Beloved Lives

by Evans, Marilyn

  “Was there some scandal at Mayo? Is that why he left?”

  “Not as far as anyone can tell.”

  “Where was he before Mayo?”

  “McGill, I think. I’m not sure.”

  “I heard it was Penn.”

  April wondered why no one had bothered to check his bio on line or in one of the journals where he was published. She suspected it might be because spreading rumors was more fun than fact checking.

  By the end of the week, April was convinced the whole “new doctor in town” thing was an elaborate hoax, and the guy didn’t actually exist. She was too busy trying to figure out what to wear for her date on Saturday to be much more than entertained by what she had come to regard as the female hospital staff's drool fest—Droolapalooza, as it were. Friday afternoon all that changed.

  Chapter 5. The Hottie Appears

  Running, eating better, all acts of virtue and clean living seemed to be helping to keep the dream at bay. It had only come back once during the week—not great, but a definite improvement. April was feeling better and beginning to look better, she hoped. An unexpected side benefit was that work was easier when she felt rested and alert. But on this beautiful Friday afternoon, April was thinking about the phone conversation from the night before as much as she was about the microscope slides she was examining.

  Mitch had called to hammer out details for their Saturday night date, like what kind of food she preferred—anything that doesn’t bite me first, she'd thought, but had said Indian. What is the best time to pick you up? Right now, she'd thought, but had said six would be great. Did she want to dosomething before or after dinner? We’ll see, she'd thought, and said, “Let’s wait and see.” The casual phone call lasted two hours.

  Something about Mitch was easy and familiar, almost comfortable except he made her stomach flutter. She was analyzing her reaction to him, comparing it to what she’d felt when she first met Sam. Sam’s debut had generated nothing like this level of excitement. Some lust, sure, but not much else.

  “There he is!” Gabby whispered harshly, as she poked April in the ribs.

  April flinched and whacked her eyes on the microscope’s oculars.

  “Ow! What?”

  Gabby, gray-haired and slightly pudgy, was probably the most experienced tech in the lab, nearing retirement age but unlikely to ever slow down. She was the go-to person if there was ever a question about a reading or a glitch in a procedure or piece of equipment, even the really new systems. April suspected this was an indication that Gabby did not have a life.

  “It’s him. Dr. Weston.”

  April spun around on her lab stool and looked in the direction Gabby was not very discreetly pointing. No denying he was tall, dark, and—if you liked that sort of squeaky clean, overly polished look—handsome. In fact, he didn’t quite look real, more like Hollywood’s idea of a doctor, wearing a creaseless, starched white lab coat and a tasteful tie perfectly knotted. From across the room it looked like there was a gold bar wrangling that tie just in case it dared to be untidy. Of course, he had the obligatory stethoscope draped around his neck like a fur stole. His watch was probably a Rolex. And was it even possible that he had a manicure on his perfect nails? April couldn't quite tell from this distance.

  She spun back around to her microscope. Although April could understand the attraction, she liked her men a little less polished and perfect, a little messier. She liked men who were more like, well, like Mitch.

  “And here are Gabby Wilcox and April Robins, two of our most experienced med techs.” Dr. Steiner, senior staff and not to be trifled with, was making the introductions.

  No way to gracefully get out of this without drawing unfavorable attention to herself, she thought. April looked up from the scope and spun around on the stool again, then stood up.

  “Ladies, this is Dr. Winston Weston, our newest cardiologist.”

  April tried not to snicker at the name, but she kept seeing her cat in a perfect tie with polish on his claws. She almost covered the snort with a cough, but she could see from the look in Weston’s eyes he wasn’t buying it. Surely, he knew he was an object of gossip and would no doubt attribute her reaction to nerves or silly girl-giggles. Instead, this guy looked really angry. April felt both embarrassed and annoyed. She sobered up quickly and put out her hand.

  “Nice to finally meet you, Dr. Weston. I’ve been hearing a lot about you.” She knew her tone was slightly insolent, but really, he was just another doctor, albeit by all accounts brilliant, rich, and, of course, really, really good looking.

