Perfectly Reasonable

by O'Connor, Linda

  Margo hesitated. “Are you sure? He’s probably catching up with everyone.”

  Hattie nodded. “He is, that’s for sure. But I’m certain he’d like to say hello.”

  Margo felt the burn of acid in her stomach. Waiting wasn’t going to make it any easier. She turned and walked into the dining room. Carl sat in his usual spot, and she waved to him. “I’ll bring your drink in a minute, Carl.”

  Carl nodded and waved and went back to talking with Angie.

  At the sound of her voice, Trace turned in his chair.

  Margo couldn’t hold his gaze. She walked over, bent down, and squeezed Ottie’s shoulders. “Ottie, it’s so good to have you back.”

  “So good to be back,” Ottie said, reaching up to pat the hand she rested on his shoulder.

  “You gave us quite a scare. Don’t do that again.”

  Ottie grinned and tipped his top hat. “Always good to change things up. Don’t want to get too complacent.”

  “On the contrary. We like complacent.” She looked over at Trace who was watching without a smile. “Hi, Trace.”

  He nodded. “Margo.”

  Ottie’s glance ping ponged between Margo and Trace. “Trace here is practicing for his medical school interview. It’s a week from Saturday.”

  “Congratulations, Trace. That’s great,” Margo said, trying to inject some enthusiasm.

  Trace smirked. Maybe she missed the mark.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Trace said it’s something called MMR,” Ottie continued.

  “MMI, multiple mini-interviews,” Trace corrected.

  Ottie waved it away. “MMR. MMI. What’s the difference? The point is, he has to interview fake patients. He’s trying to practice on me, but I told him to ask you. You’re the expert.”

  Margo gave a crooked smile.

  “You’ll give him a few pointers, won’t ya?” Ottie persisted.

  “Of course,” Margo lied. “I can help out. If he wants my help–”

  “Of course he wants your help,” Ottie said, glancing between her and Trace. He nudged Trace’s elbow. “Don’t ya?”

  Trace jerked. “Oh yeah, of course. If she wants to help.”

  “What’s the matter with you two? Of course she wants to help. You need help, and she can help you. There’s nobody better.” He fingered his hat. “But not right now. Right now I need you to get me some butterscotch ripple.” He pointed at Trace. “But you need her help,” he said sternly.

  Trace laughed. “Okay. I’ll get her help. And I’ll get your ice cream. You’re getting demanding in your old age.”

  Ottie laughed. “Oh, no. I’ve always been this way.”

  As Trace turned to go to the kitchen, Margo said, “I should get Carl’s drink.”

  “Make a date,” Ottie shouted.

  Trace rolled his eyes. “Would you like to go out Friday night?”

  Visions of the last gorgeous Friday night swam in her head.

  “Dinner and a movie?” Trace asked.

  Margo looked at him. “Sure, I’d like that.”

  “Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Actually there’s a game on, and we have box tickets. How about dinner and a hockey game?”

  She liked the idea of a movie better. Less talking. “Sure,” she said reluctantly. “That sounds like fun.”

  Trace snorted at the tone of her voice. He moved out of earshot from Ottie. “If you’d rather not, I understand.”

  “No. It’s okay. I can help.”

  Trace raised his eyebrows. “Okay. I’ll pick you up at six on Friday.”

  Margo looked back at Ottie, who was looking pleased as punch.

  Chapter 33

  Margo looked at her reflection in the mirror and gave herself a pep talk.

  All she had to do was get through the date tonight. Throw out some advice about the med school interview during dinner. Small talk through the hockey game. Shake his hand at the end of the evening and call it a day. After that, she could walk away. She could deal with her guilt on her own, in time. Walking away from Trace meant she wouldn’t be constantly reminded of how her ineptness lurked just below the surface.

  She took the time to straighten her hair and let it fall to her shoulders. She layered a white camisole under a red sweater and wound a thin red and black scarf around her neck. Go Cascades. Her tapered black jeans tucked neatly into warm leather boots.

