by Harry Kraus
She touched a reddened area over his ankle. They tried to keep socks on him, but he often worked them off against the sheets. She carefully cleaned the skin with alcohol, let it air dry, and applied a protective porous adhesive bandage to protect the boney prominence. She looked at her mother, whose attention was elsewhere. “Release death grip, Della Force,” she snapped with authority.
Her mother smiled and uncurled her white knuckles from Wally’s shin where she gripped him to prevent his movement during the dressing application. “Oh, goodness, I’ve just about strangled your poor foot, Wall.”
Wall. That’s what she’d started calling him since they first knocked heads trying to kiss. She’d complained that kissing him was like banging her head against a wall. What made it funnier was that her father was the one that made the joke. “No, your banging your head against a Wall . . . ee!”
Claire pushed a button to raise the head of the bed, while Della retrieved a quart container of lemonade she kept by the bed. They’d used water for a while, but now she used any opportunity she could to add calories to his skeleton. She emptied a packet of a powdered thickening agent into a plastic cup and stirred vigorously before snapping on a lid. From the top of the container extended a long, expandable straw fitted with an enlarged bulbous end that Wally could close his mouth around. Claire put her hand gently on his forehead while her mother pushed the sphere into Wally’s mouth. He slurped happily, coughed, then sucked some more, apparently delighted at the simple pleasure of cool liquid against his parched throat. Daddy still finds pleasure in the simple things, like sucking lemonade through a straw. “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” She smiled at the remembrance of the goofy saying. What will I do if lemons sour my future? Will I be content? Angry? Apathetic like Wally?
Her mother waved her hand in front of her face. “Della Force to Claire Force One, come in.”
“Sorry,” she said, releasing her father’s forehead, seeing her restraint was no longer needed.
Claire walked to the bathroom, trying not to think about the test results. She read the side of the shampoo bottle and wondered if anyone ever really rinsed and repeated like they were instructed. She read the side of the toothpaste tube, and smiled at the near-perfect row of white teeth in the mirror. Fluoride must really work. She laid out three different outfits, contemplating what would be the most appropriate attire for attending a prophecy about her future. Black? No, the test might be negative. She looked at a chic dress she’d purchased in Boston. Too partylike if the test is positive. She finally selected a grey suit, the one she’d worn for a malpractice deposition during her internship. Professional. Cool. Conservative, ready to receive news good or bad without falling apart. Besides, she had to be back to work at the clinic in Stoney Creek by one. That should be enough time. Results at ten, then fall apart or celebrate for three hours, then back to work, just like any other day.
She dressed, then walked into the kitchen to see her mom with her Bible open on the table. Della lifted her cup. “Coffee?”
“Already had my quota for the morning.”
Her mom looked at the clock. “John should be here any minute.”
Claire nodded and chewed the inside of her cheek. She didn’t feel like making small talk.
Della chatted on. “Today’s the day.”
Another nod.
“Are you sure you don’t want me with you? I could ask Margo to come to sit with the Wall.”
“Mom, we’ve been over this a thousand times. I’ll be okay. John is going to be there. I’ll call you from Brighton as soon as I find out.”
Della sighed. “I wish you’d taken the day off.”
“I don’t have to work until one.”
“Are you sure you’ll be back in time? All the way to Brighton and back and all that time in the—”
“Mom, I’ll have plenty of time.”
“You’d better have John drop you by the office, just the same. If time is tight, you don’t want to come all the way out here to get your car. I can come in and get you after work.”
Claire held up her hands. “I’ll have time.”
Della put her hands on her hips. “I don’t think you should be driving today.”
She didn’t feel like arguing. Claire pivoted and headed for the front door. “Fine.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out to my car to get my stethoscope.” Claire clenched her teeth. “I won’t be coming back for it.”
She let the screen door slam behind her. She doesn’t think I can handle the news. She must have agut feeling about this. Abad feeling.
Claire sat in her blue Beetle and closed her eyes. “Oh, Father,” she whispered, “Make it be negative.”
She sniffed. This is crazy. I’ve carried the same DNA since I was conceived. Aprayer doesn’t change that. “But just the same, God, make it be negative.” He can do anything, even change my DNA. So if I’m negative, was I negative all along, or did God change my DNA in response to my prayers?
She adjusted the rearview mirror and studied her reflection. That’s it. I’m losing it. She wiped at her eyes with her hand. Mascara on a crying day is never a good idea. She squelched the urge to sob. This is crazy. I’ve been dealing with HD risk for months, and I finally get to the place where I am comfortable with leaving it in God’s hands and trusting him, only to fall apart when I think Mom suspects I’m a carrier of the HD gene.
She used to pride herself on being strong. She’d come so far on her own: the first woman from Stoney Creek to attend and finish medical school. She’d matched at one of the most prestigious surgery programs in Boston.
“I thought I’d learned to trust you, God,” she whispered. “Haven’t I been through enough to teach me that I can’t do it alone?” She ticked off a mental list from her internship. Enduring abarrage of sexist males who think women have no place in surgery. Abroken engagement. Amalpractice suit. Losing my twin brother. Threats from a jealous surgery resident. Ialmost drowned in the ocean trying to escape from that psychopath.
