The Doctor Delivers

by Janice Macdonald

  “It’s what I’ve been told.”

  “But do you agree?”

  “I suppose so.”

  The detective looked at him. “What does that mean exactly?”

  Tempted to give him a demonstration, Martin thought better of it. He stared at the desktop, looked up at the detective. “It means yes, I lose my temper easily.”

  The detective made a note. “Now, Dr. Connaughton, you were opposed to surgery for this child, right?”

  “I was.”

  “To the point that you actually erased Grossman’s name from the surgery schedule.”

  “I did.”

  “And your professional relationship with Dr. Grossman? How would you describe it?”

  “You’ve already asked that. Twice.”

  “I’m asking again.”

  “We’re not exactly a mutual admiration society.”

  “You dislike him?”

  “You could say that.”

  “According to Dr. Grossman, you became so irate about the prospect of surgery for this patient that you knocked him out of his chair. Do you recall that incident?”

  “I do.”

  “You told a TV reporter, in relation to this case, that you believe death is preferable to questionable treatment. Do you recall saying something like that?”

  “I may have. I don’t know that it necessarily related to this case.”

  The phone on the desk rang again. The detective motioned to it. “Why don’t you go ahead and answer it, Doctor? Maybe it’s important.” Martin shrugged and picked up the phone. Hanrahan, the hospital’s lawyer. Martin hung up, stood and walked around to where the detective sat. “We’re going to have to wrap this up. I’ve been advised not to say anything more to you without an attorney present.”

  The detective put away his notebook. “Well, thanks for your trouble, Dr. Connaughton.” He got to his feet. “What’s your accent?”

  “Irish.”

  “Are you an American citizen?”

  “No.” Martin sipped some lukewarm coffee from a disposable cup. “I’m here on a permanent visa. I have a green card.”

  “Not thinking about taking any trips back to the old country in the foreseeable future, are you?”

  Martin shrugged.

  The detective gave him an assessing look. “Well, I wouldn’t plan any if I were you. I’d strongly advise you to stick around for a while.”

  After the detective left, Martin slumped down behind his desk and tried to bring some order to his thoughts, which, like events of the past twenty-four hours, spun wildly out of control. The phone rang, he picked it up immediately, hoping it might be Catherine. Instead it was Hanrahan’s secretary calling to change the time of their appointment later that day.

  AFTER THE MEETING with Hanrahan, Martin headed for the NICU. Glancing around the lobby to make sure there were no camera crews lurking nearby, he punched the elevator button for the sixth floor. In the same instant, he realized that he had no reason to be in the NICU. His rotation was over. Holly was dead.

  The reality hit him as though for the first time, leaving him feeling newly bereft. He let the elevator go and stood in the brightly lit lobby, stared unseeing into the gift shop’s plate-glass windows. He leaned against the wall of the telephone enclosure, questions hurtling around in his brain.

  On a whim, he dialed directory assistance and got the number and address of an Edward Hodges in North Long Beach. His hand hovered over the receiver, then he changed his mind.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside a small stucco house in a side street off Atlantic Boulevard. A chain-link fence surrounded the small weed-choked front yard. More weeds sprouted in the concrete walkway and along cracks in the three concrete steps leading to the front door. After turning off the ignition, he sat staring through the rain-spattered windshield. A couple of teenagers in black clothes walked by, heads shaven, smoking, shoulders hunched against the cool night air. A dog barked somewhere. In the gutters, trash made sodden by the rain, glimmered under the streetlights.

  When the windshield began to fog, Martin got out and knocked at the front door. While he waited, he took a step backward, peering at a window to his right. Light from a TV screen glowed through the drapes. From inside, he heard movement, then the door opened slightly against a chain.

  A face peered through the opening. Eyes widened. Then the door was closed for a moment and flung open.

  Rita’s face was gaunt and pallid. Her eyes had an empty, distant look. Her shapeless gray sweatshirt and faded jeans hung like rags on her thin frame. She started to speak, and then her face seemed to collapse.