  Margo heard the knock on her door and squared her shoulders. Why did this feel worse than a trip to the dentist?

  She plastered a fake smile on her face and opened the door. She wasn’t absolutely sure, but his smile looked just as fake. He leaned in, as if he was going to greet her with a kiss, as he had so many times in the past, but then caught himself and jerked back.

  Margo’s heart tripped. Regret washed over her. If she could rewind the clock, she would. She so desperately wished she could. “I’ll grab my coat,” she said quietly, turning to open the closet.

  Trace stepped inside and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Look, Margo, I feel like Ottie coerced you into this. If you’d rather not …”

  “Are you cancelling our date?” Margo said, her eyes narrowed, her voice clipped.

  Trace threw his hands up. “Not at all. I …”

  “You what?”

  “I want to make sure you know you can say no,” he said finally, watching her face.

  Margo slipped her arms in her coat and felt Trace reach over and help her with it. He ran his hand down her arm. Margo turned to face him and looked him in the eye. “Do you want to go out with me?” Images of his face – the disdain, the disappointment – flashed through her mind.

  “Yes, I do.”

  She swallowed and her shoulders relaxed a little. “I want to go out with you.”

  Trace smiled slowly and took her hand. He leaned in and lightly kissed her lips. “Let’s go.”

  After they settled into a cab, Margo looked over. “I’ve never seen you drive.”

  “I don’t often need to. Everything’s pretty handy within walking distance. Or I plan on drinking and don’t want to drive afterward.”

  “What kind of car do you drive? You can tell a lot about a person by the car they drive.”

  “Is that so? What do you think I drive?”

  She took her time answering. “Something fast and flashy.”

  He grinned. “So, I guess it’s lucky I haven’t picked you up in my beige station wagon?”

  She burst out laughing. “You do not own a beige station wagon.”

  He glanced over at her. “And painters don’t have medical degrees.”

  Margo sobered and looked at him ruefully. “Touché.”

  He squeezed her hand and was about to say something, but the taxi pulled up to the restaurant, and Trace was distracted settling the fare.

  The restaurant was a little bistro, a short walk from the arena.

  “I thought this would be a bit quieter so we can talk,” Trace said as he held the door open for her.

  “Dr. MacMillan.” A young woman, in a short black skirt and a loose-fitting floral top, walked over quickly. She grinned and reached out to shake Margo’s hand.

  “Clarisse. How are you?” She looks so much better, Margo thought. She’d gained weight, looked healthy. She tamed the anorexia monster.

  “I’m great. I can’t believe it’s you. They told me at the clinic that you graduated, and I’ve been trying to find out where you went. Where’s your practice?”

  Margo grimaced silently. “I graduated, but I still have to do a residency. Right now, I’m taking a bit of time off.”

  “Oh,” Clarisse said, frowning. “I really want to be your patient. You’re the only one who’s ever helped me. Can I give you my number and when you set up your practice you can call me?”

  “That’s not really–”

  “Don’t tell me I can’t. I’ve been trying to find you since last summer.” She grabbed a restaurant business card and wrote her na
me and number on the back. “Here, take it please. It would really mean a lot if you called me.”

  Margo took it reluctantly. “But you have a doctor in the meantime, right?”

  Clarisse made a face. “I’m using the walk-in clinic for now. Call me,” she said sternly.

  Margo smiled at her.

  “I’ll show you to your table.” Clarisse grabbed two menus. “I’ll give you the best one,” she whispered with a wink.

  They were led to an intimate table near the window. A candle flickered beside a bud vase filled with a sprig of orchids.

  “Thank you, Clarisse. This is lovely.”

  Clarisse set the menus down. “Alex will be your waiter. Enjoy. Call me,” she said and walked away.

  Trace took Margo’s coat and hung it with his own on a hook nearby. They sat down, and Margo picked up a menu.

  “A former patient?” Trace asked. “She sounds like Daniel. You could start a fan club.”

  Margo snorted. “Yeah.” It was flattering for sure. Nice to hear that she’d helped. But it made her sad. She couldn’t explain it. It was unsettling.

