For the Rest of My Life

by Harry Kraus

  The electronic chirp of her cell phone sounded. One ring. Two.

  Claire glanced toward her purse on the kitchen counter.

  “Let it ring.”

  “It might be a patient.”

  “Your voice mail will answer.”

  “They might not leave a message.”

  John rolled his eyes as she walked over and picked up her phone.

  “Dr. McCall speaking.” John watched as her expression initially hardened, then changed again, her eyes widening with fear. “Billy Ray? . . . What? . . . Where are you? . . . She passed out? . . . Slow down, Mr. Chisholm, I don’t understand.”

  Claire held the phone back from her ear. John could hear a man’s voice cursing Claire.

  John crept forward to hear. He leaned his head in to share the phone with Claire. He could hear Billy Ray Chisholm’s loud voice. “She’s in surgery now. The doctor told me you should have ordered an ultrasound test.”

  “Mr. Chisholm, I—”

  “She almost bled to death because of you! Some doctor you are! You’re gonna pay for this!”

  “Mr. Chisholm? Mr. Chisholm?” Claire looked at John. “He hung up.”

  “What’s going on, Claire?”

  Her face blanched as she stumbled backwards and sat in a kitchen chair. “Lena Chisholm called the office this morning. She was having some spotting of blood. I thought she must be having a miscarriage.” Claire’s hand went to her mouth. “I didn’t even think of an ectopic pregnancy.”

  He was confused. “What?”

  “She had a pregnancy in her fallopian tube, John. I missed it.”

  “Why did they call Billy Ray?”

  Claire shook her head. “Who knows?” She stood back up. “I’ve got to go to Brighton. I need to straighten this out.”

  “What can you do?”

  “I’m not sure. But I need to make sure they protect Lena from Billy Ray.”

  Claire picked up her purse and started for the door.

  “Claire, you can’t go without me.”

  “Then come on.”

  “We can’t leave Wally alone.”

  Her hands flew up in frustration. “Ahh!”

  Chapter Twenty

  For the next hour while they waited for Della’s return, Claire nibbled on a BLT sandwich with little enthusiasm. In between bites, she made F phone calls and pieced together what must have happened to Lena.

  From one of the girls at the shelter, she learned that Lena had come back from her lab test, then promptly complained of severe stomach pains and sought refuge in the bathroom where she passed out and struck her head on the commode. “I’m sure it’s an ectopic pregnancy,” the woman answering Claire’s call responded. “My sister had one and acted the same way.” Great, Claire thought. Someone without any medical training picked up on her diagnosis right away. And Iwas so consumed with esoterica that I missed the diagnosis staring me in the face!

  She wanted to talk to Cathy Rivera, but she was reportedly over at the hospital waiting for word on Lena.

  Next Claire had called Dr. Jenkins. If anyone would know what the standard workup for first-trimester bleeding was, it was him. Their conversation did little to comfort her. “What did I do for first-trimester bleeding? In recent years we relied a lot on transvaginal ultrasound for anyone who is having any pain. If a patient has a rising beta-HcG in between one and two thousand, and no visible pregnancy in the uterus, you can be virtually positive she has a pregnancy in a tube. Then you’d better act fast to give methotrexate to end the pregancy before it can rupture a tube.” He paused. “Oh, and you need to check the blood type of the mother. If she’s Rh negative, give a dose of Rhogam just in case the baby’s Rh positive.”

  “At least I checked her blood type. She was positive, so I thought I was off the hook.”

  “You can always call me from the office if you’re not sure about a situation.”

  The problem was, I wasn’t “unsure.” I just wasn’t thinking about ectopic.

  “Don’t kick yourself, Claire. How many cases of first-trimester bleeding did you see in your surgical internship?”

  Claire shrugged. “None, I guess.”

  “And I’ve seen hundreds. How would you have known?”

  But I’m supposed to know.

