by Harry Kraus
“Really?”
“Sure. If you trust me, let me have it, and I’ll take it in tomorrow.”
She shrugged. “Sure,” she said, twisting off the ring. She put it in a little velvet box that she kept in her desk drawer. “Here.” She dropped the box in his hand and looked away. “I should let you go.”
“Are you afraid to stay by yourself?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sleeping here alone. I’m going back to the hospital to a call room.”
He shook his head. “Don’t do that, Claire. That means you’ll be there three nights in a row.”
“I can’t stay here. That creep might be watching me. He said so.”
“That was probably just a threat to scare you.” He paused and shuffled his feet. “I’d be glad to stay.”
She lifted her eyebrows and stared up at his tanned face. “I can’t expect you to do that.”
“I did it before. I’ll take the couch.” He smiled. “I’ll behave myself.” He motioned his head toward the stairs. “You need to get some sleep. I ran into Drew this afternoon. He told me about your night.”
She nodded. “You know what they say. ‘Never let the sun come up on a bowel obstruction without an operation.'” She walked to the hall closet and retrieved two blankets and a pillow.
She watched Brett’s eyes light up.
“I guess I’m invited?”
She laughed nervously. “To sleep on the couch.”
He spread out the blankets and threw the pillow at one end of the couch. “Where’s your Sabiston?”
She pointed to her desk. “Need to study?”
“I need something to help put me to sleep.” He hoisted the heavy book into his hands. He looked up at Claire and responded soberly, still weighing the book in his hands. “You know, I love this stuff.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s crazy, the life we put up with, but … I really love this.”
She nodded. “I know exactly how you feel.” She started up the steps. “Thanks for staying. I’m going to be leaving at six in the morning. Feel free to sleep as long as you want. There’s an extra house key in the top drawer of the desk. You can use it to lock the dead bolt when you leave.”
“Don’t I get breakfast in bed for protecting you?”
“You can have what I’m having. Coffee. Strong. With French vanilla creamer if it hasn’t spoiled in the fridge.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Sounds great. If you need me, I’m right here,” he added, opening the surgery text.
“Good night, Brett.” She climbed the old stairway and shook her head. Just when I’m in a panic, Brett shows up. God, are you trying to tell me something?
Chapter Thirty-Three
The next evening, John Cerelli’s flight into Brighton was delayed an hour because of heavy rain. When he finally arrived home, the odor of stale pizza greeted him. He flipped on the light and grumbled to himself about his roomie. He grabbed a can of Pepsi from the refrigerator and listened to his phone messages. The third one grabbed his attention.
It was Claire, and she sounded distressed. Frightened, maybe? Her voice carried an urgency and cracked with a sob. “John, this is Claire. I need you to answer. We need to talk.”
He whispered a quick prayer. Claire had been so upset by the news about her father. She probably just needed an ear.
The news about HD was taking its toll on John as well. The visit to Stoney Creek to meet Claire’s parents had been an eye-opening experience. Since his visit, John had spent hours searching out everything he could find about Huntington’s disease. He had bookmarked at least six different Internet sites so that he could get his hands on helpful resources for himself, and for Claire.
He wanted Claire to be tested for the HD gene. He wanted to know so he could be prepared. But life with HD looked like certain agony, so he understood how years of waiting for the disease to strike could ruin what good years a person might have, if the person at risk tested positive. In the end, he would have to let Claire make the decision. He wanted to marry her anyway. He felt certain of that. He was willing to pay any price to have Claire as his bride, even if he was only to have her at his side for a few good years.
He’d started keeping in contact with Della. Talking with her, seeing her strength in the face of having to care for Wally, gave John hope that he too could summon the fortitude to care for Claire if she had the Huntington’s gene. In fact, knowing the diagnosis seemed to bring Della to a new calm. Finally, she had a name for the problems she’d been facing. Finally, there was a reason. The enemy had a name. It wasn’t her husband. The enemy was acting through him. The enemy was Huntington’s disease.