She heard gravel crunching in the lane behind her. John’s coming. She tried to quickly conclude her prayer with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I know you love me, God. So whether I’m HD negative or positive, I’ll know it’s in your plan.”
She pushed the rearview mirror back in place. John hadn’t noticed her in the Beetle; he was already bounding up the sidewalk toward the house. It was better that way. He wouldn’t see her tears. She grabbed her stethoscope off the passenger seat beside her. It was time for confidence. If she didn’t feel it, at least she could look it.
Claire sighed. “Amen,” she whispered.
She walked around John’s red Mustang and opened the passenger door, dropping her stethoscope in between the front seats. She straightened, smoothed the lapels of her jacket, and was about to close the door when a small black object next to the driver’s seat caught her eye. She leaned into the car, placing her hand on the small felt box partially wedged beside the seat. Her heart quickened. She knew exactly what it was. She had held that very box in her hand before. She glanced behind her. The front door was shut. John was inside. She swiftly opened the box to see the diamond he’d chosen for her. The same one she’d returned a year ago at his request. She closed the lid. She’d been right. He was planning to ask her again. But why not the night before last during their romantic dinner?
He’s waiting for the test results. He won’t ask me until he knows I’m negative.
She shoved the box back between the driver’s seat and the center console. She wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled, or feel betrayed. John’s timetable was certainly understandable. She backed out of his car, instinctively picking up her stethoscope. It wouldn’t do for John to know she’d been in the car yet. She tried to close the door without a slam, then skipped up the steps feeling a bit of mischief.
She entered the front room and looked at her mom, still sitting at the kitchen table. “Where’s John?”
�
��Talking to Wally. He’s trying to collect on a bet they made on the Braves game last night.”
Leave it to John to carry on with Wally just like he was normal. Claire smiled. She liked that.
She heard him coming up the hall saying something about double or nothing. He was dressed in a tie.
“Whoa.”
“What?”
“Since when do you wear ties?”
“Hello to you too,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I always used to wear ties at the office.”
Claire shrugged.
He mimicked her action. “It’s a special day.”
She forced a smile. “Special is one word for it.”
“We’d better get going.”
She nodded and yelled, “Bye, Daddy.” Her mom approached with her arms open. Claire accepted her hug and whispered, “Sorry for being so touchy.”
Her mom patted Claire’s back. “I think you’re a saint.”
Claire pinched her eyelids. Now was the time to stay strong. “We’d better get going.”
She turned and grabbed John’s hand.
It’s now or never.
Chapter Four
Lena Chisholm cringed at the sound of Billy Ray stirring on the double bed they shared. Her right eye had been open for two hours. She L was fully alert, unable to sleep, predicting her husband’s next move with the accuracy of Isaiah the prophet.
If I lay real still, he’ll think I’m sleepin’ and maybe he won’t bother me.
She concentrated on holding her mouth open so her front teeth would show and kept her breathing deep and regular. She remembered when Billy Ray told her how cute she looked when she slept, with her lips parted just so. She had blushed then, unable to believe that William Raymond Chisholm really cared enough about her to pay that much attention.
That’s how she always dreamed of him, as William Raymond. It sounded so dignified, not like every other Tommy Joe or Jimmy Lee redneck name so common in the shadow of the Blue Ridge. She used to whisper it in his ear when they slow-danced, listening to Garth Brooks. He was so romantic then. He’d put his boom box on the open tailgate of his pickup, turn up the music, and take her in his arms. But the only time he’d agreed to be William Raymond in public was on their wedding day when Pastor Pritchard asked, “William Raymond Chisholm, do you take Lena . . .” Everyone snickered and thought he was trying to be uppity, so he wouldn’t let her say it anymore.
Billy Ray moved again, this time scooting a little closer to Lena and stopping with his hand resting on her thigh. Her pretend sleep wasn’t going to work. Once Billy Ray started, he would get what he wanted. The scenario was trademark Billy Ray: drink himself into oblivion, beat Lena, pass out, then wake up in the morning promising never to hit her again, blame the alcohol, and turn on his best charm while he begged for forgiveness. Forgiveness, of course, needed to be demonstrated in an appropriate way. And Lena was afraid to say no.
She kept her back to him, facing the wall, silently praying that he’d leave her alone. But now he was gently massaging her thigh, a sure bet that Billy Ray wanted forgiveness again. Lena squeezed her eyes shut. It’s William. William Raymond. I live in amansion overlooking the valley and William Raymond is here ...
“Baby, I’m awful sorry about yesterday. Lester wanted to stop for a drink at Dixon’s after work.”
She could feel his breath on her neck, smell its sour scent. She slid her leg forward an inch, away from her husband. Pain awoke in her right ankle. She grimaced, but did not cry out.
“I won’t hurt you again. Please forgive me, baby.”
Lena tried not to recoil from the scratchy kisses on her neck. It’s not Billy Ray. It’s William Raymond. We spend hours just looking in each other’s eyes.