  The waiter came to fill their water glasses and expertly flicked their linen napkins onto their laps. Margo glanced around the restaurant as Trace ordered.

  The twenty or so tables were full, but conversations were muted and quiet music filled the air. Margo admired the watercolor paintings hanging around the room, an abstract, a sunset, a welcoming Inukshuk. She relaxed in the charming ambiance.

  When the waiter left, Margo changed the subject. “Congratulations on getting an interview. You must be thrilled.”

  Trace shrugged. “Only one, though.”

  “One is all it takes.”

  “I suppose, but it’d be nice to have a buffer. So I could do a practice round before I take on the one I really want.”

  “It’s never that ideal. Have they told you how the interview will be structured?”

  “They said there’d be an individual interview with a physician and a second-year medical student, a group interview, and five mini-interviews with actor patients.”

  “Wow. They don’t want to miss anything. At least you’ll have a chance to sell yourself in the individual interview and show them how you work as part of a team with the group interview. I imagine the mini-interviews will be scenarios covering empathy and ethics.”

  “All in one neat package, one week from tomorrow.”

  “You’ve come along way, baby.”

  “I’d like to go a bit further. Any tips?”

  The waiter served their drinks, a beer for Trace and a fruity cocktail for Margo.

  She took a sip and slowly stirred it with the straw. “For the group interview, remember that you’ll be assessed the whole time. Speak up and join in, but don’t hog the conversation. Smile, look people in the eye. Don’t joke around, but keep in line with the tone of the group.

  “For the individual interview, prepare for the question ‘Tell me about yourself.’ Start with your undergrad and then highlight some of the projects you’ve been involved in. Link them to skills that would make you a good doctor, like you did for your essay. But be brief. Aim to cover three activities in about two to three minutes.”

  Trace nodded. “Like the tutoring, work at Breaking Bread …”

  “The research project, organizing the ball hockey tournament. That’s a fantastic idea, by the way.”

  Trace looked pleased. “Thanks. Ottie and Hattie are really into it. Hopefully, it’ll raise some money to keep them in butterscotch ripple perpetuity.”

  Margo laughed.

  The waiter set down plates artfully arranged with leafy greens, dried cherries, toasted walnuts, and topped with rounds of warm, melted goat cheese. Margo’s mouth watered as she inhaled the sweet aroma of the raspberry vinaigrette.

  They picked up their forks.

  “What about the MMIs? What are they like?” Trace asked.

  Margo took a mouthful of salad and enjoyed the combination of tart cherries with the crunch of walnut. She swallowed and wiped her mouth with the napkin. “You’ll be given a scenario. Usually you have one or two minutes to read it over. Read it carefully, and focus on the task it asks you to do. An actor in the room will act out the scenario. Do your best to pretend it’s real.”

  “Sounds straightforward,” Trace said.

  Margo nodded. “It might be something like ‘your roommate asks if he can copy an assignment you’ve finished. It’s due tomorrow.’ When you get in there, they might throw at you that the roommate is depressed or has a medical issue that prevented him from getting his assignment done, or he wants to use yours to boost his mark.”

  Trace frowned. “What’s the right answer?”

  Margo sipped her drink. “I don’t think there’s necessarily a right or wrong answer. They want to see how you approach it. Did you find out what’s going on, can you put yourself in their shoes—”

  “Ah,” Trace said, waving his fork. “Empathy.”

  “Yes. But don’t agree to cheat. That’s bad.”

  “Be patient and understanding, then rip the carpet out from underneath them.”

  Margo smirked. “Well, kinda yeah. But in the nicest possible way.”

  “Right,” Trace said with a quick laugh.

  Margo savored the last of the goat cheese as it melted in her mouth and set down her fork. “It could also be stuff like breaking bad news, telling an elderly patient that they have to give up their driver’s license, or telling a truck driver who suffers from sleep apnea that he can’t drive unless he uses a CPAP machine. Disclosing a medical error, ratting out a classmate who cheated, an assisted suicide scenario …”

  “Should be a fun time,” said Trace, taking a sip of beer.

