Dr. Stud

by Jess Bentley

  “So you’re telling me Didi has not changed?”

  I find myself almost laughing too. It’s nice to know that somebody in this world understands what I’m going through.

  “Not one little bit!”

  “It’s nice to know some things are so reliable! How many times did you have to do her homework for her?”

  “Oh jeez,” I sigh. “More than I could count. How did you even know that? I don’t think Didi’s mom ever figured it out.”

  Mom purses her lips. “Hmm, I guess she had a lot else on her mind,” she mutters guiltily. “You heard she’s at Harbor Oaks now?”

  My eyes go wide. “What?” I gasp. “Holy shit!”

  “Joanna!” she barks, aghast.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble, blushing. “I forgot we don’t say those words down here.”

  “You’ll just have to leave your Manhattan manners behind, okay?” she scolds me.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry,” I apologize again. “So… what happened?”

  “She just went to rehab and I guess she liked it so much she decided to retire there.”

  “Wait… are you joking? I don’t know if that’s funny.”

  “I’m being totally serious!” Mom laughs. “She went to rehab after a little fender bender, got out, and decided she liked it better in there, so she checked herself back in. She likes the view. And she likes the food. She never could cook!”

  “Oh my God, you are right about the cooking. She was good with a can opener though.”

  “Well I guess everybody has a skill,” Mom sniffs. “Anyway, I can’t really judge. I’m glad she’s not alone, right?”

  “Long as she’s happy, that’s all that matters.”

  Heavy heels on the front porch are followed by the banging of the screen door. In moments my father appears in the doorway, filling it entirely. He looks at both of us, scowling in surprise.

  “What are we smiling about?” he asks slowly and carefully.

  “Look who’s here!” my mom hoots in response as he crosses the room toward her. “It’s our beautiful daughter, with an impossible project!”

  “Now, Maude,” he fusses, burying his lips on the top of her head, “you know nothing is impossible.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you would say!” I announce as I leap from the barstool and rush toward him.

  My dad opens his arms to catch me, holding me tight like he used to do when I was little. I used to think he was as big as a house, taller than the shed. Even since I’ve grown up, he still feels that way to me. I inhale the smell of sawdust and sweat from his work shirt with relish.

  “Whatever you need, baby girl,” he promises me as he swings me back and forth.

  Reluctantly, I let him set me down and back away, shrugging. I don’t want this moment to end, even though I put it off for so long. It really is nice to be home. But the overwhelming urgency to get started is impossible for me to ignore.

  “You remember the hat shop?”

  He nods. “Of course I do. What about it?”

  “I need to turn it into an art gallery in nine days.”

  He purses his lips. “Square footage?”

  “Figure twenty-five hundred.”

  He scrubs his wide palm over his face, a gesture I have seen thousand times.

  “Yeah, sure. We can do that.”

  My mom gathers him in a grateful squeeze.

  “My hero!” she exclaims.

  “Yeah, you guys are pretty okay,” I smile, watching them embrace each other so naturally, so affectionately.

  Again, guilt tries to get in, but I just won’t let it. Have I really been away this long?

  “You’ll stay here? With us?” my mom asks hopefully.

  “Actually…” I begin carefully, “the cabin? Do you think I could—”

  “Oh!” my mom immediately gasps. “My my, of course! It would be nice to get it cleaned up anyway. You haven’t been there in years!”

  The cabin is just another tiny house, actually my parents’ first house. It’s only three rooms at the end of one of the few streets in town. It’s where the sidewalk literally ends, just a simple A-frame house that sits on a hill and looks out over the ocean.

  We used to go there on vacations when I was a kid, even though it’s really only a few blocks away from here. They just couldn’t let it go for sentimental reasons, even after my dad built this place.

  “I really glad you’re home,” my mom whispers, choking back tears.

  “Me too,” I answer honestly, though I really shouldn’t tell her it’s only for a few more days.

  “Well, get your butt in the truck,” Dad smiles. “Let’s get to work.”