  Claire doubted a malpractice jury would give her a break just because she hadn’t seen a patient with the problem since medical school. Her failure to make the diagnosis may have had serious deleterious consequences for Lena. The whole thing was like a bad dream, and it freshened the memories of a lawsuit she faced during her internship. Images flitted through her mind . . . an adorable girl riding her purple bicycle on her birthday . . . a drunk driver . . . a scared little girl who had died under Claire’s watch during a CT scan.

  When Della returned, Claire’s story tumbled out in a rush. Groceries were put away, and Claire and John were on their way to Brighton within minutes. They took John’s convertible, but the wind in her hair and the mountain scenery did little to soothe her racing heart.

  She felt the back of John’s hand brush against her cheek. “Remember who’s in control. We don’t have to worry about this.”

  “You didn’t miss a diagnosis.”

  He dropped his hand to her knee. “I hate to see you do this, honey. You have no idea if the outcome would have been different if you’d have sent her straight for an ultrasound.”

  He was right, but it was easier for the compulsive physician to take responsibility.

  She stayed quiet. John went on, trying to comfort her. “Lena would never sue you. You know that. She knows you are trying to help. Don’t let Billy Ray’s stupid threats get to you. He can’t sue you without her.”

  “He can if she’s dead.”

  John raised his voice. “She’s not going to die, Claire.”

  She nodded her head without speaking. She knew John couldn’t see her, but she didn’t care.

  “You’re letting your imagination get the best of you.”

  “I know.”

  She watched as his hand slowly drifted from her knee to the controls of his CD player. “Oh, no, you don’t, Cerelli. No opera. Not now.”

  He started singing, bellowing his best baritone imitation opera.

  “Spare me,” she groaned. “That’s not singing.”

  “I can sing.”

  She pulled his hand away from his control. “Sing to me then, Cerelli.

  But no opera.”

  She studied him for a moment. He appeared to be thinking, suddenly very serious. After a minute, he nodded, as if he had located the perfect thought. Slowly, he began to sing, his volume just enough to be heard above the engine noise.

  “O, Claire, voglio stare con te per sempre. O, Claire, mi sono innamorato di te. Mi sposerai?”

  His voice was full. He glanced her way each time he mentioned her name, each time lingering a little longer before he turned his eyes back toward the road. The melody of his voice lifted her soul, each time swelling as he sang her name, and falling silent at the end of each phrase, his words whisked away by the passing wind. She had no idea what he was saying, only that his eyes were moist, and his lips quivering silently when his words were done.

  “What does it mean?”

  She leaned over and laid her head on his shoulder.

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t do this to me. I want to know. It’s so pretty, John.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “It’s Italian.”

  “I know that. Tell me what it means.”

  “I can’t.” She pinched his side. He pulled away. “Not yet.”

  She slapped his arm and sat up straight in her seat. “You’re not fair.” She shook her head and decided to try a different tactic to get the information from him. “It’s probably the words to a commercial for spaghetti.”

  “It isn’t.” A smile flashed across his face.

  “It’s an Italian ad for a car, is
n’t it?” She poked his shoulder with her index finger. “You were getting choked up about Italian pizza, weren’t you? Admit it.”

  “It’s romantic.”

  “You don’t know enough Italian to be romantic.”

  “I know enough.”

  “Why did you sing it if you weren’t going to interpret? You just want to torture me.”

  “You stopped thinking about Billy Ray, didn’t you?”

  She took a deep breath. He was right. He had taken her mind off Billy Ray. She stuck her tongue out at him and made a raspberry. “Who cares? I don’t need to know what it means. I just know it made me feel special. In fact,” she said resolutely, “I don’t want to know what it means. It would spoil it.” She began to imitate him. “Oh, Claire, our pasta is the best,” she sang. “Our pasta is the best in the world. Enjoy it every night on your table.” She copied his melody.

  John began to laugh. Soon he was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Oooh weee!” he shouted.

  “Getting misty on me, Cerelli? I knew I shouldn’t have fallen for an Italian.”

  “You’re crazy.” He finally stopped laughing at her and wiped his face one last time with his shirtsleeve. “I just got the wind in my eyes is all.”