  The waiter removed their salad plates and set down their meals. Trace had ordered blackened chicken with roasted potatoes. The peppery spices wafted up and mixed with the citrus aroma of her orange glazed snapper.

  Margo picked up her knife and fork. “I’ve seen you with Ottie and the others at Breaking Bread. You won’t have any trouble.”

  Trace glanced at Margo, his eyebrows raised. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. It means a lot,” he said in a serious tone.

  “Most importantly, when you walk out of one room, put what you did completely out of your mind and focus on what’s next. Stay in the moment.”

  “When I screw up, you mean.”

  Margo laughed and shook her head. She held up her glass to him. “I think Dr. Bennett has a nice ring to it.”

  Chapter 34

  They walked to the arena, the air crisp, the snow lightly falling. In the still air, the snowflakes made their way leisurely to the ground.

  Trace pulled a Cascades tuque from his pocket and put it on. He brushed a hand over her hair. “You straightened your curls.”

  Margo smiled. “For a change. But this snow may make them curly again.”

  They joined the throngs of people going into the arena but broke off at a narrow hallway leading to an elevator. Trace showed the attendant his box seat tickets, and they were whisked up to the fourth floor.

  He checked his watch as he tried the door to the box. “I don’t have a key, but my parents should be here already.”

  Margo froze. Her heart stopped beating, then went into overdrive. When Trace held the door for her, she couldn’t move.

  With the slightest pressure on the small of her back, Trace urged her through.

  Three young men stood inside the door, each with a beer in their hand. Their faces lit up when they saw Trace.

  “Trace, good to see you, buddy.”

  Trace shook hands with two of them and grinned at the third. “Managed to pull yourself away from the drawing board, did you?” Trace pulled Margo closer. “Margo, this is my brother, Jacob.”

  The resemblance was striking. Jacob had longer hair, a darker blond, but shared the same square jaw and frosty blue eyes.

  “And his friend, Luke, and my cous
in, Chris.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Margo shook hands with all three.

  “The fridge is well stocked,” Jacob said, motioning toward a kitchenette with his beer. “Help yourself.”

  “You might need it, if you’re cheering for the Cascades,” Chris said with a laugh.

  Luke turned to him. “You’re going to get uninvited.”

  “Or pitched over the balcony,” Trace added as he moved to get drinks for Margo and himself.

  Margo accepted a beer from Trace and stood with the group. The four shared an easy camaraderie and good-natured teasing.

  Margo’s glance slid over to Trace’s parents, sitting between two other couples in the cushioned seats overlooking the rink. They were engrossed in a lively conversation. Could she duck out unnoticed? Her stomach churned at the thought of meeting them.

  “What do you do, Margo?” Chris asked.

  Margo looked at him. “I’m a painter.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Cool. What medium?”

  “Well, I paint a lot of walls,” she said with a laugh. “But I also paint canvasses. Acrylic, oil, watercolor, I’ve dabbled in them all.”

  “Do you have a favorite?”

  “Um, if I want to spend time, I prefer acrylic. But for something quick and light, I’d probably choose watercolor. Do you paint?”

  “Not at all,” he said with a laugh. “I’m an architect. All straight lines and angles.”

  “A different kind of art,” Margo said with a smile.

  “Trace, you’re here,” his mom said, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around Trace in a hug.

  “Hi, Mom. We snuck in a few minutes ago.” He kissed her cheek. “Mom, I want you to meet Margo MacMillan. Margo, my mom, Anita.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Margo.” Anita extended her hand to shake. “Are you a hockey fan?”

  Margo nodded, her throat dry. “I … I don’t get to the games very often, but I enjoy watching them.”

  Anita nodded. “We don’t get to as many as we’d like, but the view from up here is spectacular. Although sometimes I’ve been tempted to listen to the play-by-play as we watch. I don’t understand all the calls or the strategy behind the plays like the boys.” She smiled at Trace, who had walked to the railing to watch the start of the game with the other men. “You know,” she continued, “you look a bit familiar.”