“Fine, you can pick,” she says back over a chuckle, then turns to me and with an encouraging nod whispers, “You’ve got this. Just try and focus on what comes at the end of this charade.”
I smile wearily, grateful for the reminder. “I will. Thanks.”
“Good night, kiddo,” Dan calls out to Avery, then turns to Julie and says, “Thanks for watching her.”
“Uh . . . you’re welcome.” Julie’s puzzled expression mirrors my own confusion. Since when has Dan ever thanked Julie for watching Avery?
Or . . . anything?
“Shall we?” He motions toward the door.
Perplexed by his atypically thoughtful behavior, I sigh and say, “I guess so.”
I take the lead and head through the living room—grabbing my floor-length wool coat from the closet along the way—and out the front door. I wince as the frigid February air slams into me, prompting goose bumps to rise across my skin and my warm breath to hang, ghostlike, in front of me.
It’s been a week since our last snowfall, and while the roads have long been cleared, mountains of dirty, frozen snow still erupt from the ground like weatherworn tepees. I nuzzle deeper into my coat’s collar and cautiously navigate my way down the slick flagstone pavers toward the driveway. In another shockingly courteous display, Dan takes my elbow as if worried I’ll slip.
Why is he being so nice?
What is he up to?
His touch sends a frosty tickle down my spine, but thankfully he’s already got his car running, so it’s warm when I climb inside, melting away my annoyance and giving me back my perspective: it doesn’t matter what he wants. I’m not giving him anything else. Ever.
Because there’s valet parking at the event, we decided beforehand that it would be better to ride together—so we’re seen getting out of the same vehicle—but as I buckle myself in, I’m suddenly wishing we were going separately. I haven’t been this close to Dan in months. I shift against the leather seat, my skin suddenly feeling a bit itchy.
Oh, the things that have happened in this seat . . .
“The news says we’re supposed to get another storm as early as Sunday,” he says as we take off down the road.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, keeping my gaze fixed out the window.
“Hopefully we won’t get too much snow. I planned to take Avery into the city to watch a game Tuesday night.”
He told me this information last week, so I don’t feel the need to respond.
That and I don’t want to.
I’m not in the mood for small talk.
I scooch closer toward the door.
Since when is this car so small?
“I’m sure the freeways will be open, though,” he carries on, his voice quickly getting under my skin. “But just to be safe, we’ll leave a little earlier. Maybe we’ll stop for dinner beforehand.”
I nod but don’t say anything.
Fine.
Stop for dinner.
Leave early.
Whatever you want, Dan. So long as it doesn’t involve me.
“You know, your dress reminds me a lot of the one you wore that night we got lost in London,” he goes on. “Remember we were supposed to see that show on the West End, and we could never find the theater? What were we trying to see? Was it Evita—”
“Would you just stop, please,” I snip, turning toward him.
Even though it’s dark, the dashboard provides enough light that I can see his eyes narrow.
“Stop what?”
“Stop pretending you enjoy talking to me! Your voice is just—” I grit my teeth, searching for the words. “It’s like nails on a chalkboard right now.”
Two months ago, I would have swallowed my annoyance and let it fester inside me until I snapped, but thanks to Dr. Deangelo, I’ve learned it’s better for me to say what I’m feeling when I’m feeling it.
“Fine,” he grunts, shifting his gaze back to the road. “I was just trying to be polite.”
Trying to be polite?
Since when?!
We ride in uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes before he stupidly starts in again. “I’m sure you’re not aware, but there’s been a change to tonight’s schedule.”
The condescension in his tone grates against every nerve in my body.
I’m sure you’re not aware.
As if he’s the all-powerful Oz, and I’m just some brainless fool wandering down the yellow brick road waiting for directions.
You’re such a self-centered ass!
“Okay. Whatever,” I grumble, disinterested and annoyed.
