German

Carlisle

I carefully replaced the patient file in my filing cabinet. So far, I enjoyed being staff physician of the 130-bed nursing home. My mornings were spent here, conducting routine physicals and addressing any problems. In the afternoon, I would visit any patients from the home who were currently in the hospital.

Technically I was on call twenty-four seven; in practice this was one of the most low-key jobs I had ever held. As long as my pager and cell phone were on and I stayed in a thirty-minute radius, my nights and a good part of most afternoons were free. If I really needed to be off duty for some reason, I could arrange for one of the doctors at the hospital to cover for me. But I enjoyed the work; enjoyed my patients and enjoyed the responsibility of being the highest medical figure present.

Some mornings I brought Esme in; the patients, especially those who didn't have family of their own to visit, loved having her. One ninety-year-old gentleman in particular seemed to have a "crush" on her; he asked nearly every day when she was coming again, and would have monopolized her attention for hours if she had let him. He was so childishly eager in his affection that it wasn't in me to be jealous.

I often called Edward in for consultation on the non-verbal patients; even if they had diminished mental capacity he could gauge their level of pain and alert me to certain other symptoms they might be experiencing.

Those who had lost the ability to communicate but still had high mental function loved when he came; he would always make it a point to have a real conversation with at least one of them. I knew they must have figured out fairly quickly that he was reading their minds, but surely even the Volturi could see that there was no danger of exposure in their knowing. Not that they knew anything close to the whole truth in any case.

"Dr Cullen?"

I turned to see one of the nurses standing in the doorway. "Yes, Rita?"

"Hilda Schmidt's not eating this morning, sir, and she seems a bit warm."

"Hilda Schmidt," I murmured, quickly locating her file. "A new patient?"

"Yes, sir." There was slight hesitance in her voice, and I looked questioningly at her as I locked the office door — we took no chances of letting the residents gain access to drugs. "Is there something you should tell me, Rita?"

"You're good, Doctor," she said admiringly. She sighed. "Hilda's got all her faculties, but she only speaks about two words of English."

"What language; German?"

"Yes." She frowned. "You know we've got six Hispanic aides and not one person in the building who speaks German?"

I quirked an eyebrow at her as we came to the door of Hilda Schmidt's room. "I'm curious as to how you came to that conclusion; I don't recall being asked."

I tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open without waiting for Rita's response. "Good morning, Frau Schmidt," I greeted the patient in German. "I'm Dr Carlisle Cullen; Rita says you're feeling a little under the weather this morning."

She had been lying with half closed eyes, picking listlessly at the bedcover, but at the familiar sound of her mother tongue she became instantly alert. Her eyes brightened, and she began talking as if trying to say everything she had been unable to communicate in the days since she came here; I would have been hard pressed to follow the rapid flow of words without my vampire abilities.

I laughed softly, holding up a hand. "Easy there; slow down. Why don't you tell me how you're feeling this morning, Frau Schmidt?" I had never quite liked the staff's tendency to address all patients by their first names, even sometimes to talk down to them as if they were children. Of course, I was easily three to five times older than any of them; if anyone had the right to treat them as children, it was I. But instead I gave them the respect due them from someone of my assumed age.

I chatted with Hilda Schmidt as I checked her condition; by the time I was finished I knew a great deal about her family and how she had come from Germany.

She did show signs of a slight infection, but I couldn't help wondering if part of her problem had been mere loneliness and boredom. I administered an antibiotic, then turned to direct Rita as to how I wanted the problem treated.

The nurse was staring at me with her mouth slightly open. "You know German, sir?"

I shrugged. "Enough to serve; my German vocabulary isn't as extensive as my French or Spanish."

Her eyes widened; for an instant I wondered if it was literally possible for them to pop out of her head. "How — many languages do you know?" she gasped.

"German, Italian, French, Spanish…a couple others." Most of the European languages, actually, plus a handful of Native American ones. "I suppose you could say it's a hobby of mine." I changed the subject then, explaining what I believed Frau Schmidt's problem to be and the treatment necessary.

Then I turned back to my patient with a smile. "The aide is going to be bringing your breakfast back; I want you to try to eat some of it, ja? I'll stop by to check on you later."

Tears glistened in her eyes, and she groped to clasp my hand in both hers. "Thank you for coming, Doctor."

I gently squeezed her hand. "It was my pleasure," I assured her. "You rest now and get well."

oOo

Marianne Billings

"Excuse me, do you know where I might find my mother, Hilda Schmidt?"

I looked up from my paperwork with a smile. "If she's not in her room, I expect she's in Dr Cullen's office."

The woman frowned with concern. "The doctor? Is she sick?"

"No," I assured her. "She had a slight infection last week, and we discovered the doctor speaks German. Since then, she's been in his office pretty much whenever he has a free moment."

The frown didn't leave her face. "I hope she hasn't been making a nuisance of herself."

I shook my head. "He seems to enjoy her company." I pushed my papers aside and stood up. "Here, I'll walk you down, Ms…?"

"Mrs. Greta Rollings."

I nodded. "Mrs Rollings. I'm Marianne Billings."

She fell silent as we walked toward Dr Cullen's office.

The previous doctor had been gruff and impatient, seeming to take it as a personal insult when someone fell ill during the time he wasn't scheduled to be here. Eventually, we had asked for his resignation.

For a few months doctors from the hospital had covered for us, but the situation wasn't ideal; the elderly patients felt more comfortable with one doctor they came to know and trust.

When Dr Cullen had applied for the job, his obvious youth and lack of experience made me hesitant to hire him, but my fears had been unfounded; he was easily the most competent doctor I had ever seen. He had a calm, easy manner that won the hearts of all the residents, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy them as well.

As we approached the open door of his office, I saw Hilda leaning forward in her chair, gesturing as she told an animated story in German.

Dr Cullen leaned easily against his desk, one hand resting on the desktop. As Hilda reached the end of her story, he put his head back and laughed out loud.

Greta's eyes were wide with wonder as she turned to me. "I haven't seen Mother so happy in…I don't know how long."

I found myself trying to picture Dr Owen laughing at a resident's story…in English or German. "Dr Cullen has done wonders here," I agreed. "We're very fortunate to have him."

Next story coming next week!

A/N: I realize "under the weather" is an American idiom; I'm assuming Carlisle used a comparable idiom in German. Barbie

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