  He put his arms around her. There weren’t any words, he thought. Nothing meaningful to say. He held her, felt her tears against his skin. Comforting her and feeling somehow comforted himself. Rita’s grief seemed close to his own. Grief for Holly, for the child who might have been. They stood together until her sobbing subsided and she pulled away.

  “D’you want some coffee?” She dabbed at her eyes with wadded tissues. “A soda or something?”

  He shook his head and sat down at one end of a battered orange couch, which, with a matching recliner, a TV and an aluminum Christmas tree winking blue lights in one corner, constituted the living-room furnishings. The air in the room was heavy with stale cigarette smoke and lingering cooking odors. A tortoiseshell cat snaked against Martin’s legs.

  Rita sat down on the opposite end of the couch. “The other kids are with my folks,” she said. “Eddie’s out.” She twisted the tissue in her hands. “He’s taking this real badly.”

  Martin refrained from comment. The TV was showing a Christmas special. Actors in biblical costumes warbled “Away in a Manger.” He stared at it, suddenly, inexplicably, at a loss for words. He’d counseled enough bereaved parents through the grieving process. He knew the stages. Knew how the anger often surprised them. “It’s like you’ve prepared a big celebration,” he’d sometimes tell them, “and the guest of honor just turns around and leaves. Naturally, you’d feel hurt and rejected. You’d probably be angry, too.” He’d never felt facile or glib, but now, struggling with his own emotions, the words he’d so easily uttered seemed empty and meaningless. Not much more than a greeting card sentiment.

  “I loved her…” Rita sat on the edge of the sofa now, knees together, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. “She was so tiny, but she knew me. When I played that little music box for her… ‘You Are My Sunshine.’ She was, you know. I’ll never hear that song again without…” Her voice broke, and she started to cry again.

  Caught up in her emotions, Martin looked away.

  “She was so brave. All she went through…” Rita got up from the couch, took a box of tissues from the top of the TV and blew her nose. “All I wanted was what was best for her. But it was so hard. One minute I’d be watching her little face, the way it kind of crumpled up like she was really hurting, and I’d think no, she shouldn’t go through any more. Then the next minute I’d think well, maybe she deserves the chance—”

  “I’m sorry if I made things more difficult. I wanted what was best for her, too.”

  “I know you did. You were just doing what you thought was right. I understand. She’s better off where she is now, I know that.”

  He looked at her, wondered for a moment whether she thought he had murdered her baby as an act of compassion and was now offering him her forgiveness. As he struggled momentarily for words, Rita put her hand on his arm.

  “I wanted to call you this morning, but, well, Eddie was here and everything. Anyway, what I was saying was, I was standing there, looking at Holly and all of a sudden, it was like she was trying to tell me something. For a minute, I didn’t believe it, but I swear, Dr. C., it was like she was saying, ‘No more.”’

  Martin saw the far-off look in her eyes and felt a sudden chill.

  She cleared her throat and for a few moments stared silently at the TV. “I leaned over and kissed her and told her I loved her an
d…” She stopped, held a tissue against her mouth for a moment. “There was this little soft blanket. It was folded up into a small square. I just held it over her face. She looked so peaceful after, Dr. C….”

  He heard the words a moment before they actually registered and he felt his body tense. Rita, he was dimly aware, was still talking. Words and tears flowing unquenched.

  “I wanted to talk to someone, but everyone was so busy. They were short-staffed, so Holly’s nurse had to go help with a delivery. Then there was all this commotion down at the other end of the nursery.”

  She began to cry again, and Martin moved next to her and took her hand. A pulse above his right eye began to twitch as the realization of what she’d told him sank in.

  “I still think it was right, what I did,” she said, more composed now. “It’s just that afterward, I got kind of scared like I’d done something bad. Do you think it was bad, Dr. C.?”

  “I think you did it because you loved Holly.” Martin chose his words carefully. “You wanted what you thought was best for her.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

  “Rita, who else knows about this?”