Thankfully, the hospital’s philanthropy staff has been on top of every detail of the gala. In the last two months, the only demands placed on the committee members were to assist with the seating chart and offer input on the wine selection. And even though I received an email with the schedule of events, I hardly even glanced at it—because I don’t care! I don’t care when the first course is served or what time the freaking comedian takes the stage. All I care about is that the second Dan gets his precious donation, I’m leaving. And I’m never going to have to lie about my life again!
“Well, I thought it might interest you to know that at the last minute, I decided to invite one more grateful patient to come and speak—”
“Ugh!” I cut him off over a disgusted grunt. “You really are the most selfish person on the planet, aren’t you?” I turn to him, scowling. “One grateful patient wasn’t enough, so you had to invite two?”
He reels back. “No. That’s not why I—”
“Do you really think I care about this, Dan? Seriously?” I raise my palms, and while there are question marks trailing my words, I’m not looking for an answer. And he knows it. “I couldn’t care less about who you invited to come and talk about what a great doctor you are. I mean, I’m glad you’re good at your job and that you were able to help these people, but if they knew the real you, they wouldn’t be coming tonight. Anyone that knows the real you would never sing your praises.”
My words are harsh and prick my tongue like little needles, but they needed to be said.
“Well, excuse me for trying to help you out,” he says snidely, making an intentionally hard right turn into the hotel’s parking lot.
“Help me out? How are you helping me?”
“It’s obvious you’re wound up about tonight. I just thought you might like to know there’s been a change so you can better prepare yourself—”
“Better prepare myself?” Despite the antianxiety meds pumping through my veins, my blood starts to run hot. “Are you kidding me? What do you think I’ve been doing for the last three months? I’ve been preparing myself for this night. The night when I have to put on a show for two hundred and fifty people—”
“You make it sound like everybody’s going to be watching you,” he grouses back, bringing the car to a stop behind a Jaguar, where an older, tuxedo-clad gentleman is taking a ticket from the valet. “I’m the one who has to get onstage in front of everyone.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one who has to talk you up all night. I’m the one who has to pretend like the person I’m married to isn’t an asshole.”
He flinches. “Yeah, well, it’s not easy for me either. Don’t forget, I’ve been pretending my whole life.”
My stomach wrenches beneath the anguish in his voice, no doubt reflective of how hard that must have been for him. As a kid—a teenager—never being able to be honest with his parents or his friends. With anyone. It must have been awful. No wonder he’s such a good liar. But that doesn’t mean it’s okay to turn me into one too.
“Dan, I’m sorry you had to live like that. I am. But you chose the lies you told; I didn’t. I just want to live an honest, genuine life, but because of you I can’t. And that’s not fair,” I go on, recounting some of the revelations I’ve made with Dr. Deangelo. “You’ve put me in a horrible, shameful position where I’m forced to lie to everyone I know. I don’t get to be myself because you’re too sca
red to be yourself, and that’s just wrong.”
He blinks hard, and his lips part like he’s about to say something—
“Save it!” I cut him off before he has the chance. “Whatever it is you’re about to say, don’t. In fact, don’t talk to me for the rest of the night! When we’re around other people, we can do all the bullshitting we have to, but when it’s just you and me, don’t say anything. After everything you’ve done to me, you at least owe me that.”
CHAPTER 23
I’m all forced smiles and fake laughs as Jackie Harriman parades us through the cocktail reception like the show ponies we are. First, we make small talk with Stan and Irma Vandersloot—potential donors from Grand Rapids who made their small fortune selling farm equipment at their chain of thirty-eight stores that “serve the entire Midwest at our best!”—then we’re herded over to Marcia Greenbaum, a Chicago widow with no heirs and an estate worth nearly two hundred million. Jackie tells us privately that should the Hoffstras not come through with a substantial gift, we may have an opportunity with Marcia, in a year or so, though it will take some extra schmoozing from the two of us.
My stomach sours at the mere suggestion.
A year or so?
No way.