  She hit him again and leaned back in her seat. After a minute, she laid her head against his shoulder.

  In twenty minutes, they pulled into the Brighton University Hospital parking lot. Claire walked beside John and looked at the hospital building in front of her. It was a strange moment for her. She’d spent endless hours in this very hospital during her four medical school years. She belonged here then. She was a Brighton student, recognized by the nursing staff and the attendings. Now, just a little over a year since she’d left, she tried to shake off the feeling that she didn’t belong. She’d become one of “them,” the outside referring physicians that relied on the university to bail them out when things got too hot or complicated.

  They quickened their pace across the lot and entered through an automatic revolving door. As she entered the lobby, she took in the familiar scent that immediately brought her back to her medical school experience. She looked around, wondering if she’d see anyone she knew. She checked to see that her blouse was tucked into her slacks and took a deep breath. Will anyone recognize me with my short hair?

  She pulled John’s arm to her side, and walked forward with an air of confidence she didn’t feel. Chairs were linked to line small carpeted areas around tables of outdated magazines. Potted ferns and an aquarium intended to make the atmosphere more homey reminded Claire of an airport. Patients and families filled the chairs and men and women in white coats shuffled past without acknowledgment. She recognized the chief of medicine, and lifted her face as he walked by. His eyes caught hers for a moment of question, but no recognition lit as he paused and unclipped a pager from his belt.

  Ahead, two uniformed officers were talking to a man who faced away from Claire and John. As they approached, the man glanced at them, and suddenly whirled around to face them, his expression twisted with anger. Claire let out a squeal as she recognized Billy Ray Chisholm.

  Billy Ray advanced toward them quickly, pulling away from an officer behind him. Claire thought he was going to strike her so she raised her hand to protect her face. Instead, he shoved John by the shoulder. “I should have known you’d be around. You’re asking for trouble.”

  John stepped back. “What?”

  Immediately Billy Ray was flanked by the officers, one on each of his arms. “Let’s not have any trouble here, Billy.”

  Billy Ray twisted his right arm free and pointed at John’s face, cursing. “You—”

  “Enough!” The officers pulled Billy Ray back.

  “A man doesn’t sleep with another man’s wife and get away with it!”

  Claire looked at John’s face. What did she see there? Fear? Confusion?

  “Easy, Billy,” an officer said. “Let’s go!”

  Billy Ray’s shoes were barely touching the ground as the two officers escorted him toward the front of the hospital. Billy Ray shouted over his shoulder. “And you’ll be hearing from my lawyer, Dr. McCall. You almost let Lena die!” When he said “doctor,” he puckered his mouth and sneered.

  Claire slowly unclenched her closed fist from the front of her blouse.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “He seems to think you’ve been having an affair with Lena. Why would he think that?” John looked scared. Or guilty. Claire wasn’t sure which.

  John raised his voice. “I don’t know. The man’s crazy.”

  Claire watched John’s eyes flash with anger, his cheeks already reddening, his head shaking back and forth. What was he thinking? What was going on? She cleared her throat to inquire, then looked at him for a second longer before deciding to let it drop. Maybe it was just the outrageousness of Billy’s accusation. It wasn’t like John to cover up.

  They walked past a large fish tank. She looked back toward the front of the hospital. Billy Ray and the officers had disappeared. “Let’s ask the admitting office what room Lena’s in,” she said, pointing at a door in the back of the lobby.

  When they arrived in her room a few minutes later, they found the bed empty and Cathy Rivera sitting in a chair by the window. “Claire,” she said, standing to her feet. She opened her arms for a hug. “So good to see you.”

  Cathy shook John’s hand. “Hi.”

  Cathy pointed to the bed. “Have a seat. The surgeon just came by. Lena’s in the recovery room. She’s doing fine.”

  Relief struck Claire. She smiled and hugged John.

  John squeezed her shoulders. “I knew she’d be okay.”

  Cathy sat back down in her chair. “You just missed the other excitement.” She paused and folded her arms across her chest. “Billy Ray was here.”