  Chapter 7

  Joe

  Happily, I get the hat shop door unlocked on the first try. Unfortunately, it’s slightly worse than I remember.

  My dad lumbers in behind me, grumbling to himself and tapping something into his phone every few seconds. I take in the place all over again, trying to see it like my dad is right now.

  Nine days? Am I insane? We might have better luck demolishing it and starting from scratch. Pop-up galleries have a certain amount of appeal these days. I could string a bunch of fairy lights between the two buildings on either side. Maybe some picnic tables among the rubble. Maybe a traveling circus has a tent I could borrow?

  Okay, that’s it. I have officially lost my mind.

  “You really got yourself into a pickle,” my dad calls out as he leans into the office area. “I think you got squirrels. Maybe badgers.”

  My eyebrows go up. “Badgers?” I repeat numbly.

  He waves his hand in the air. “No, I was kidding about the badgers,” he immediately admits. “I can see we’re not going to really have a sense of humor about this right away, are we?”

  “We can joke all you want after the opening, okay?” I promise.

  “Fair enough,” he announces as he pushes open a bathroom door, swollen and sticking from the ever-present Florida humidity.

  I stand there helplessly, watching his body shuffle between the small rooms, simultaneously happy to know that he’s doing his thing, and dreading what he’s going to tell me. When he finally begins to walk back toward me, I realize he’s got a piece of paper in his hand.

  “Just give me the bad news first,” I groan. “Just rip off the Band-Aid. I can take it. Go ahead.”

  He squints and smirks, pausing in a dusty shaft of light just ahead of me. For a second, I wonder if he’s the reason I never found anybody really special in New York. This is what I think a man is: talented, confident, strong, kind. You gotta look good in plaid, I’ll just say that right now. And even with the facial hair trend in Manhattan leaning toward lumberjack, I haven’t run into too many men just like this.

  “Honestly, it’s not that bad,” he shrugs, holding out the piece of paper to me. “I wouldn’t have minded an extra couple of weeks, but your timing is good. I’ve got a whole crew that just finished a beach house, waiting for the next job.”

  “So you can do it? Seriously?”

  “‘Course I can,” he grins.

  I reach out with a trembling hand to take the paper. “What’s this?”

  “That’s your construction permit,” he sniffs. “Looks like Didi got the ball rolling, at least. Why don’t you take a nap or something? Freshen up? Take my truck.”

  My mind reels. All this panic I’ve been holding behind a floodgate starts to boil, and I’m wondering where it’s supposed to go. “Wait, we can really do it? Just like that? This is happening?”

  My dad picks up my suitcase and heads back for the front door, jerking his chin to indicate I should follow him. I stumble out into the late afternoon light, totally confused.

  “The plans somebody drew up for the permit are in the office, and I already have a crew on the way,” Dad explains in a voice that is simultaneously gentle and boss-like. “Unless you plan on swinging a hammer, you’re probably better off finding something else to do.”
<
br />   “I can swing a hammer,” I announce, fisting my hands on my hips defensively. “I built my very own treehouse, you know. I’m a perfectly qualified construction dude.”

  He tips his head slightly, sucking the inside of his cheek. “Not in those heels, you’re not,” he smirks. “But if you go home and get a pair of work boots and some eye protection, I will consider it.”

  I don’t move, but I do remember that I probably look pretty much like a 1950s housewife right now. He’s got a good point.

  “I’m not going to nap,” I mumble, holding out my hand for the keys.

  His smile creases his weathered, tanned cheeks. “You could clean out the closets at the cabin,” he suggests gamely as he drops the keys into my open palm.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not gonna do that either,” I huff as I pull open the heavy truck door and gather my skirt in my hand. I practically have to high jump to get into the driver’s seat, but at this point I would feel silly asking for help. Luckily, I get it on the first try.

