IN CATHERINE’S OFFICE, he stared through the window at the parking lot. Rain had started to fall, a mild drizzle that in Belfast would have been described as a bit overcast. Umbrellas had sprouted like mushrooms, a kaleidoscope of shifting hues and patterns. He followed the passage of one striped in red and blue and tried to understand what was happening to him. Half an hour ago, Catherine had stood in a dimly lit corridor and looked up at him through her lashes. The years had fallen away, and Sharon was talking to him, giving him another chance.
Impatient, he banished the image. The reality was that he’d allowed himself to be dragged into a publicity gimmick and then done a half-baked job that would do nothing for WISH and didn’t even have the saving grace of honesty. What he should do now was cut his losses and take the Ethiopia post. Leave before he got sucked in any deeper and actually started endorsing Grossman’s surgery.
He heard Catherine’s voice behind him and turned to take the disposable cup of coffee she handed him. She had braided her hair, he noticed, and reapplied lipstick, a shade of red that matched her jacket. Odd, now she didn’t look at all like Sharon. Just that shadow of resemblance every now and then. When she smiled he realized he’d been staring at her.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” She gave him an appraising look. “You seem kind of shell-shocked.”
“It was a bit like having grenades lobbed at me, now that you mention it,” he agreed. “But I’m not sure I did a very good job of dodging them.”
She sipped her coffee. “To tell you the truth, I doubt that it did much for WISH, but I have some other ideas we can talk about. I think some media training would help you with ongoing press contact. There’s a former TV anchor who gives one-day sessions to some of our doctors. If you let me know what dates would work, I can set it up.”
He looked at her and couldn’t imagine anything he would hate more. Then she caught her braid in one hand and flipped it forward. Distracted by the sensuousness of the gesture, the way the braid fell just below the swell of her breasts, he tried to think of Ethiopia but heard himself mumble something about Tuesdays being best.
“Great.” A smile lit her face. “I’ll set something up.” She moved to the desk, motioned him to a chair on the other side. “I know this morning was an ordeal, but I really appreciate you going along with it. For a moment I thought you were going to back out. What made you change your mind?”
“Your air of desperation, I think it was,” he said solemnly. You needed me. There was a beat of silence then Catherine laughed, a loud hearty laugh that made him laugh, too, and wonder briefly why he needed to go to Ethiopia.
“God, I was panicking.” Catherine shook her head as though recalling the moment. “I thought I might have to drag you in there bodily.”
“That might have been interesting.” He watched her face color, a flush that started at her jaw and moved slowly up her cheek, then he leaned across her desk to pick up a framed picture. A dark-headed boy and a girl with blond curls posed against a backdrop of autumn leaves. “Your children?”
“Uh-huh.” Catherine looked at the picture in his hands then smiled up at him. “Little monsters most of the time. This morning, Julie just had to wear this blue dress that naturally needed ironing. I got it all ironed and she threw up on it. She found a mouse on her bed, and Peter…” Her face colored. “Here I go babbling again.” She took a couple of oranges and a bag of cookies from a desk drawer. “Help yourself. The least I can do after what I put you through is feed you.”
Martin grinned at her, intrigued by the account. He took an orange, rolled it under his palm for a moment. “When I was a kid in Belfast, these were a luxury that we could only afford at Christmas.”
“You’ve come to the right place for them, then.” She smiled at him. A moment passed as though she was sorting through questions to ask him. “Do you miss Ireland, I mean do you get back very often?”
“No… I lost my return ticket a long time ago.” He saw her look up from the orange she was peeling but he didn’t elaborate. She wore the silver bracelet he had noticed the day before. He imagined her with her children, engaged in all the little rituals of a household. Bustling them off to ballet lessons and soccer practice. He could also see her with her braid undone, hair spread across a pillow.
