged you
for a former inmate the second you sat down.”
Viv reached up to touch her necklace. “Mother Superior presented them to all the girls when we graduated. You know, I really
did admire the sisters—most of them anyway. Till I was fifteen, I thought I might join the order. Then I discovered boys.”
“Italian boys?”
“One Italian boy,” Viv said. “Tony. We met during the war. He took some shrapnel and ended up in the hospital. He wasn’t there long, but it was long enough.”
“How did your parents feel about you marrying this Italian boy?” the doctor asked. “Because I’m pretty sure you weren’t born
a Buschetti. German? Polish?”
“Irish,” Viv said. “My mother was a McCormack, and my father was a Donovan. I never asked them how they felt about my marrying
Tony, but they were probably relieved. Anyway, it was over and done before they had a chance to weigh in. As soon as I turned
up PWOP, a military chaplain helped us tie the knot and the army shipped me home.”
“PWOP?”
“Pregnant without permission. The army is a lot like the sisters that way, demanding vows of celibacy. But those Italian boys . . .”
Viv gave her head a helpless shake. “What are you gonna do?”
The doctor laughed. “I’ve got an Italian boy myself, Paul. And two kids, Carlo and Lucia.”
Viv was surprised. She never would have imagined that a lady doctor could also be a wife and mother. Medicine was such a demanding
field, requiring at least a decade of higher education. How had Dr. Giordano been able to do all that and raise a family?
“It wasn’t easy,” she said, answering Viv’s questions. “I had to make some tough choices along the way. That’s why I only
have two children instead of six. I just did the best I could, juggled the balls, dropped a few now and then, picked them
back up again. It’s easier now that the kids are grown, but I managed as every woman has to. That’s why I’m not scared that
you have six children, or even seven,” she said with a nod toward Viv’s still flat stomach. “I know you’d be up to the job.
That is, if you want it. Honestly, I can think of all kinds of reasons you might not. Long drive, long hours . . . In twelve
years, I’ve never taken a lunch break or left the office before six. Most nights I’m here until seven or eight, trying to
catch up on my case files.”
She cast her gaze across the cluttered desk, then went on to tell Viv more about the considerable duties and caseload.
The good doctor wasn’t sugarcoating things, that was for sure.
Viv almost wondered if Dr. Giordano really didn’t want to hire her and was trying to make the job sound as terrible as possible so she’d turn it down.
“But there’s a plus side.” The doctor leaned forward, fixing Viv with her huge brown eyes. “This work is rewarding. If making
a difference in the lives of people the rest of the world has forgotten is a currency you care about, then this might be the
best-paying job in town. So? What do you say, Nurse Buschetti? Would you like to work here?”
When Viv failed to respond immediately, Dr. Giordano’s smile dimmed. She pulled her hands from the desk and placed them in
her lap.
“It’s a big decision. Maybe you want to go home and discuss it with your husband?”
Viv knew she should. But she also knew that if she did, all the rational reasons for turning down the offer might swamp the
rise of emotions that made her want to say yes. Viv liked Francesca Giordano. She respected her too.
Most importantly, she understood her.
After Pearl Harbor, Viv joined the service for the same reasons most people did—patriotism, a surge of righteous anger, a
quiet but undeniable desire to see the world, and a fear of missing out. But unlike many young women who rushed to enlist,
Viv had real skills. She’d completed her nurse training two years previously and worked in a busy hospital. She was one of
the best nurses on the staff. All the doctors wanted Viv working their shift.
Before she enlisted, Viv couldn’t begin to imagine the full carnage of war. But she knew the men and boys who would fight
and be injured in it would need the help she was equipped to provide. This, together with everything her parents, her faith,
and her life experience had taught her, told Viv that she should help, that she must help.
From those to whom much has been given, much is expected.
It wasn’t just a case of the much-maligned, often-ridiculed Catholic guilt. Something else figured into Viv’s decision, a
solid sense of right and wrong that was as much a part of her makeup as her blue eyes and small feet. In Viv’s mind, failing
to use her skills in that dark hour would have been an act of supreme ingratitude, an affront to God, serving to make the
world and her character smaller and meaner and crueler and less.