  Dad gives me a wave with one hand as he stares down at his phone and walks backward back into the hat shop. I know that he is already on the job. He’s already probably got a project plan all settled in his mind for every minute of the next nine days. Everyone is all accounted for. Materials are probably already on order.

  And for a brief moment, just for a second, I feel like I can exhale.

  I don’t think anybody’s been to the cabin in quite a while. A single bulb burns over the tiny front porch, even though the sun hasn’t gone down yet. It’s probably on all the time.

  I park the truck in the drive and get out, balancing my weight on my toes so the gravel doesn’t chew up my heels. With my suitcase in my hand, I practically tiptoe across the scrubby front lawn to the door and find the spare house key in its hiding place.

  The door swings open silently, and I hold my breath. I don’t want to be flooded with memories right this second. I know it’s coming, but I just want to wait. I don’t want to fall down the well of childhood memories. I don’t want to feel that sick sensation of longing tugging me deeper into the past.

  But I don’t want to suffocate either.

  Slowly I convince myself to breathe, setting the suitcase down just inside the door. Just small breaths at first. Shallow, through my mouth. Golden light streams through the tiny kitchen windows that face the Gulf as the sun begins to set. The light ricochets all around the kitchen and large living room, filling it up with a fairy-like glow.

  Someone’s been here, at least to keep it dusted. It smells like Murphy’s oil soap and I can see that the wide-plank floorboards gleam with the burnished warmth of decades of use. The sofa is newer, one of those IKEA futon things that pulls out into a bed. But the piano is still in the corner, as well as Grandma’s dining room table at the end closest to the kitchen.

  Slowly I walk toward the bedroom door, noting the pictures stacked on the wall from floor to ceiling. There we all are: one small, happy family. Me and Mom in the garden. Dad and Mom with their pants rolled up, laughing in a tide pool. Me and Didi, our hair dyed black with matching rings of angry eyeliner, rolling our eyes as we sit at the table doing math homework.

  That makes me smile. Angry homework seems like a very normal teenage experience.

  I could probably spend all day looking at these, but I’m not going to. I’m not going to wallow. I have a life in Manhattan. A life that I engineered on my own. A life that I need to get back to. However temporarily nice Willowdale seems to be, with all its sweet memories and homey possibilities, it’s a life I deliberately left. That’s a fact. I’m sure in a day or two the haze will lift, and I’ll remember exactly why.

  The bedroom is also filled with the golden light of the sunset, and even more so because the windows are so much bigger. This is a really great room. As one-bedroom houses go, this little A-frame was planned out pretty well. I imagine it was meant for a young couple just starting out with stars in their eyes. People who wanted to spend a lot of time together in a luxurious, comfortable bedroom, staring out over the ocean and talking about everything life was going to bring them. It’s kind of weird to think that that was my parents, but all evidence points to that fact. They were that romantic couple. They had those stars in their eyes, made those plans. Even better, they made them real. And they still love each other like crazy.

  The pale blue quilt on the bed dimples as I rest my suitcase on it. Another cloud of memory-tinged aroma wafts from the fabric, sending me a vision of jumping on this bed with Mom, giggling until our stomachs hurt. I remember she was wearing something kind of funny. Was it a girdle?

  Yes, I think that is what it was: a girdle that went from her shoulders down almost to her knees. World’s most extreme underwear, I think I remember her saying.

  Suddenly remembering, I open the closet door, startled to find it is jam-packed. Floor-to-ceiling, there are stacks of carefully labeled boxes, fastened with brown paper tape. My mother’s neat handwriting explains each one: Ann, dresses. Ann, scarves. Ann, pantsuits.

  “Oh, these are Grandma Ann’s clothes,” I mutter aloud.

  But I force myself to step back. Grandma was a very fine lady of the fifties and sixties. She had old-fashioned ideas about how to be an excellent housewife, and she always looked extremely elegant. In our small town, she was toasted as both a glamour girl—to her face—and derided as a fussy woman who spent too much of her husband’s money on things for herself—behind her back.

