by Harry Kraus
He nodded. “You go ahead. I know my way out.”
She frowned. “Bye.”
He tipped his head forward without speaking.
She turned and walked away, leaving John at the desk, glancing back only once as she closed the door to the women’s changing area. There, she placed her ring in her locker, stripped off the bloody scrubs, and grabbed a new pair.
In a moment, she emerged again and hustled toward the emergency room, wondering what more excitement the night would hold.
Della nestled the phone against her ear and sat on a lawn chair in the backyard. The night seemed alive with an orchestra of crickets and cicadas, and the stars over the Blue Ridge were spectacular. They dotted the cloudless sky on a broad canvas behind the flicker of a thousand lightning bugs. Yes, summer nights like this were made for sipping lemonade and watching barefoot children gleefully capturing the illuminated creatures in jars with nail-punctured lids.
But there were no such gleeful voices left for Della McCall. Her children were grown, all away from the house, leaving her with a deteriorating man and a heart of remorse.
One ring. Two. Three rings. She sighed. Maybe Jimmy’s on a house call.
His phone greeting was professional, as always. “Dr. Jenkins.”
“Jimmy. It’s Della. I need your advice.”
“Hold on,” he grunted.
She could hear a TV in the background. A sporting event perhaps. Suddenly the sound increased, then disappeared altogether.
“There,” he said. “Blasted mute button is too small.” His chair squeaked. “What do you need?”
“It’s about Wally. And about Claire. Something she told me has been bugging me all day.” She hesitated.
“I’m listening.”
“Claire has come up with this idea that perhaps there is something wrong with Wally. Something other than his drinking, I mean. I’ve been worried for months that he’s got something worse, but I’m no doctor. And of course Wally’s mother is no help. She just thinks he’s fallen under the mysterious town curse.”
She heard the TV again, this time at a lower volume.
“Jimmy? Are you listening?”
“I’m listening, Della. Claire has concerns.”
“Right. Like I was saying, I’ve long thought something else might be going on with Wally, but I don’t have the medical degree like Claire does. She graduated with honors from Brighton, you know.”
“I know, Della. The town’s very proud.”
“I just wanted to ask you about a genetic disease, something she called Huntington’s disease. She told me that she saw a patient who had it, and that he looked just like Wally. I think it worried her. She called me kind of upset. She wanted to be sure that there wasn’t any history of the disease in the family.”
“She’s worried about Wally? Or worried about whether she could develop the disease?”
“Both.”
“Tell her not to worry. There’s no one in Wally’s family with this. You know the family history as well as I.”
“Well, I started thinking.” She cleared her throat.
“Thinking …” he prompted.
“Well, I just guess I started wondering if you knew of anyone in this valley with Huntington’s. I knew if anyone around here had something so strange, you’d be the one who would have seen it.”
“Della, if no one in Wally’s family had the disease, Claire doesn’t need to worry about it.”
“Jimmy, I don’t need to remind you how mixed up things can be. There are some people around here who have no idea who their real fathers are.”
She heard his breath, exhaling in a snort. “What is this conversation about, Della? We’ve dealt with our problems long ago.”
“This conversation is not about us. It’s about Wally. I just want to be absolutely sure you’ve never seen this rare disease Claire was thinking about.”
“Well, I’ve read about Huntington’s disease, but I can assure you that no one in the Apple Valley has ever had it. Besides, I’d be the last one on earth to question the matriarch of the McCall shoe family. She isn’t the type of woman to not know who fathered her own—”
“And I am?”
“I said nothing of the sort, Della. You said this conversation is not about us, remember?” His tone was biting, laced with sarcasm.
“Okay, okay,” she responded, slapping a hungry mosquito. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I had the same initial reaction, and told Claire as much. Elizabeth’s moral character is beyond reproach.” She twisted in the old lawn chair. “But still …”
“Still what.”
“I just started wondering why Wally always seemed different from the rest of the family. He’s nothing like his brother, Leon, and he never got along with his father.”
“Della, stop. Look at your own twins. They’re as different as night and day.”
She nodded and cast a glance toward the back screen door. Wally would be missing her soon.
“Okay, I’m listening. So you’ve never seen a case of Huntington’s disease in the valley.”
“Not in my career.”
“Good. I’m going to pass that along to Claire. She’s under enough pressure without adding unjustified concerns about her father.”
“Della,” he added, his voice turning serious, “I do think you should talk to Claire. Urge her to forget about genetic diseases in Wally’s family. If this continues, next she’ll be worried about her personal genetic risks. And I don’t think we want her digging in that closet, do we?”
Her reply caught in her throat. “N—no,” she stammered. “Some things are best left undisturbed.”
Chapter Twelve
The next day, Claire left the hospital with the satisfaction that grew from knowing she had done a great job and made a difference. She smiled knowing that Dr. Overby was proud of her too, telling the whole team that morning about the performance of his star tern.
