Could I Have This Dance?

by Harry Kraus

  Ironically, Wally and Della seemed to fare the best. Finally, they had a real reason to explain Wally’s symptoms. Even the news that his biological father was not John McCall failed to devastate him, a fact that Della thought would surely push him over the edge. In fact, after surviving his hospitalization, Wally seemed nonplused that the father that he’d been estranged from for so long before his death was not his father at all. “I knew I was different. I never felt like a McCall,” he said.

  The biggest improvement came with the beginning of an antidepressant medication, and some appropriate counseling which helped Wally to reach for something other than a whiskey bottle to cope with the stress of a body no longer able to cooperate with his mind.

  For Claire, the cloud was the beginning of a downward spiral. She had always been such an optimist, looking forward to her future in medicine with a near invincible attitude. Now, it seemed, the future carried an uncertainty that threatened her confidence and made her question the calling she had clung to for so long. And now, instead of digging deeper into her Christian faith for help, she faltered, unsure if God had really been watching. For years, she had fled from her roots, spiteful of the reputation of being the town drunk’s daughter. Now, the very roots she had pridefully ignored were back, firmly attached, creating a link which Claire would have given anything to shed. To Claire, it all seemed a huge cosmic mistake. God couldn’t possibly have given her such a strong desire to be a surgeon and infused every cell in her body with a gene that would make that dream impossible. Or could he?

  And if he had, could she trust him? How could the loving God she’d learned about in Sunday school be the same one apparently orchestrating this family disaster? And if he wasn’t in control, who was? And if he had given her the HD gene, he’d have known about it since before her birth. And since she hadn’t done anything to deserve such a terrible fate, how could he ever be considered good and loving? There could be nothing loving about a God who could predestine her to a life of suffering.

  Slowly, Claire’s image of God began to change. It had been months since she’d darkened the doorway of a church building, weeks since she’d embraced meaningful prayer. The only one she dared share her feelings with was John, and he didn’t seem to be comfortable with her doubts. Coping with the unknown was accomplished by working harder and longer hours at the Mecca. If her head was in surgery, she couldn’t be worrying about HD. She worked long hours on the vascular surgery service, memorizing patient data and ignoring “the cloud.” After a month of vascular surgery, she rotated onto surgical oncology, where she poured every spare moment into memorizing cancer staging and treatment protocols. So her internship standing seemed strong. Her secret was intact. And her spiritual life was a joke.

  It was a Friday evening after a long week on the oncology service when she spoke to her fiance by phone.

  Claire thoughtlessly stirred the pan of instant macaroni and cheese and balanced the phone against her ear. When John mentioned getting a test for HD, she pushed the pan to the back burner and began to pace. “John, we’ve talked about this before. I’m not ready for any test. I’d rather not know than know I’m going to get HD.”

  “It’s not just for you, Claire. I think I have a right to know.”

  “You do?”

  “I’m going to be your husband. I should know.”

  “I don’t want to know the future if the future is bad.”

  “It may not be bad, Claire. We have to know, so we can plan.”

  “I’m afraid to know. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Claire, you just can’t go through life with this thing hanging over your head. It affects you. You’ve let it change you. Why don’t you just get tested so we can put this thing to rest?”

  “Because I’m not ready to face a future with Huntington’s disease. The thought of ending up like my father terrifies me.”

  “But you might not have the gene.”

  “Right. And I don’t want to know if I do.”

  “So what do you do? Just pretend it’s not there?”

  “Maybe. For the most part, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. Fortunately, I love my job, and there’s practically an endless number of hours I can spend doing it. So I work and try not to think about HD.”

  “You can’t live life that way. It’s running you. Someday you’re going to need to get tested, so you can forget this, or learn what it means to leave it in God’s hands and trust.”

  “I cant.”

  “You can’t get tested?”

  Claire paused. “Look, Cerelli. You’ve always been the laid-back one. Take life as it comes and don’t worry about the what-ifs, remember? So why is it you’re the one who suddenly has to know? Why aren’t you sitting back and trusting just like you’re preaching to—”

  “I’m not preaching—”

  “And I’m not trusting!” Her voice ended in a sob.

  “Claire, I—”

  She inhaled sharply, rhythmically, in a gasp, a sucking sound stopped only by her hand over her mouth. She’d never verbalized it before. But it was pretty obvious by her anxiety. She wasn’t trusting God, wasn’t even sure if she thought he was trustworthy anymore.

  “How can I trust him?” she cried. “I feel so betrayed.”

  “Regardless of your feelings, God still loves you. Even if he allows you to get HD, that doesn’t change anything.”

  “I hear the words with my brain, John, but unfortunately, my emotions can’t seem to comprehend. All I’ve wanted to do, what I thought God wanted me to do, is in jeopardy. Having HD means giving up everything I’ve worked so hard for. How could God do this to me?”

  “Claire, God is not ‘doing this to you.’”

  “It feels like it. It sure doesn’t feel like love.” Her eyes began to sting.