John dialed Claire’s number and stuck his head in the refrigerator. The only thing he found was a half-empty can of Spaghettios. He sighed and shut the door.
After ten rings, he checked the calendar. Of course, it was an even day. Claire was in the hospital tonight.
He called Della to see if she’d talked to Claire. She hadn’t, and sounded more upbeat than the last time he’d talked to her. She was excited that an insurance man had stopped by, and when she told him about Wally, he promised to look into a policy that could cover nursing home costs in the future. “He was such a nice man,” Della proclaimed. “He seemed so interested in everything about our family.”
“That’s great,” John responded. He said good-bye and promised to call again if he heard from Claire.
He walked to the den and pushed a pizza box away so he could plop on the couch. He felt helpless. It had been too long since he’d seen Claire. He hadn’t even seen her face-to-face since she’d gotten the news about Wally’s diagnosis, the news that seemed to be beating Claire down and pulling them apart. She needed him. How could he help her from so far away?
He prayed again and made a sudden decision to leave for Lafayette in the morning. His boss wouldn’t mind. John had a few extra days coming to him anyway, and he’d just signed on the biggest clinic in Baltimore to use their software. If his boss wouldn’t let him go, he’d tell him to take a hike. Claire was more important than any job.
He felt excitement rise within him. The decision seemed right. He would get an early start, take a thermos of coffee, maybe pack a few snacks, and take the tape series on the book of Galatians that Pastor George had been teaching. It would be a long drive, but if he left early enough, he’d be able to take Claire to dinner.
He smiled to himself. He would surprise his fiancée tomorrow.
The next day, John Cerelli spent the lonely hours on the road in a quiet search of his own soul. His relationship with Claire had blossomed in such a wonderful way when they were together back in Brighton. Now the miles between them were straining their commitment. Her absence from him made his heart ache. All he could think about, all he could dream about, was being with her again.
He’d never been a great communicator. That much he knew well. But writing and phoning were definitely not his forte. He wanted to tell her how he felt. He longed to unload his emotions, but he seemed to clam up and freeze whenever he had to speak into the phone. His father said that it was a “man-thing,” that the same thing happened to him. “Go see her,” he constantly urged. “Let her see you face-to-face.”
John hoped a face-to-face encounter would help, but memories of his last visit to Lafayette seemed to haunt him as the miles on the way to Lafayette went by. Life as a surgical intern made a normal relationship impossible. The last time he visited, he spent more time waiting to see Claire than actually seeing her. This time, he was committed to staying longer, at least through the weekend.
While he drove, he imagined his own relationship report card. He gave himself a “C” for communication, an “A” for compatibility, and a big fat “F” for their physical relationship. He’d satisfied his own lust, and came away feeling as if he’d forced Claire into a compromise she’d regret forever. Sex was supposed to be such a wonderful blessing to a married couple, and now it had become a point of contention. He cringed at the memo
ry. Oh, it had been fun, but it had come at an expensive price. Now he wondered if their honeymoon could ever be what he’d always dreamed it would be. He’d ruined the excitement for himself, and stolen something from Claire that she’d never be able to give again. He was supposed to be the leader, and lead her he had, right down the wrong path. And even when he’d come to realize how wrong he had been, he’d counted on Claire to be the strong one. During his last visit, he’d forced her to be the strong one. It was only because Claire had said no that he hadn’t tripped up again. This time, he promised himself, he’d talk it out with Claire, apologize for the way he’d treated her, and start again with a clean slate.
So, as the hours passed, John Cerelli repented. And then repented again, just to be sure he meant it. He felt better and reminded himself of God’s grace. He chugged a Pepsi and burped loudly. Why not? He was alone, and God didn’t care.
He stopped for lunch at McDonald’s and lowered the top to his Mustang. The sun was shining. His past was forgiven, and he was going to see his girlfriend. Nothing could be finer.