  But they were just jealous. Grandma thought she was doing it for Grandpa. I guess I come from a long line of happy couples.

  “Yeah, where did it all go wrong, JoJo?” I sigh sarcastically as I close the closet door.

  Grandma’s treasure trove is going to have to wait. I have a million things to do. Forcing myself to focus, I unzip my suitcase and begin pulling everything out to organize it. Thankfully, I did bring blue jeans, so I will be able to help with the renovation. That will show him. It’s not like I’m going to stay here and paint my nails for nine days.

  After finding a couple of empty drawers in the bureau, I get all my things put away and then gather the remaining toiletries to relocate to the modestly-sized bathroom. I arrange the hair products and oral hygiene stuff on the shelf below the mirror, in the same order that I use back home in Manhattan. Vitamin E tonic, facial wipes, Listerine, toothbrush and toothpaste. Now I just need to get my birth control pills up there and I will be set for tomorrow morning.

  Weirdly, they’re not here. I rush back into the bedroom to plunge my hands into the zippered pockets of my suitcase. They’re not here. They’re not anywhere. They’re not even in my pocketbook. Apparently I forgot them.

  Swearing under my breath, then louder since there’s no one to hear me, I call my pharmacy in New York and jab on the nine button until I’m connected with a pharmacist.

  After explaining my issue to her, I hear that wrinkled-nose silence that means I’m out of luck.

  “Oh, hon?” the pharmacist coos. “You don’t have a refill. I mean I can’t send you a refill. Because you don’t have one.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, my voice rising. “I mean, I don’t really need a refill? I just need to finish the ones that I got from you… But I left them in New York. So I need a sort of replacement. Am I explaining this right?”

  “Oh I understand you,” she snaps. “But you gotta call your doctor. You need a new prescription because this one is over a year old. You already got all these pills.”

  “But I don’t have them!” I replied, exasperated. “I have to get a refill!”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you,” she sighs, and I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Okay, thanks, bye.”

  I start to reply, but I hear the line go dead. That’s customer service in New York.

  Great, what am I gonna do now?

  Chapter 8

  Sturgill

  I’ve only got two office appointments today, and they’re both before ten thirty. It’s a
beautiful day, and I think I might actually be able to get a little time in the surf as long as nobody goes into labor or has some other emergency.

  “Good morning, Dr. Warner,” Jen smiles when I come into the back door. “Files are on your desk.”

  “Thanks, Jen,” I smile back as I take my shirt out of the wardrobe. I barely broke a sweat on this morning’s run, but I still need to get changed. I see her eyes skate over my shoulders as she gives me a tight, professional smile. Though our relationship never extended beyond the exam room, I suppose I can’t blame her for wondering if we might have a connection.

  We don’t. It’s just a hazard of the job. Human nature is always trying to form attachments.

  It has created something of a problem with the women of Willowdale. When my father retired, everybody still saw me as the young boy. They were still in the habit of taking their “serious” problems to him, as they had for their whole lives. Even after I completed medical school and Peace Corps training in Costa Rica, I could see it in their eyes. Though I was a fully trained medical professional, they still saw me as the high school quarterback.

  Or worse, the grade-schooler who had gone to their houses for birthday parties and backyard barbecues.

  Slowly, I gained their respect. It has taken the last four years of continuing my father’s practice to win them over. But our family brand of personalized attention has at least won me the respect—if not devotion—of the women in Willowdale. Single and married alike, we do have a certain bond. It just hasn’t happened to materialize into a partner for me.

  And it can’t. Doctors have a name for it: we call it “transference.” It’s only natural that a human forms a romantic attachment to someone who has cared for them, cared for their health, touched them in seemingly intimate ways. But it is simply therapeutic. Even if some of our traditional therapies are not mainstream, they are still therapies. In fact, everybody swears by them.

  I have heard it has earned me a nickname, which seems unfair. While my father is still simply known as “Boss Warner,” the younger ladies in Willowdale have given me a less auspicious nickname.