She walked in the house and collapsed on the couch, ignoring the red blinking light indicating she had a phone message. She slept soundly for two hours, awaking to the rumbling sound of a school bus at three. She yawned and stretched, knowing she’d better get up or risk a fitful night of staring at the ceiling if she stayed on her couch.
In the kitchen, she found a solitary pink rose in a vase, with a note that simply said, “Love, John.” She smiled and lifted the rose to her face, inhaling the fragrance with a long breath.
She punched a button on her answering machine and began to listen, the rose still tickling her cheek.
The first message was her grandmother McCall. Her voice was tremulous, and not as strong as usual for the matriarch. She wanted to discuss some matters with Claire directly, not talk to some ridiculous machine.
The second message was her mother. Claire was not to worry about Huntington’s disease anymore. Her father certainly didn’t have it, and Dr. Jenkins had never seen a case in the Apple Valley since he’d been in practice. “Have a nice day,” her mother concluded.
Have a nice day? Come on, Mom, you sound like a grocery checker at Kroger.
Claire contemplated returning her grandmother’s call, then looked at the summer sun.
I’ve still got a few hours of late afternoon sun left. I’ll bet the beach would be less crowded now. I could get some reading done and maybe talk to Brett.
She felt a twinge of guilt for her last thought when she looked at the rose in her hand. She put down the flower and headed to her bedroom to change.
In twenty-five minutes, she was walking across the sand lugging her surgery text and a water bottle. She glanced back at the far end of the parking lot. An orange pickup occupied its usual place. She squinted toward the town houses across the street from the beach. I wonder if Brett’s around. He said he doesn’t often drive the truck.
Her thumb instinctively ran over her ring finger. She slipped the ring off and dropped it into the pocket of the shorts she wore over her swimsuit. John certainly wouldn’t want m
e to wear this at the beach. Sand couldn’t be good for it, I’m sure.
She looked at the town houses again, then turned her attention to finding a secluded spot for her towel. She had just found a spot, settled in, and closed her eyes for a short nap when a voice spoke above her head. “Hi, stranger.”
Claire looked up at Brett Daniels and smiled. “Hi. I saw your truck. I wondered if you were around.”
“My truck’s always here. I don’t usually drive it. Say, would you like to walk with me? I want to walk down to the fishing pier and see if anything’s biting.”
“Sounds like fun.”
She stood and followed him down to the firmer, wet sand near the water’s edge. There, they turned south and headed for the pier, just visible in the distance.
“How far is it?”
“A mile and a half.” He squinted. “Is that too far?”
“No.” She laughed. “I think I walked ten miles in the hospital yesterday.”
“The life of an intern.”
She nodded. As they walked, she told him about her remarkable day, about the ER thoracotomy and the excitement at saving a man’s life. She told him about the O-man’s calm demeanor explaining to Basil how to open the chest, and about the sensation of seeing the heart shocked back to life. He listened, really listened, and asked questions about how she was getting along with the attendings.
But she didn’t tell him about her new diamond ring, the news that every girl is supposed to be too exhilarated to silence.
Instead, she questioned him about his research, and laughed at his description of the fat rats they had genetically engineered to help figure out the chemical neurotransmitters responsible for our desire to eat.
“It must have been thrilling to grow up with a surgeon as a father.”
“I wouldn’t exactly describe it that way.”
She raised her eyebrows and kept silent.
They jogged to the left to keep from getting hit by a wave.
“How would you describe it?”
“Like boot camp.”
She studied his face. He looked serious. “Boot camp?”
“Up studying during high school at five every morning. And during the summer I went to private camps for gifted students to swim, hike, and learn Latin.”
“Latin?”
“I’m serious. And A’s weren’t good enough. I had to be the best.” He stretched. “Fortunately, I was.” “Right.”
“I’m not bragging, Claire. Anyone who spent as much time as I did studying would have been number one.”
“Wow. All I did at summer camp was make an acorn necklace.”
Brett laughed. When he did, his blue eyes sparkled and dimples appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“How’s the rest of the family? As brilliant as you and your father?”
“Smarter. My sister was a straight-A student at Prescot High.” He looked down and slowed his pace.
“And?”
“She developed anorexia nervosa. Went down to eighty pounds. She hated my father and hated herself. It got so bad that my parents had her committed, forced her to eat. But she became bulimic and wouldn’t keep anything down. Eventually, they tube fed her, so she ate just so they’d discharge her.” He shook his head. “She died a week later in a single-car accident.”
“Suicide?”
“My father would never say so. The official police version was accidental death. They said she fell asleep at the wheel, but I knew her best, and I say different.”
“Brett, I’m so sorry.”
“My brother Lawrence’s story isn’t much better. He’s alive, lives in California, but my father has disowned him. Tough love, he calls it. My brother’s life is art, alcohol, and cocaine. He paints during the day and parties at night.”
“So you’re the perfect child.”
He stared out at a shrimp boat rocking its way up the coast near the horizon. “Right. At least my dad’s version of it.”
“He must be very proud of you.”
Brett squinted at the sun. “He thinks the lab year was my idea for getting some extra experience so I can get my name in the literature so I can secure a professorship somewhere in academic surgery, just like he did. He has no idea how close to getting cut I really was.”