Thankfully, Dan minds my demand and doesn’t talk to me about anything outside our fronted conversations. In fact, he’s quieter than usual—almost subdued—which a few months ago would have worried me . . . made me wonder if what I’d said in the car had hurt his feelings. But today it doesn’t bother me at all. If his feelings are hurt, so be it. He’ll get over it soon enough. And in the meantime, I’m just grateful he’s leaving me alone.
I exchange a “You look gorgeous” over a cheek kiss with Heather when I pick up a glass of chardonnay from the bar—she’s sipping something over ice, her eyes already a bit glassy—then wander into the auction area, where I bid on things I don’t want and will never use.
The overhead lights flicker, like the end of intermission at the theater, and the huge ballroom doors swing open, indicating that it’s time to transition to the next phase of the evening.
I blanch as Dan takes my elbow and ushers me through the crowd toward our table in the center of the ballroom. With soft-lit crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling and gold-plated utensils adorning the tabletops, you’d think we were attending an event at Buckingham Palace rather than the Mount Ivy Hilton.
Our tablemates are already in their seats when we arrive. Along with the Hoffstras are midlevel donors Jim and Patty Demers (Jim is a retired banker who now sits on the hospital’s board of directors), and Diane Porter (the hospital’s COO) and her husband, Mason, I think. Or maybe it’s Tom—
“Well, look who’s here.” Mr. Hoffstra stands, greeting Dan and me with a smile so sincere it makes me feel guilty about mine. “Nice to see you again, Dan. Jane.”
“Phil, very nice to see you.” Dan offers him a hearty handshake over one of his million-watt grins, but there’s something off about the delivery of his greeting. It’s a little flat.
The pressure of the night must finally be getting to him.
Now that we’re here in front of the Hoffstras, everything that’s riding on this event is starting to feel very real.
I swallow through my own unease and say, “Nice to see you again,” to Mr. Hoffstra, then turn to Mrs. Hoffstra, who’s looking up at me with a kind smile of her own. “Hello. How are you?” I ask, dropping down into the empty seat beside her.
“Oh, we’re doing just fine, dear,” she reports while giving my hand a tender pat. “How are you? And how’s your daughter?”
My heart twists at the sincerity behind her question.
I hate that I have to lie to her.
Damn you, Dan!
“We’re all doing great. Avery’s busy as always, which keeps me hopping, but, yeah, we’re all doing really, really well.”
To me, the lies are obvious—clanging like cymbals against my ears—but thankfully Mrs. Hoffstra’s none the wiser.
Just get through the next couple of hours, Jane.
Just get through this night, and then you’re free . . .
From my seat, I offer up softly spoken “Good evenings” and “Nice to see you’s” while Dan glad-hands his way around the table before settling into the empty seat on my right. He immediately assumes the attentive-husband position by throwing his arm around me. Thankfully his hand only grazes my shoulder before coming to rest on the back of my chair.
“Good evening, everyone”—Jackie’s voice suddenly erupts through the room—“and welcome to the Mount Ivy General’s Listen to Your Heart Gala. I’m Jackie Harriman, vice president of fundraising, and I’m thrilled to be here with all of you at this very important event.” She pauses, allowing the room to break into a round of obligatory applause before she continues. “As you know, Mount Ivy General has been providing exceptional health care to the residents of this and surrounding communities for nearly forty years, and now it’s time to bring our service to the next level, and that starts with the addition of a state-of-the-art cardiothoracic wing that will put Mount Ivy General on the map, where it belongs!”
“Hear! Hear!” someone yells just as the crowd breaks into another round of applause.
“Of course, you all know this is a fundraising event,” she goes on, her tone taking on a more playful tone, “so we’d love if you’d participate in the silent auction taking place in the foyer. I hear that Dr. Brahman is generously offering up his car-washing services—”
“No SUVs!” someone, Dr. Brahman, I assume, calls out from the back corner of the room.
Everyone laughs.