He stared at the white membranous skin under the orange peel, then nicked it with his thumbnail. The words were all there, clamoring to be said, but trapped behind the protective wall built up over the years. Seconds ticked away, and he felt his silence become a wedge between them. A spot of juice from the orange dribbled like a tear onto the desk.
Catherine handed him a tissue, gave him a long look then lowered her eyes. A moment passed, and suddenly she was all brisk action. He watched as she whisked pieces of orange peel from the desktop, her charm bracelet clinking with the movements.
“On the issue of surgery for Holly,” she said in a businesslike voice. “Who will win do you think, you or Grossman?”
“Grossman, probably.” Relieved to be on familiar ground, but taken aback by an odd sense of loss, he took a moment to collect his thoughts. “When there’s a difference of opinion, surgeons usually prevail. It’s the power of the knife. Not only that, but Eddie Hodges wants the surgery and the parents’ wishes are usually followed.”
She nodded and started to speak, then her telephone rang. A reporter asking about the triplets, he surmised from her end of the conversation. As she talked, her neat round handwriting filled up the lines of a yellow tablet. After a few minutes, she hung up and stared at her notes for a moment, tapped the pen against her teeth.
“Hmm. Not good news.” She looked across the desk at Martin. “That was Ned Bolton, the medical writer with the Tribune. He’s, uh…intrigued by your remarks this morning, particularly by the fact that you and Grossman seem to disagree on surgery for Holly Hodges.” Her eyes met his for a moment. “He wants to talk to you, but we need to establish some ground rules first.”
He folded his arms across his chest, listened to her explain once again the team concept Western wanted to portray. She chewed her lip, frowned, paused, started again. Would it be possible, she wanted to know, for him to agree with Grossman, at least publicly? Could he live with that? They could work together on some remarks that would—she drew quotation marks in the air—“clarify” his earlier comments. How would he feel about that?
He got up and walked to the window behind her desk and glanced outside. The rain had intensified; the wind spattered drops against the glass and whipped at the palms and eucalyptus. He turned away, leaned his shoulders against the sill. In the dim, gray light of the room, the scent of the oranges they had eaten hovered like an exotic perfume.
After a moment, Catherine swiveled to face him. She sat forward on her chair, heels spread wide on the lower rung, knees together. The black skirt she wore had ridden slightly up her thighs to reveal a faint run in her tights that began at her left knee, worked its way up and out of sight.
“You’re very quiet.” She pushed the sleeves of her sweater above her elbows, and studied him for a moment. “What’s the problem? Is it this reporter, or the whole press thing in general?”
“I’m not sure.” He turned back to the window and the wet parking lot. His answer should be obvious. No, he couldn’t perpetuate this charade that he knew was morally wrong. It should be obvious, but something about Catherine made him question his convictions.
He heard the scrape of her chair, and then she was there beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her arm through the cotton of his lab coat. Last night he had identified what was missing from his life, now she brought it all into focus. He saw himself making love to her, stunned by the intensity of his need. A moment later, he saw with equal clarity the wall he had built. He wanted her physically, but he wanted her emotionally too, and only he could tear down the wall.
“I was just thinking about what you said last night about the myth of Irish melancholy.” Her voice was soft. �
�That was your theory, that the Irish were gloomy because they didn’t have enough to eat?”
He nodded, turned to look at her. In the light from the window, her eyes were an emerald green, her skin almost translucent.
She grinned. “Well, from the looks of you, you must be starving.” When he didn’t respond, she touched his arm, left her hand there for a moment. “Seriously, it can’t be that bad. Whatever it is we can work it out. Talk to me.”
“Actually, I’ve come to a decision.” He moved away, picked up his empty coffee cup from her desk and tossed it in the trash. Then he checked the pager at his belt, glanced at his watch. Anything to avoid her eyes. “I’ve been trying to decide whether to join this medical group that’s going to Ethiopia in two weeks,” he said finally. “All things considered, I think I’d be able to do more good there than I can here.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
CATHERINE PUSHED at the green beans on her plate, oblivious to the cafeteria noise all around, and tried to convince herself that Martin’s decision to go to Ethiopia meant nothing to her. Why would she care? It was pretty clear that his interest in her was strictly professional. No matter how magical last night had seemed, today was another story.