  “No one.”

  “Not even Eddie?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Eddie’s one reason I did it. I couldn’t fight him anymore. He was so dead set on Holly having the surgery, and it wasn’t right for her. You always said that, Dr. C.”

  Martin said nothing.

  “Then Dr. Grossman was calling me a bad mother and saying if I loved her I’d want her to have the operation. I just couldn’t deal with them anymore.”

  “Why did you tell me, Rita?”

  “I knew you’d understand. I mean, you felt the same way as me.” She paused. “And I guess because I’ve always trusted you. It’s like, well, you were the one there right at the beginning, you know? I just…wanted you to know. I don’t know what’s going to happen now though.”

  Elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, Martin pondered this latest reality. Outside, a car door slammed. Rita jumped up from the couch as though she’d been shot.

  “It’s Eddie!” Her eyes went wide with fear. “Please don’t tell him, Dr. C.”

  As she ran to open the front door, Martin got up from the couch. Eddie Hodges wore tight blue jeans, a heavy flannel shirt over a red T-shirt and cowboy boots. From across the room, Martin smelled the alcohol on the other man’s breath.

  Eddie’s face froze. “Want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

  “I came to see Rita.”

  “Yeah?” Hodges took a step forward. “Well, you’ve seen her. Now get out.”

  “Eddie.” Rita reached to touch his arm. “Dr. C. was just—”

  “Stay the hell out of this, Rita, okay?” Hodges kept his eyes on Martin’s face. “If she’d had the surgery in the first place, like Dr. Grossman wanted, none of this shit would have happened.”

  “Right then.” Martin turned to Rita. “I should go. If there’s anything I can do, you know how to get in touch with me.” He started for the door.

  “Don’t you ignore me.” Hodges grabbed Martin’s sleeve. “You know something? I never trusted you from goddamn day one.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.” He jerked his arm free from Hodges’s grasp.

  “You and your goddamn negative attitude. They’re goin’ to get you for this, you know that? I hope you rot in jail.” He balled his knuckles into a menacing fist, brought it up to Martin’s face. “Baby killer, I ought to beat the crap out of you.”

  Adrenaline pumping, Martin felt his own fists clench. While a swift blow to Hodges’s jaw would get rid of a lot of tension, Rita’s frightened face behind Eddie’s shoulders persuaded him that two men brawling on her front doorstep was the last thing she needed. It took every bit of willpower he could muster to walk away.

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, elbows on the bar, head in his hands, Martin sat in the Long Beach Marina Jolly Roger, trying with a couple of beers to achieve what a punch in Hodges’s face might have accomplished. Light glimmered off liquor bottles lined up on glass shelves along the bar. Behind them, through the plate-glass windows, he could see the masts bobbing in the black water. In the distance, amber streetlights glimmered like jewels in the night sky.

  Life was a bit like navigating in unfamiliar waters, he thought. You make a mistake, don’t realize it but keep going along until suddenly you realize your whole direction has changed. He’d done that, gone off course somewhere. He’d thought he was acting in Holly’s best interests. He still did. But now Holly was dead. By her mother’s hand. Was he partly to blame? Had he confused Rita to the point that she’d felt compelled to do what she had done?

  He thought of Rita’s surviving babies still in the hospital, of her older kids with the grandmother. He pulled out the detective’s card, looked at it, drank some more beer. Images of Catherine in her little house. Her children. Peter and Julie with Catherine. Smiling. He’d wanted to see himself as part of the picture and for a while it almost came into focus. Almost, but not quite.

  He got up from the bar stool, dropped some money on the counter and started for the door. Still holding the detective’s card in his right hand, he wondered whether he should wait till the morning to call.

  “YOU’RE NOT EVEN READY.” Darcy, in a pale blue track-suit stood at the front door and jogged in place. “Weren’t we supposed to run this morning?”