“Come on, Lena. I was just down about work. I drank too much. How could I have taken it out on you?” His voice was soft, filled with the tenderness that had once filled her heart with passion. “I love you, baby. I won’t hurt you again.”
She continued to shut the real world out. William Raymond has come to comfort me after my fall down the stairs. He loves me. He touches me so tenderly. She sensed a stirring within her, an inkling of desire rising in response to her fantasy.
Now, Billy Ray’s hands encouraged her to cooperate. Lena was in the real world, biting her lip. “Promise me, Billy Ray,” she whispered. “Promise me.”
“I promise you, baby. I’ll never hurt you again.”
Lena turned her head away from Billy Ray, wandering off into the arms of William Raymond. Her ankle was on fire with pain. Their little bedroom seemed smaller with her left eye swollen shut. She kept her good eye open, staring at the wall, wondering what kind of flowers William Raymond would bring home after work.
She felt nauseated.
But at least Billy Ray would feel forgiven again.
Claire opened the door to John’s red Mustang and climbed in just before John. She busied herself with her seat belt and pretended not to see him casually push the ring box out of sight between his seat and the center console.
John pulled the car onto the road and headed toward Fisher’s Retreat, the first town beyond Stoney Creek on the way toward North Mountain and Brighton beyond. “Want to eat at Fisher’s Cafe on our way back?” John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
Claire shrugged and looked out her side window away from John. The honeysuckle grew so thick in the summer in the Apple Valley that if she let her eyes blur, she could imagine it to be a continuous green wall. She didn’t feel much like talking. “I might not be hungry,” she mumbled. “We could get Mr. Knitter to make us chocolate malts.”
She spoke quietly, but her reply felt awkward, as if she was being polite to an acquaintance, but not a close friend. “That would be nice.”
John’s right hand slid down beside his seat again. He was touching the side of the secret box and Claire knew it. What was he up to? Claire watched him. He was looking at the road, one hand on the steering wheel, one hand on her engagement ring. He glanced her way, then back at the road. John’s right hand stayed put, his fingers tapping occasionally with feigned nonchalance. She raised her eyebrows and continued to watch.
He glanced her way again. “What?”
She slowly batted her eyelids and looked away, clenching her teeth to keep from smiling. “I didn’t say anything.”
“But you were looking at me.”
“It’s a free country.” She looked away from him and edged her hand over to his, stroking the back of his hand with her fingers. Now the only thing between her fingers and the ring box was his hand. She wondered what he would do if she tried to hold his hand by insinuating her fingers beneath his hands. She edged her fingers around between his thumb and index fingers.
John quickly pinched her fingers, halting their progress.
She intentionally kept looking away from him, so if he glanced at her, he would see she was not looking at her hand. This was fun. What would he do if she just slipped her hand down beside his seat?
She strained her fingers to free them from his grip, wiggling them down toward the ring. She watched as John jerked her hand in the air, glanced at Claire, then suddenly pulled her hand to his mouth, landing a noisy kiss on the back of her hand.
She smiled. She was sure John thought it was because of his kiss. And that made her smile even more. It was a lousy cover-move, but John had no idea Claire was on to him.
Claire wondered again why John hadn’t given it to her during their special dinner out. He’s probably waiting to know the results, wanting to ask me only if he knows I’m not going to end up like Daddy. Maybe he’s bringing the ring along today so he can give it to me if my test result is negative.
If John had her engagement ring beside him, was he planning to give it to her as soon as she got her results? Suddenly, another thought struck her. Wouldn’t it be romantic if right before she opened the envelope showing her results, John restrained her hand and gave her the ring, pledging his love forever whatever the future
might hold, telling her he loved her so much, it wouldn’t matter if she had HD, he had to be with her?
This new thought put things in a different perspective for Claire. Maybe the reason John didn’t ask her during their special night out was because he was planning this all along. He was going to ask her to marry him right before she got her test results. She looked at him through the corner of her eyes. John Cerelli, you hopeless romantic!
“You haven’t said anything about the test results,” John said.
Claire sighed. “What else is there to say? I’ve been talking about this for months. I’m just ready for it to be over.”
“I’ve been thinking about something. If you end up being a carrier, I think it shouldn’t stop you from following your dream. I still think you should become a surgeon.”
She exhaled sharply. “I’ve thought about it, believe me. I’d have a minimum of four years more to train before I’d ever get into practice. And HD usually has its onset in midlife, but there are no guarantees. If I’ve got the gene, I could start losing control anytime.” She shook her head slowly, her excitement over her anticipated engagement quickly waning as her attention returned to the cloud. “And honestly, I doubt I could even purchase malpractice insurance. No one would even think of insuring a surgeon who might put a patient at risk by a sudden jerk of a scalpel.”
“But it might be years before you show any symptoms at all. You’ve told me yourself that some people don’t get symptoms until age fifty. By then you could have practiced nearly twenty years. It would be genetic discrimination for an insurance company to refuse to cover you.”
“It’s moot anyway. What hospital would give privileges to a surgeon they thought was unsafe? They’d be setting themselves up for a suit.” She looked away toward the side of the road. They were meeting too many trucks, a reminder to Claire of her stupid mental game played during her morning jog.