During the last hours, he listened to Pastor George on tape, chugged two more colas, and ate a bag of Cheetos. Life was good.
He stopped twenty minutes south of Lafayette to freshen up at a rest area. He changed his shirt and brushed the Cheetos from his teeth. He stopped again in Lafayette to find a florist and bought a bouquet of pink roses, Claire’s favorite. He arrived at her house at six, prepared to wait for Claire’s return. As he pulled up, he noticed an orange pickup in the driveway. He didn’t see Claire’s Toyota, but smiled to see a light on in the front room.
He knocked on the front door. Claire was going to freak!
A man pulled open the door. He was tall, an inch or two above John, tan, and blond. John stared for a moment at his muscular build before speaking. “Uh, I’m here to see Claire.”
The man shook his head. “She’s not home.” The man stood in the open doorway, but didn’t seem to want to move aside.
“Well, uh, mind if I come in and wait? I guess she’ll be here in a few minutes, right?”
“Hard to say. Interns lead a strange life.” The man moved aside an inch and allowed John to squeeze in. The smell of grilling red meat greeted him. In the kitchen, John could see a table set with two plates and candles.
John felt suddenly awkward. He looked at the flowers in his hand and at the preparations under way in the kitchen. John extended his hand. “John Cerelli.”
“Brett Daniels.”
John squinted at Brett. “Do you mind telling me what you’re doing at Claire’s?”
He shrugged. “What’s it look like? I’m preparing dinner.”
“Where’s Claire?”
“Hospital.”
“How did you get in?”
“With my key.”
“You’re staying here?”
“Well, not all the time. Just when Claire asks me.” Brett eyed the flowers. “Who are you?”
“John Cer—” John blushed. “Er, I already told you that. I’m Claire’s fiancé. She’s wearing my diamond.”
The tanned occupant nodded, but didn’t smile. “Oh, sure, the diamond. Nice ring. I’ve admired it.” He lifted his eyebrows. “She keeps it around here somewhere, I think.” He walked over to the desk and picked up a velvet box. He popped it open and held it up to John. “This the one?”
John hung his head. “That’s the one.”
“Say, if you don’t mind me asking, I don’t recall Claire mentioning that she expected you tonight.”
John gritted his teeth. “It was a surprise.”
Brett smiled. “Quite.”
John eyed the kitchen again. He looked closer. A wine bottle was chilling in a small cooler beside the table. Maybe this guy was just using Claire’s kitchen to entertain a friend. “You expecting a guest for dinner?”
“Just me and Claire.”
“Claire left me a phone message. She said she needed to talk to me. She sounded so upset.” He shook his head as a knot began to form in his stomach.
“Look, I don’t want to be out of place here, but I’ve made plans here, and maybe you should have called ahead. If Claire said she needed to talk, maybe you should have tried just that. It looks like you guys have plenty to talk about.”
John looked around the room, incredulous. He’d driven all day to surprise his fiancée, and instead, he’d stepped into a nightmare. This didn’t seem real. It was as if he’d set foot in the wrong house. But the stuff in the room looked like Claire’s. He recognized her furniture, her desk, her Sabiston’s textbook. He looked back at Brett. This is unbelievable. Maybe this is why Claire was crying. She needed to tell me about her new love.
He shook his head and stared at the ring box on the desk. He thought for a moment about taking it with him, but decided it might appear tacky.
Brett prodded. “Look, pal, it’s going to be awkward if Claire shows up. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you, but …”
John didn’t let him finish. He dropped the flowers on the desk and bolted through the door.
He couldn’t think. His mind was blank. With his heart exploding, he stumbled back to his Mustang and found himself driving through Lafayette, taking a right here, a left there. He didn’t care where he ended up. He just knew he had to drive. He was on automatic. This situation was unthinkable. Claire and John had been inseparable just a few months ago. She’d accepted his ring. And now his world had come to an end.