  “Remember back at Brighton, we talked about the problem of pain with Pastor George. You wanted answers for your patients. What did he say?”

  Anger welled up as a bitter gall in her throat. She hadn’t intended on dumping it all out on John, but he asked for it. “Yesterday I saw a thirty-six-year-old with inoperable pancreatic cancer. He was holding his Bible, so I smiled and told him I was a Christian, but even while I said it, I felt like such a hypocrite. He looked at me and asked me why he had to suffer.” She halted. “I didn’t know what to say. I know all the pat theological answers,” she snapped before continuing in a mocking tone, “‘God’s ways are not our ways.’ ‘In all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.’”

  “That’s true, Cl—”

  “Well, what if I don’t love him? What if I’m not called?”

  “Claire, uh, honey, uh—”

  “What if he’s getting me back for abandoning my family when my father was sick?”

  “He doesn’t work like that. It’s not tit for tat. Evil touches the righteous and unrighteous. It’s part of the Fall.”

  Claire didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want theological arguments. She wanted to cry on John’s shoulder. She fought the urge to hang up. She took a deep breath and counted, trying to slow her racing heart. When she reached ten, she responded, “All of the things we studied seem shallow when you’re the one facing pain.”

  John stayed quiet. She’d unloaded things that she’d never had the nerve to express, the quiet doubts that people in pain are too afraid to confess.

  Finally John sighed and cleared his throat. “So what did you tell your patient?”

  “I put on my sweetest Sunday school smile and I said I’d pray. Then I practically ran out of there to a call room for a good cry. I felt so plastic. All of my practiced theological answers fell short when I looked at the pictures of his children on his hospital tray table.”

  “We don’t understand it, but God allows evil to touch us to accomplish his purposes. He even allowed evil to touch his only Son, so why should he—”

  “John! Stop!” Claire felt like screaming. Inste
ad, she restrained her voice and took a deep breath. “My patient didn’t want theology. He needed someone to hold his hand.”

  “But there are answers, Claire. The Bible—”

  “There is a time for theological analysis, answers to the why questions, but, unfortunately, everyone affected by pain experiences it emotionally. All the intellectual arguments in the world do nothing to ease the initial emotional upheaval.”

  “Come on, honey, it’s got to be an encouragement to know that all things work together for good.” John raised his voice. “You can’t make a mockery of the Bible.”

  “I’m just telling you how I feel. And I’ve started looking at all my pat answers, and once I was the one facing the trouble, they all seemed a little silly.”

  “So now you think the Bible is silly?”

  Claire sighed. “I didn’t say that. I just said all my pat answers, my favorite verses, seemed too silly to speak to someone who has three months to live and will never see his children grow up.”

  “You didn’t say that. You were talking about yourself.”

  “Me, my patient, whatever! That’s what I meant.”

  She shook her head. She and John had rarely raised their voices to each other. This didn’t feel good. The phone had a way of making everything more difficult. She wanted to see his face, to see his emotions, and be seen. To only hear the tension in John’s voice added to Claire’s frustration.

  She fought the urge to cry. “I’d rather not argue, John. But I don’t have anyone else to dump this on.”

  “Claire, I’m concerned. I don’t like how this is getting to you. You’ve always been such an optimist, so open and full of faith.”

  Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “What can I say? I’m sorry? I haven’t ever been in these circumstances before.”

  He paused for a moment, then continued with his voice sober. “I’ve never heard you question God’s love.”

  “Well, now you have.”

  “Claire!”

  “Look, I’m sorry if that upsets you, but I’m just being honest.”

  “And I want you to be, it’s just—”

  “Just what? If I can’t share my feelings with you, where will I go?”

  “I want to know how you feel. It’s just that I want the old Claire back. The one that swept me off my feet, the one who couldn’t stop talking about how great our future was going to be.”

  Claire sniffed. “I want the old Claire back too.” She looked back in the kitchen, and then at her watch. “I should let you go. It’s getting late. Let’s talk about this some other time.”

  She could hear him exhale into the phone. She had frustrated him. She wanted his arms around her. She didn’t like the telephone at all. “Okay,” he responded, his voice near a whisper.

  “I love you, Cerelli. Good night.”

  “Night, Claire.”

  She listened for more. He always said “I love you” when they ended a phone conversation. Always.

  But not this time. After a click, the line went dead.

  The next morning Della followed Dr. Jenkins’ nurse back down the hallway to his private office. She opened the door and pointed to a chair. “The doctor will be here in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, Greta,” Della responded, trying desperately to maintain an air of nonchalance in spite of the knot of anxiety in her abdomen. “I’ll just read a magazine.”

  She sat in the cluttered office and stared at the desk. She wondered when the last time was that anyone saw the color of the wood underneath the stacks of charts, magazines, and mail. After a moment, Jimmy appeared and shut the door behind him. Della didn’t stand. She merely lifted her eyes and offered him a nod. “Morning, Jimmy.”

  He frowned and spoke softly. “I’m sorry about Wally.”

  “I guess news around Stoney Creek travels fast.”