“Instant spuds.” Derek regarded his plate of food with disdain. “The saving grace is that it’s free.” He looked across the table at her. “You did bring your camera with you?”
Catherine pointed to the camera, clearly visible on the table, and tried to drag her thoughts away from Martin.
“Eat.” He pointed his fork at her plate. “How did Jordan’s speech turn out?”
“Still working on it.” She shifted the food around with her fork. If she hadn’t been staring into Martin’s eyes like a lovesick teenager instead of listening to Jordan, she wouldn’t have had to resort to begging the secretary for his notes. “There are some points I need to clarify.”
“Good.” He speared a piece of turkey off her plate. “Perhaps you could also clarify what impact you had in mind with Connaughton’s press conference this morning. I distinctly remember discussing with you the concept of teamwork.”
Catherine took a deep breath, she’d expected his reaction. “I know what we discussed, Derek,” she said slowly. “And I understand the message you want to get out, but Mart…I mean Dr. Connaughton is a doctor not a puppet. He’s got his own professional opinions of what’s right and wrong. Holly Hodges is medically unstable, her prognosis is poor. She’s not a candidate for surgery.”
“You’re not here to parrot Connaughton’s opinion.” Derek eyed her across the table. “Your job is—”
“I know what my job is. You asked me to explain why he said what he did at the press conference.” She put her fork down. “And that’s what I’m trying to do. He did the press conference because…” A recollection of the exchange with Martin about her air of desperation made her face flush. “What I’m trying to say is, he didn’t want to talk to the press in the first place, but he thought it might help get WISH funded.”
“He doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting WISH funded.”
“Maybe administration should reconsider WISH.” Catherine thought of the look on Martin’s face as he’d told her about Kenesha Washington. “Just the cost of caring for one baby in the NICU—”
“I appreciate that you’re new to this job.” Derek dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “So I’m willing to allow that perhaps you don’t fully understand that we have an extremely good story here.” He looked at her. “Are you with me so far?”
“Yes, Derek.” She suppressed a surge of irritation at his tone, which recalled memories of her father patiently explaining why she needed to be a good girl.
“Good.” He smiled. “Well, we now have another new development. Ed Jordan wants Western to absorb the costs of Holly Hodges’s surgery.” He glanced over at Catherine’s untouched plate. “Are you finished with that?”
Catherine slid the plate over to him, watched as he demolished the food.
“Ed wants it announced in a special ceremony with all the principals in attendance, of course. Eddie and Rita Hodges, the triplets, Grossman, naturally, and…” He gave her a meaningful look. “Connaughton.”
Catherine said nothing.
“Now, if we play this right, Western will look bighearted and wonderful and, more importantly, it will further our reputation as the local leader in neonatal care. Still with me?”
“Yes, Derek. You’re saying that—”
“I’m saying that the very last thing we need is Connaughton out there muddying the waters as he did this morning.” His face darkened slightly. “He’s managed to create controversy where there should be none. I’ve had already had three reporters beeping me, wanting to talk to him about his difference of opinion with Grossman.”
“Good Lord, Derek, you sound as though he deliberately set out to be controversial.” She heard her voice rise. “It’s a professional difference of opinion. You can’t see that?”
He ignored her question. “What I need you to do now is get Connaughton to clean up the damn mess he made. And from now on when he talks to the press, he sticks to our script.”
“There probably isn’t going to be a next time.” She looked at him. “Today was just a last shot for WISH. In fact—” She stopped, not sure whether Ethiopia was common knowledge. “Well, he’s just not going to do it. I mean he’s really appalled at the idea of surgery for Holly. He’s not going to reverse himself because it’s good PR for Western.”