  “The pleasure is mine,” he said taking her hand. He had a trace of an accent, but it was impossible to identify. His eyes were a kind of dark blue-green, like pond water. No, like water from a slow-moving river. Like the Nile.

  April's knees buckled before her vision funneled down to black spots, and she collapsed in an unconscious heap on the floor.

  Chapter 6. Wine and Pizza Cure

  “What was that about?” Judith was standing over April and looking worried. “Are you pregnant or something?”

  “No. What? What happened?” April was in the ladies’ room lounge, lying on the ugly, pink plastic sofa usually reserved for techs with cramps or migraines. “Wait a minute. Did I pass out?”

  “Apparently. Are you okay? We didn’t want to take you to the ER. I hope that was okay. Your vitals were good.”

  “No. Thanks. I do not want to be checked into the ER. The day shift phlebotomists down there are lousy at drawing blood.” April ran a hand through her hair trying to undo what she suspected was a pointy, Bart-Simpson look.

  “What was I doing?” April thought a second. “The new guy came in, I almost laughed in his face, he looked annoyed, I shook his hand…Oh, God. Everyone is going to think I swooned at his feet.”

  Judith laughed. “It did sort of look like that. I’m afraid you’ll never live this down.”

  April sat up and swung her legs to the floor. She waited a minute to assess her equilibrium. Everything seemed fine.

  “I’m going to have to leave town. No one will believe I really kind of don’t like the guy. He seems like an arrogant jerk.”

  Judith cocked an eyebrow at her. “Really? Such a hasty judgment on such short acquaintance?”

  “Yeah, yeah, the lady doth protest too much and all that, but really. I mean, the guy acted like he expected me to be all impressed.” April was slowly standing up, testing herself for aftereffects. There was nothing.

  “Well, you did drop at his feet.” She paused and then added, “Like a ton of bricks.”

  “I am so embarrassed. I have no idea what happened.”

  “He carried you in here, you know.” Judith was enjoying this much too much.

  April groaned.

  “Do you need the rest of the day off?” Judith asked. In spite of having fun at April’s expense, she appeared genuinely concerned.

  “No. I’m fine. How long was I out?” April looked in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall and tried to get her hair into some kind of order. It was now less Bart and more Lisa. Neither was a good look for her.

  “Maybe fifteen minutes. Do you have any underlying conditions that could be contributing? Low blood sugar, anything?” Judith asked as they left the lounge, heading back to the lab.

  “Not that I know of. Maybe I should run some tests.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” Judith said, as she patted April’s arm then turned toward her office.

  April went back to her slides, trying her best to ignore the other techs’ obvious whispers that went on for the rest of the day. She couldn’t wait to leave when her shift was over.

  * * *

  That evening, as soon as Trish arrived for their Friday night revelries, April told her friend about the fainting incident.

  “Okay, I know what the problem is.” Trish dug her phone out of her purse.

  She tapped in a quick text and sent it. In a matter of seconds, she had a reply. She Cheshire-cat grinned a
t April and said, “The pizza will be here in twenty minutes.”

  “You have pizza delivery on speed dial? For my address?” April asked.

  “Of course,” Trish said, then added, “oh, wait.” She tapped in more information then again waited for a confirmation. “I had to tell them the doorbell doesn’t work.”

  Trish pulled a bottle of wine out of a fabric shopping bag she had brought along. “I’m fairly certain you fainted because you are lacking certain essential nutrients that can only be found in pizza and wine. I have always said ‘health is all very well, but sometimes you can go too far’. I’m sure there is nothing wrong with you that my patented restorative won’t sort out.”

  As they waited for their pizza, they draped themselves over the sofa, wineglasses in hand, dissecting the events of their respective week. Trish was currently anticipating date number one with two different men, date number two with another, and was about to rotate someone off the roster with date three unless that final chance turned into something a lot more amazing than the last two.

  Trish’s modus operandi was to accept a date with anyone who asked her, male or female, any age—as long as they were legal—but with the stipulation that they were unattached and that included no spouses or live-ins or “understandings.” If, after three dates there was no magic, they parted ways, hopefully, on friendly terms. Trish had a lot of friends.