I take a cautious sip of wine, mindful that too much in combination with my meds tends to wind me up. The last thing I need is to have a bad reaction and start throwing dinner rolls across the room.
“Okay, no SUVs for Dr. Brahman,” Jackie goes on, chuckling. “But more than that, tonight is about introducing you to our hospital family. We’re a small, tight-knit group who support and encourage each other through the good, the bad, and everything in between, and we’d love if you’d consider joining that family, because together we can do amazing things for this community.”
“We sure can,” Diane Porter mutters over an enthusiastic nod.
I take another sip.
“To kick things off, I’d like to invite comedian Rizzo Biggs to the stage,” Jackie says, prompting a tall, gangly man with Gallagher-style hair to saunter out to the center of the stage. Thankfully, he doesn’t have any mallets or watermelons.
“I sure hope he’s funny,” Mrs. Hoffstra says to me. “I love a good comedian.”
For her sake, I hope he is funny. But my only care is that he’ll be sparing me fifteen minutes of Dan-praising chitchat. Speaking of Dan, in my periphery I notice that he’s not looking at the stage like everyone else is; rather, he’s staring off toward the far corner of the room. I try to follow his gaze to see what—or who—is so interesting, but there are too many people to distinguish one person out of the crowd. Not that it matters. His attention needs to be focused on the people at this table. The Hoffstras in particular!
I give him a kick to grab his attention, then level him with a hard look that says exactly what I’m feeling: Pay attention! We’ve still got work to do!
He reads me loud and clear, quickly shifting his gaze back to the stage, where it belongs.
Get with the program, Dan!
We’re here because of you, after all!
Though some of his material is a bit dated, the comedian delivers a good set, keeping everyone laughing as we work our way through the first course of roasted beet and sliced tomato salad. As expected, though, the painful conversations I’ve been dreading start the moment he departs the stage and the entrées are served.
“So, Dan, I read an interesting article about you in Physicians Monthly not too long ago,” Diane Porter’s husband, what’s his name, says to Dan, referring to the fluffy piece the magazine wrote about him
last summer. “It said you recently won a big award?”
“Is that so?” Mr. Hoffstra inquires before Dan even has a chance to respond.
“Yes, that’s true,” Dan answers over a modest-looking grin. “The Council on Cardiac Excellency awarded me their physician of the year award.”
“Oh my, isn’t that wonderful,” Mrs. Hoffstra utters reverently.
I pause from picking at my braised ribs long enough to offer her my first earnest smile of the night.
Why do you have to be so nice?
“It was quite the coup for the hospital,” Diane chimes in.
“Yes, I imagine it would be,” Mr. Hoffstra says, clearly impressed.
“And, Jane, you were quoted in the article, too, weren’t you?” what’s his name asks, now dragging me into the conversation.
My cheeks flush as all eyes turn my way. Here we go, Janie. It’s showtime! I lay my fork down on the plate and after a quick clear of the throat say, “Yes, they asked me what it’s like to be married to a successful surgeon.”
“Stressful, I imagine,” Jim Demers offers up, prompting everyone to laugh.
I push out another smile as I think back on that interview: Being married to a surgeon has its challenges; he’s very busy and often puts his work before us, but at the end of the day it’s a sacrifice I’m glad to make. Knowing how many lives he saves makes it all worthwhile. I can’t imagine a better life than being a surgeon’s wife.
I swallow a heartsick whimper. What a naive fool I was . . .
“So, what was your response?” Patty Demers wonders, her blue eyes growing wide with curiosity.
A thousand different answers flit through my mind—none of them the response my heart wants to provide—but as I take in the hopefulness on Mrs. Hoffstra’s face, I’m quickly reminded that this night is not about my current discomfort; it’s about my future. Avery’s future. Mom’s future.
Mustering up every ounce of courage in my body, I raise my chin and say, “I told them it was a pleasure. That knowing how many lives he’s impacting makes all of our sacrifices worthwhile.”
See Jane Snap Page 29