  “We know. That’s how we heard Lena was here,” Claire explained. “Billy Ray called me.”

  “Oh, my. I just thought the women at the shelter must have called.”

  Claire shook her head. “What I want to know is, how did Billy ever find out?”

  “One of the interns called him. The squad that picked her up didn’t know she was from a shelter for abused women.” Cathy held up her hands. “It’s the first time I wished we had a sign out front.” She forced a chuckle. “I was furious with the poor doctor who had called. He had no idea who I was, but I’m sure he won’t forget me.”

  Claire traded smiles with John. “So what happened with Billy Ray? We saw him downstairs with two police officers.”

  “He demanded to know where his wife was and they told him to wait in her room. When I saw him, I called the police. He tried to convince them that he could stay because Lena hadn’t gotten a restraining order against him. But I got the doctor to request him to be removed out of concern for his patient’s safety.”

  “The doctor—”

  She smiled. “The same intern that had called Billy Ray. When he saw me coming up to him again, I think he was ready to do anything to make me happy.”

  Claire clapped her hands together. “Good for you!”

  Cathy held her hands. “I look out for my girls.” She paused. “So after some discussion, Billy Ray saw the wisdom of leaving voluntarily.” She held up two fingers. “With the assistance of a few friends.”

  A knock at the open door caught their attention. “Dr. McCall?”

  Stephanie Blackwell was standing in a hospital gown hanging onto an IV pole. She smiled. “I thought I saw you go by my room.”

  “Stephanie? You look great! My nurse told me you were having surgery today. And you’re already walking the halls?”

  She nodded. “The surgeon was great. He took my kidney out lapar-o ...”

  “Laparoscopically.”

  Stephanie nodded. “That’s it.” She held her left side. “Besides the four Band-Aids, I just have this little incision where he took my kidney out.”

  Claire lo
oked at Cathy and John and made introductions. “Stephanie is one of my patients back in Stoney Creek. She just donated a kidney to her father.” She paused. “How’s he doing?”

  “I just visited him down in the ICU. He’s doing great. He’s already making urine.” She smiled again. “If everything goes well, I’ll be discharged tomorrow. Thanks for helping to set this up.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You talked to me. You ordered my test to find out I wasn’t a carrier of polycystic kidney disease, didn’t you? You made my referral to the transplant team.”

  Claire really didn’t feel like she deserved any credit. “You did all the work, kid. You get the credit for this one, not me.”

  John’s eyes widened. “You just had surgery, and now you’re walking?”

  Stephanie nodded. “I’m a little slow.”

  Claire gave her young patient a thumbs-up and watched her turn to leave. Then, she whacked John’s knee when she saw him staring at the back of Stephanie’s gaping gown.

  “What? I was just amazed she was up and walking,” he protested.

  Claire wanted to smack him again, but restrained herself in front of the others. Instead, she leaned forward and whispered, “Right!”

  When John dropped Claire off at midnight, they found Della leaning over a four-page application for the Pleasant View Nursing Home. She looked up and yawned. “How’s your patient?”

  “She’s okay.” Claire opened the refrigerator and pulled out a jug of milk. “I think she was glad to see us.”

  “What about her husband? Did he cause any trouble?”

  “A little. But he left the hospital before she got out of surgery.”

  John smiled. “The police helped him make up his mind to go.”

  “I see.” Della pushed aside the application as John set a cookie jar on the table in front of her. It was a ceramic snowman, one of the few things from Claire’s childhood that Wally hadn’t managed to break. “Do you think Dr. V would fill out this physical exam portion of this application?”

  “If he won’t, I will,” Claire offered.

  Della sighed. “Duh. I wasn’t even thinking that my own daughter might be able to do it.” She lifted a chocolate-chip cookie from the jar. “I might as well just stick this right to my hips,” she said, licking her lips. Claire watched as she caught John’s eye. “Anything a McCall woman eats after ten o’clock goes straight to her hips, you know.” She nodded at Claire. “You’d better watch this one.”