He passed a strip mall with a grocery store, went through two intersections, then turned right again beside a rescue squad building with a sign out front: “We save lives with donations.” John muttered the words without comprehension. Then, on the left, he saw a familiar marker for the interstate system.
In another minute he was back on the highway heading south. He put the Mustang on cruise so he could prop himself up to get his head into the wind above the windshield. His eyes stung, instantly blurring with tears.
He shook his hair and opened his mouth to pray, but as he spoke, the wind seemed to tear the words from his mouth and scatter them silently behind him, unseen and unanswered.
So much for surprising his fiancée. He dropped back onto the seat and pounded the steering wheel, unsure if he still had a fiancée anymore at all. He drove numbly, unaware of anything except the agony of his soul. Slowly, his thinking turned from shock to sorrow to self-condemnation.
Surgery had stolen his fiancée away, weakening her with long hours away from support. Huntington’s disease had made her doubt God’s love, and John hadn’t been there to hold her.
He turned on the headlights as the sun sank beyond the horizon and dusk settled upon his soul. And, in the darkness, he began to weep, wondering if he would ever feel Claire’s love again.
Claire wasn’t in a hurry to be home. At six, she left the oncology service to Pepper and headed to the grocery store. Because she loathed the idea of another dinner of mac and cheese, she loaded her cart with microwavable dinner entrées and boxes of fiber-laden breakfast cereal. She paused briefly at a display of cutlery, staring at a large meat cleaver, and wondered if keeping it on her nightstand might make it easier to sleep alone. She shook off the idea. A handgun would be better. It wouldn’t be so messy. She shivered at the thought of actually taking a hack at someone with a meat cleaver.
As she loaded her purchases into her car, she caught a glimpse of a passing red Mustang convertible. Just like John’s. Man, what I wouldn’t give to have him with me again. The thought filled her with longing and intensified her feeling of isolation.
She drove home trying to decide between linguini with beef and mushrooms and vegetarian lasagna. Once on her quiet street, she saw a familiar sight. An old orange truck was parked in her spot. She smiled and pulled to a stop at the curb. Brett must have used the key she’d left him.
She opened the door and surveyed the scene. Her den was immaculate, her desktop uncluttered, and a delicious aroma beckoned her toward the kitchen. Bre
tt stood in the middle of the front room and immediately relieved her of the burden of her grocery bags.
“Allow me, Dr. McCall,” he responded.
Her eyes widened as she walked without speaking toward the kitchen. Candles were in place, wine was chilling, and pink roses adorned the center of her small table. Her favorite roses!
She spun around and locked her eyes on Brett, who stood behind her, his arms laden with groceries. He wore a white shirt, a stark contrast to his tan. It had no collar, and buttoned up the front, and was open across his chest. A small nautical insignia on his shirt matched the one on his blue jeans. His hair was ruffled, and he smiled with a boyish grin. She didn’t know what to say.
“I—I—,” she stammered. “What’s the meaning—”
“Don’t read anything into this,” he interrupted. “I knew you needed a lift. That’s all.” He set the bags on the counter and busied himself with putting away her purchases.
With that accomplished, he uncorked the wine, poured a glass, and led her to the couch. “Here,” he instructed. “Prop your feet up. Dinner will be served momentarily.” He handed her the glass. He pointed a finger at her nose and snapped, “Relax!”
She took a deep breath and sipped from the goblet, while Brett retreated toward the kitchen, still pointing at her like a stern high school instructor. She lifted her feet to the couch and slipped off her shoes, allowing them to drop to the floor with a thud. She wiggled her liberated toes and yawned. She listened to his final preparations in the next room while she sipped the wine and closed her eyes. In a few minutes, with her head already a bit fuzzy, she rose in curiosity to view her host. She watched as he tossed a green salad and pulled steaming biscuits from the oven.
“Scratch?”
He laughed. “I’m good, but not that good.” He lit the candles and turned off the overhead kitchen light. He refilled her wine glass and pulled out a chair. “Here, Dr. McCall, dinner is served.”