  “You knew this one would get around. That neurologist from Brighton has asked for my records on a half dozen of my patients.” He ran his hands through his graying hair. “Claire sure has opened a can of worms.”

  Della nodded. “I want you to talk to Clay.”

  He raised his eyebrows and walked around his desk. He sat on the edge of his chair, partially hidden by a large stack of medical periodicals, and unwrapped a peppermint candy. “What for?” He popped the mint into his mouth.

  “I want you to convince him to get genetic testing for HD.”

  He clicked the mint against his front teeth. “He doesn’t need to worry, Claire.”

  “He doesn’t know that.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. They are bound to find out things he won’t want to know.”

  “I don’t think so. Besides, that kind of information has to be kept quiet.”

  “But they have to look closely to do a mapping study for a specific gene. That has to be expensive, and I’ll bet they do a paternity screen first, just to be sure the test is necessary.”

  “You don’t really know that, do you?” She crossed her legs. “I think you’re bluffing.”

  “And I don’t think you or I really want to know.” He stood and came around the desk, pushed aside a stack of charts, and leaned against the desk directly in front of her. He looked down at her and spoke again. “Why in heaven’s name would you want to bring this all up again?”

  “Jimmy, Clay is falling apart. He won’t listen to me. Claire seems too preoccupied to talk to him. And he definitely won’t listen to Wally. I hoped that maybe he’d listen to you. He’s always looked up to you.” She was tempted to add “God only knows why” but thought the better of it and shut up.

  “Convincing Clay to have a genetic test isn’t the answer. It’s expensive, he’s at low risk, and he—”

  “Jimmy, he isn’t able to handle being at risk for HD. Yesterday, he drank himself silly and climbed to the top of the water tower on Adam Hill Road. He made it all the way to the top before a county deputy arrived. It took him an hour to talk Clay into coming down. He sat up there swearing like a sailor, threatened to jump, then broke down and cried like a baby.” She reached out and took Jimmy’s hand. “I’m afraid for my son. He’s got to know the truth. He’s convinced he’s destined to end up like Wally. He doesn’t even see the value of the test.”

  “He’s acting like Wally.” He smirked. “Drunk in public. A chip off the old block, I’d say.”

  Della quelled the urge to slap him. She dropped his hand and tried a different tactic. “Jimmy. I’m afraid for our son.”

  Jimmy’s eyes darted to the closed door. “Don’t say that, Della. You don’t really know.”

  “Stop playing games, Jimmy. Maybe it’s time I threw this secret into the town’s rumor mill myself.”

  He blanched. “You wouldn’t! We decided a long time ago that this wouldn’t do anyone any good. If people found this out, my reputation would—”

  “Who cares? I care about helping my son.” She stood up. “In fact, maybe I should just tell Clay myself. I don’t guess he’d go spreading it around.” She shrugged. “Not that I have much of a reputation to protect anyway, being the wife of a drunk!”

  “Della!”

  She stepped toward the door. He grabbed her arm. “Don’t do this. Think it through.”

  She pulled free. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help Clay.”

  “And do you think Elizabeth is going to let the McCall money slip into the hands of anyone who isn’t really her blood at all?”

  “I don’t care about money. I care about saving my son.” She locked eyes with her former lover and fought back the tears. Tears were to be plan three, if her bravado failed.

  He exhaled sharply. “Okay,” he replied, shifting his eyes to the floor.

  “Okay, what?”

  “I’ll talk to him. I’ll try to convince him to go to Brighton. Maybe talking to the genetics counselor will do him some good.”

  Della took a deep breath. A deep, cleansing breath. “Thanks.” She took a step to the door and pulled it open before spea
king again. “I had a feeling this would come back to haunt me.”

  With that, she let herself out, walking down the hall, then out through the waiting room crowded with people. She recognized Mrs. Miller, Amy Johnson, Keith Summers and his boy, Jake. Barb Grable and Bonnie Bratton were holding their new babies. Glen Atkins, one of Apple Valley’s oldest fiddle players, hacked into a Kleenex, sounding all the world like he had a death rattle. Linwood Weaver sat next to the door and tipped his hat as she passed. For once in her life, she wished she wasn’t so recognizable.

  “Morning, Mr. Weaver,” she spoke softly as she passed.

  “How’s Wally?”

  He’s going downhill fast. He can’t seem to control his legs. I need to find a wheelchair with some good Velcro straps to hold him in. He choked on breakfast. Again.

  She forced a smile, then looked away before her eyes could betray her.

  “Fine.”

  You can’t hide your troubles in a small town.

  Claire hurried through her daily notes, turning her attention on the twenty-two cancer patients on the oncology service. The service was made up of mainly postoperative patients, people who’d been operated on for breast, colon, esophageal, pancreatic, and thyroid cancers. Each one had a different story to tell, and Claire spent hours listening to their tears, rejoicing with their small triumphs, and encouraging them in the battles they waged together. It helped to focus on someone else’s problems. It helped her keep perspective, and kept her from being overwhelmed by her own circumstances.