  When the pizza delivery girl arrived, Trish tipped generously—the girl was cute. April hadn’t dated in a long time, so her news about her long phone conversation with Mitch was especially good to share as they ingested the prescribed comestibles. The two women went on to compare notes on what a perfect date would look like. Winston, always the party animal and content to be privy to the secret conversations of females, wrapped himself around his catnip mouse and companionably blissed out under the coffee table. Well lubricated for the task at hand, Trish and April moved on to plotting the clothing and makeup logistics for the Saturday Night Date.

  “You realize,” Trish said, scanning the meager selection of April’s date-worthy outfits, “if you blow this, I’ll have to give up the class. Too awkward to keep going.”

  “Oh, thanks. No pressure.” April cocked her head. “Did you hear something?”

  “No. What did it sound like?”

  “Someone at the door. I’ve got to get that doorbell fixed.”

  When April opened her front door, she found a flower deliver man, clipboard in one hand and floral arrangement in the other. Apparently, he had been trying to ring the broken doorbell with his elbow.

  “You April Robins?” he asked, appearing to be startled by the suddenly opened door.

  “Yes,” she said warily.

  “This is for you. You’ve got to sign.”

  April signed her name on the clipboard and took the tasteful and expensive-looking arrangement. Orchids. It didn’t look like something Mitch would send. She didn't take him for an orchid sort of guy.

  She closed the door and turned to Trish, flowers in hand.

  “Is there a card?” Trish asked.

  April put the orchids on the coffee table, found the card, opened it, and read. She groaned. “It’s from Dr. Weston. Apologizing, hoping I’m okay. This is so embarrassing.”

  “I think it’s sort of classy.” Trish turned the flowers around, presumably to determine which was the best side.

  To April, all the sides looked pretty good.

  “He’s not my type,” April said, putting the card back into the envelope. “Too clean.”

  “Is he rich and good looking?”

  “Rumor has it, yes, rich. I can attest to good looking, but like I said, too clean for me.”

  “Mine, then. I call dibs. Mine, mine.”

  “All yours. I’ll be sure to introduce you at my next fainting session.” April looked at the orchids. “If you're taking him, maybe you should have these, too.”

  Trish looked at the arrangement with lust. “You sure?”

  “Yes, definitely. Seems like it would be awkward to have flowers from another guy when Mitch shows up. Besides, I don't want to have to explain why Weston sent them.”

  “You don't have to ask me twice.” Trish put the orchids next to her purse. “Okay, let's finish getting your clothes sorted out for tomorrow. Then let's drink more.”

  Chapter 7. Convergence

  In the morning, considering the quantity of wine she and Trish had drunk, April didn't feel as badly as she might deserve, in part because she had paced herself in anticipation of her impending date. She was ready to go running by midmorning. Surprisingly, Winston still seemed to be interested in exercise, as well. Apparently, April thought, catnip did not cause hangovers.

  After running and stretching, she spent a futile hour trying to avenge her boxwood by attacking the honeysuckle but had to admit it had her surrounded and outnumbered. The hated plant seemed to grow faster than her ability to rip it out by the roots. In the end, she settled for an uneasy truce and moved on to more pleasant and satisfying chores, like cleaning the cat box and scrubbing the slime out of the bottom of her refrigerator’s vegetable drawer. During her occasional breaks, she checked her e-mail for the latest cat videos from her mother.

  By six o’clock, April’s little house was clean and tidy, carpets vacuumed, furniture dusted, bathroom and kitchen scrubbed. Everything that had a home was neatly put away except for a few vagrant items she'd stuffed into closets at the last minute.

  Trish’s relentless drilling the night before assured that April could be trusted to proceed on her own without supervision, so clothes and makeup were in good order. At this same moment, Trish would be making herself amazing for her own date. April had made Trish swear she wouldn’t go near any Indian restaurants, so they wouldn’t be competitively awesome. April questioned Trish’s wisdom in continuing her usual dating routine on the cusp of taking possession of Dr. Weston as she intended, but Trish promised April there was plenty of her to go around.