Viv had never been eloquent. But had she been able to translate those impulses into words, she felt certain that Dr. Giordano
would have nodded as she spoke and murmured, “Yes. Yes, I know.” Because she did know. What else would have compelled her to take the hard road, juggle the balls, and offer up the gifts she’d been given
to serve her family and her patients, fulfilling her purpose? If Francesca Giordano could do it, Viv could too.
Would Tony agree?
Though he’d never say she couldn’t take the job, if Tony knew she was pregnant . . .
But he didn’t know.
If she was careful about what she wore and dropped a few plausible complaints about gaining weight, two or even three months
might pass before her swelling waistline gave her away. By that time, she’d be well settled in the job and able to prove to
him and everyone else that she could juggle all the balls—nursing, mothering, and gestating.
From those to whom much has been given . . .
Viv thought about the baby in the waiting room, those laughing brown eyes. She thought about the eyes of the very young mother
too, who had smiled and whispered, “Thank you,” when Viv walked past. Then she thought about her own children, including the
one she was carrying. She had to consider them too, find a way to keep all the balls in the air.
“I can’t work late hours. I have to be home in time to make dinner. I can’t work full-time either. Two days a week, nine to
four, is the best I can do.”
Dr. Giordano drummed her fingers on the desk.
“How about three days a week, ten to three?”
Viv fiddled with her Sacred Heart medal. Shorter hours would make things easier, but there was still the commute to consider.
It would cost her time as well as gas money.
“What’s the salary?”
After a bit of wrangling, they agreed to fifteen cents an hour above the original offer. Dr. Giordano rose from her chair,
smiling as she shook Viv’s hand to seal the bargain.
“As long as you’re already here, would you like to stick around for a bit? Shadow me while I see some patients?”
“I can’t,” Viv said. “The cookies for my daughter’s scout troop arrive today, and I’ve got to sort out deliveries. Also, my
book club meets tomorrow night, and I need to finish the book.”
“What are you reading?”
“The Feminine Mystique.”
Dr. Giordano nodded. “I read it too. Very interesting. It’s going to be a wakeup call for a lot of people. What did you think?”
“I’ve never been much of a reader,” Viv admitted. “My friend Margaret kind of roped me into joining the club. Honestly, I
had second thoughts once I started the book.”
Francesca popped her eyebrows. Viv lifted her hands and started to clarify.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong—it grew on me eventually. But I had a hard time relating at first. Being a wife and mother was always
my dream, and I’ve found it very fulfilling.”
Francesca tilted her head to one side.
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am,” Viv said, more to herself than to the doctor. “I guess I just reached a point where I wanted something more—a
new challenge, maybe a new way to contribute?” She lifted her eyes. “Does that sound selfish?”
“Not to me. When men find new mountains to climb, they get a pat on the back and a round of applause. People call them go-getters. Why should it be different for women? It’s not like you’re running off to join the circus, leaving your kids to fend for themselves.
If anything, you’re making more work for yourself, caring for your family and others.
What’s selfish about that? Plus, you’ve got skills.
Seems to me the selfish thing would be to keep them to yourself,
rest on your laurels, and spend the next forty years playing bridge.”
Viv found herself nodding as the doctor talked. It felt good to meet someone who understood her motives, who could explain
them almost better than she could herself.
“Kids don’t stay kids forever,” Viv said. “Then what are you supposed to do? Go to lunch with the girls, complain about your
arthritis, nag your grown children because they never call or write? That’s what my mom did. It made everybody miserable,
especially her.”
“Exactly,” the doctor said, making a “there you have it” gesture with her hands. “You’re making the most of this season of
life while preparing for the next.” She clasped her hands together. “And speaking of that, Nurse Buschetti, do you think you
could be ready to start work next week?”
Viv grinned. “Perfect. I can’t wait.”
Francesca’s smile radiated gratitude.
“Neither can I.”