“Bull.” Derek stabbed at a piece of turkey and looked up at her. “Should I remind you that you also didn’t think he’d do the press conference this morning?”
“That was different. He wasn’t compromising—”
“I want him to clean up his mess,” Derek repeated. “If you need to, dangle WISH like a carrot. Tell him Jordan’s favorably reconsidering the whole thing.”
“Lie to him, you mean? Or is there really an outside chance?”
He laughed. “WISH is deader than anything down in the morgue. But if that’s what it takes to convince him to toe the line, use it. Jordan will back me up. By the way,” he said as he picked up his tray, “a word to the wise. Medical centers are like small towns for gossip. The big buzz was the two of you dancing last night, and then someone saw you both in the parking lot.”
“Derek—”
“Look, maybe it’s none of my business, but of all the men to screw around with—”
“Excuse me?” She looked at him. “Screw around with?”
He shrugged. “Figure of speech. I’m saying if you’re looking for a little action, you’re out of your depth. Valerie Webb got to him first.”
EVEN IN THE UNIT, where he could usually block out external concerns, Martin couldn’t keep thoughts of Catherine from his brain. Why had he told her about Ethiopia? Fear? The consequences of letting someone get close again?
Something old has to die, Dora had said, for something new to be born.
Lost in his musings, he saw the jagged green line on Holly’s monitor go flat.
Rita, in a rocking chair at the bedside, gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth.
“It’s all right.” He reached across to silence the alarm, then reattached the monitor, which had fallen off the baby’s chest. Rita’s face had gone white. In contrast to the day before, when she’d spruced up for the TV cameras, she looked haggard and tired with dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes. “Really,” he assured her. “Just a false alarm.”
“Every time that happens, I think it’s for real.” Tears ran down her face, dripped onto her blue-and-white hospital gown. Her shoulders began to shake. “I look at her and I never know if it’s going to be the last time.”
Five minutes later, the alarm went off again. Martin glanced at the monitor. This time it was for real. The oxygen in Holly’s blood had suddenly plummeted. In a flash, a respiratory therapist unplugged her from the ventilator and began pumping oxygen into her lungs with a black rubber bag
. Without looking up, he reached for the trans-illuminator, trained its blue beam on Holly’s chest wall.
“He’s looking to see if there’s a hole.” Holly’s nurse held Rita’s hand. “One of her lungs might have collapsed. It happens sometimes.”
“Doesn’t look as though that’s the problem though.” Martin straightened up. “I think it’s the respirator. The lungs are just falling apart.”
“Should we try the oscillator?” the resident asked. “It might be easier on her.”
Martin thought about it. Western owned a couple of the state-of-the-art units, but there were side effects. He looked at the respiratory therapist.
“Your call. What do you think?”
The therapist pursed his lips. “We usually try to reserve them for kids who aren’t this bad.”
“Just for the record,” a nurse added, “They’ve got two high-risk deliveries in the L&D.”
Martin thought for a moment, drew a deep breath. “If it would help, I’d go for it, but I don’t think it’s going to work for her. She already has lung damage. Given all her other problems, I think it borders on heroics—”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a problem with that.” Eddie Hodges had arrived unnoticed and now stood across the bassinet. “This is my kid we’re talking about, and I want her to have the ossywhatsit. I don’t give a shit who else needs it.”
“The issue we’re discussing is whether it will help Holly,” Martin said. “And I don’t believe it will. I think it will cause more suffering without offering any real hope for long-term survival.”
“I want her to have it—”
“Eddie.” Rita grabbed her husband’s arm. “Listen to Dr. C. He said he doesn’t think—”
“I don’t damn well care what he thinks.” Hodges’s eyes locked on his face. “You stay out of it, Rita. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But—”
“Rita.” Eddie gave her a threatening look. “Shut the hell up, I said.”
The Doctor Delivers Page 9