“Give yourself some slack. There were at least four others who didn’t even get lab spots, Brett.”
“There were twelve interns and three guys in the lab, all competing for second-year residency positions. Two went into orthopedics, one switched to ophthalmology, and two ditched into radiology. That left ten. They chose the eight best for clinical spots and offered Sam Kowalski and me an extra year in the lab to see if we could produce. If we look like we’re in the top eight next year, we might have a chance to get back into the pyramid. But remember, there’s a cut to five spots the third year, and four for the fourth and fifth. A spot in the second year only means more competition, a chance to survive one more year.”
“But certainly there are jobs in surgery somewhere, even if you get axed by Dr. Rogers’ pyramid.”
“A few, Claire, with emphasis on a few.” He picked up a flat shell fragment from the sand and skipped it into the surf. “If Dr. Rogers thinks you will make it as a surgeon, he will see to it that he is the one to train you. If he thinks you can’t make it and cuts you from his residency, most program directors look at you like you’re damaged goods or something. They have a lot of respect for Dr. Rogers’ opinion. They think if he doesn’t want you, they won’t either.”
She didn’t know what to say. “Great,” she muttered.
“Knowing what little I know of you, I doubt you’ll have a problem.”
“You’ll make it, too. We’ll both make it.” She hesitated, then added, “If we’re supposed to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I believe I’m not ultimately in control. God is. If he wants me to make it, I’m going to make it.”
“So perform lousy, and if God wants you in, you’re in. No sweat, is that it?”
“I didn’t say that. But do the best with the raw materials God gave you, and he makes the right doors open.”
Brett stayed quiet and seemed to quicken his pace. They had nearly reached the pier. It looked like only a few die-hard fishermen were left.
They spent a few minutes looking in the fishing buckets and asking about what was biting. The people were friendly, and a young boy missing his front teeth held up a fifteen-inch flounder for Claire to admire.
On the way back, Brett offered his advice. “If you want to make it, you’ve got to work hard. There are a few mistakes that are inexcusable. Lying is one. If you don’t know something, it won’t get you fired. If you don’t know something and you make up an answer just to impress an attending, that’s another matter altogether.”
“That would be insane.”
“Well, it happens, Claire. An intern has been working all night, and an attending asks for an X ray or a lab value. It’s pretty tempting to guess and most of the time a good intern can guess right, but if they catch you guessing, you’d better pack your bags.”
“Has anyone ever been thrown out for it?”
“Only one that I know of was two years ahead of me. He lied about a potassium value to one of the cardiac surgeons. The patient had a dysrhythmia that could have been prevented if the resident would have checked the actual value and corrected the potassium deficiency.”
“Oh, man.”
“The attending surgeon called the resident at home that night and calmly told him not to bother showing up the next day.” He shook his head. “And he had already survived two pyramid cuts. He was two months away from the fourth-year level selections.”
Claire picked up a shell. “Let’s talk about something else. I don’t want to think about the pyramid.” She looked at the water. “I love it here. The ocean was one of the main reasons I chose Lafayette.”
“Don’t tell that to Dr. Rogers. He wants to believe that eve
ryone came here to train with him.”
She tucked away the fact without replying. “Have you always liked the ocean?”
“Yep. We went to the beach every summer when I was a kid.”
“Ooh, the beach, too? Was that before or after Latin camp?”
He grinned. “Usually after.”
“I saw the ocean for the first time when I was in high school. My father couldn’t afford it, but my grandmother took me.”
They talked about their families and family vacations until they arrived back at Claire’s towel.
Brett’s forehead was glistening. The temperature was still over eighty degrees in spite of the late afternoon hour. “Care for a dip?”
Claire looked at the water, then at the jersey covering her bathing suit. “Maybe I shouldn’t. I didn’t really bring a swimming, swimming suit. I wore more of a tanning swimming suit.”
“What’s the difference?”
Claire blushed. “Believe me, there’s a difference.”
“You went in earlier.” He paused. “Uh, your hair was wet.”
“You’re right, but then I was swimming alone. Now I’m with you.”
He shrugged and headed for the surf. “I just need to cool down.”
She sat on her towel and watched him dive into a wave. He disappeared under the white surf only to reappear a brief moment later, shaking the water from his face. He walked back, his broad shoulders and chest glistening with water droplets. She didn’t want to stare. He’s gorgeous. If only he was a Christian. Claire looked down and tugged at the hem of the jersey, which had inched above her waist. What am I thinking? I’m an engaged woman.
She looked up and immediately diverted her gaze to the sand.
“Would you like to join me for supper? I’m not planning anything special. We could grill on my deck and watch the sunset.”
“Brett, that sounds so nice, but I—I really should get home. I need to crash. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“I know the feeling well.” He waved the back of his hand toward her, his fingers pointing down. “You run along. Maybe some other time.”
She smiled, then took a deep breath and forced herself to pay attention to getting into her shorts and gathering up her textbook and towel.