  “We were.” Catherine, still wearing a robe and slippers, held a coffee cup in both hands and shivered in the early-morning air. “I’ve been up half the night though, it was after four before I got to sleep.”

  Darcy followed her into the kitchen. “Martin?”

  “I’m scared to death for him. Grossman and his cronies would be thrilled to see him take the rap for Holly’s death, and I’m terrified they might succeed.”

  “You haven’t spoken to him?”

  “Not since he dropped me off. I don’t even know where he is. There was no answer when I called him at the boat and he’s not at the hospital, but his rotation is over, so that’s not too surprising.” She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was six-thirty. “I thought I’d wait until seven and try calling him again. If he’s not there, I’ll go by the boat.”

  “You don’t think the police maybe picked him up?”

  “It’s possible, I guess.” Her stomach tensed at the thought. “But I think Derek would have called me. He’d probably want to put out some kind of press announcement.” As she raised the coffee cup to her mouth, the phone rang. Startled, she splashed coffee down her robe, but caught the phone on the second ring. It was Derek.

  “Catherine, is Connaughton there with you?”

  “No.” Her fingers gripped the receiver. “I’ve been trying to reach him. What’s going on?”

  “After the police got his statement,” Derek told her, “he just took off. He didn’t show up at the hospital today and there’s no answer at his home number. You probably haven’t heard, the media only just found out… The mother did it. She broke down last night and confessed to the detectives. Called them herself. Her other kids have been placed in protective custody.”

  “Rita did it?” Engulfed by an overwhelming mixture of sadness and relief, she couldn’t speak for a moment. “What will happen to her?”

  “There’s a lot of sympathy out there for her. My guess is they’ll plead temporary insanity. That whole postpartum-blues thing. Hanrahan thinks she’ll get off with a light sentence, or even probation.”

  “Does Martin know?”

  “He has to. Everybody has been leaving messages for him. Jordan is falling all over himself to make amends. Listen, it’s crazy time around here again. Eddie Hodges is holding a news conference at ten to announce that he’s divorcing Rita. One of the nurses said she saw him this morning all dressed in black. Total sleazebag. Administration wants us to distance ourselves from him. Anyway, we need to plan some kind of press update, put a release on the wires. E
very reporter in town wants to speak to Connaughton. I know you’re supposed to be off for a few days, but if you could come in, I’d appreciate it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “I DON’T KNOW WHAT Martin said to the detective, but my guess is that after Rita told him she’d killed the baby, he got it into his head that he had to take the rap for her.” Tim Graham shifted on the bar stool, glanced around Mulligan’s smoky interior. They’d walked over there at six, after Catherine got off work. “He probably figured he’d rather go to jail himself than see a mother with kids put away—especially if he’s convinced himself that he was somehow to blame. Like I said, it’s a guess, but knowing Martin—”

  “As much as anyone knows him.”

  “True.” He looked at her. “Hell, what am I thinking? I’m sure you know him better than I do. Doesn’t that seem like a likely scenario?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded slowly. “And then when Rita confessed to the detectives, he probably felt there was nothing else he could do. At that point the whole thing was just too painful to deal with and he…” She paused, felt Tim watching her.

  “He what?”

  “I don’t know.” She stared down at her hands on the wooden bar. “Disappeared behind the wall.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Just a figure of speech.” Around them, she heard lilting accents that tore at something inside. As she listened, hearing sounds rather than content, an idea slowly emerged, fragile and tentative as a springtime shoot. For the moment, she couldn’t look at it too closely. Later, she decided.

  Graham drank some beer. “You’re pretty serious about him, aren’t you?”

  “I guess you could say that.” She gave a wry laugh. “It’s kind of strange. My whole life, I’ve thought of myself as this needy person. Always dependent on someone else.” A lighted bar sign flickered its message in red then green. Behind her two men talked football. “So what do I do? Fall in love with someone who actually needs me.”

  “But can’t ask for help.”

  Surprised, she turned to him. “That’s how you see him, too? I thought maybe it was just my own interpretation.”