  “I’m indefatigable,” Trish had declared. She even pronounced it correctly.

  At the appointed time, Winston looked expectantly at the door. April opened it, and found Mitch bending over her doorbell.

  “Hello?” April said.

  “Hi,” Mitch answered, stood up straight, kissed her on the cheek, then asked, “have you got a screwdriver? And maybe some electrical tape?”

  “Uh, maybe. Let me look. Come on in.” She went into the kitchen to dig in what her dad called the utility drawer, that magical repository for all things tool-like and useful. She touched her cheek where the kiss had landed, smiling a little as she searched.

  By the time she came back with the screwdriver and tape that could only have come from her father’s last fix-it project over a year ago, Mitch was sitting on the living room floor getting to know Winston.

  “That’s Winston. He appears to approve of you.”

  “He’s really beautiful,” Mitch said, scratching Winston’s ears while the cat contentedly drooled all over the knee of Mitch’s jeans.

  “Screwdriver and tape,” April said, handing them to Mitch.

  He took both, stood up in spite of Winston preferring Mitch stay put, and headed back out the front door. In a couple of minutes, while she watched, he disassembled, repaired, and reassembled her doorbell. He pressed the button twice, and it rang twice, satisfyingly.

  “There,” he said, stepping back and handing her the screwdriver and tape. “Ready to go?”

  “Yes, I am. Thanks for the doorbell. I’ve been meaning to get that fixed forever.”

  She went inside the house, dropped the tool and tape onto the coffee table, and grabbed her purse. As she walked out the door, she called to Winston, “No unauthorized parties,” then she locked the door and turned to smile at Mitch.

  “Walk or ride?” he asked.

  April looked around to see what the ride option might entail. Sitting in her drive was a sleek, electric-blue scooter with shiny silver letters on the side that said
“Vespa.”

  “Uh, ride, I guess,” she said, walking over and taking a turn around the little beast to get familiar. She felt as if she should offer it a sugar cube or something.

  Mitch handed her one of the helmets hanging on the handlebars. “I think that should fit you. If not, we can trade it in for one that does. Let me see what shoes you’re wearing.”

  April showed him her very new and fashionable short boots.

  “Those will do. Can’t be too careful,” he said, as he looked over her skinny jeans and long-sleeved blouse.

  He raised the seat to open the storage compartment and handed her a lightweight jacket and gloves. “You should probably wear these. Safety gear is important.”

  While Mitch locked her purse away under the seat, April slipped on the jacket, gloves, and helmet. She decided she didn’t care if her hairdo was destroyed. This was going to be fun.

  Before heading to the restaurant, Mitch took her on an exploratory tour of Kansas City’s best scenic overlooks accessible by scooter. The soft, summer air flowed over April’s skin, at least what little of it that was exposed. The wooded and shady valley of Roanoke Park was cooler than the canyons created by the buildings along the city streets that trapped the heat of the day and reflected it back all night.

  They wove their way up above the Kaw and Missouri Rivers that converged to make what in the 1800s were crossroads for settlers and traders. Stopping atop a bluff facing west, they watched the sun dropping toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and gold. As the sky began to deepen and the evening breeze began to cool the fading day, they again mounted up and made their way to April’s favorite Indian restaurant.

  While she loved the marriage of flavors in all Middle Eastern and subcontinent cooking, April was a mild-spice sort of girl, avoiding dishes with lethal hotness and asking for milder versions of ones that were traditionally extreme. Mitch, she quickly discovered, could handle the heat.

  While the food was as great as ever, the conversation was even better. At one point after borrowing a pen from the waiter, April jotted down on a paper napkin the names of three books Mitch highly recommended. Their budding acquaintance survived the disagreement over the best-ever Ebenezer Scrooge—Mitch came down on the side of George C. Scott while April voted with her dad that Alastair Sim was the hands-down winner. In the end, they decided there was room for more than one best Scrooge, taking into account that you could not fairly compare black-and-white and color versions of A Christmas Carol. By the time the gulab jaman came, they had moved on to comparing their favorite internet cat memes.