Attending Physician

  “Yes,” my voice was small.

  “Good. Check your calendar. When are you through tonight?”

  “Wednesday’s usually an early day.” I scrolled down. “Five,” I said.

  “And will you be home at five or elsewhere?”

  “Elsewhere.”

  “How fast can you get home?”

  “It should take me no more than fifteen minutes.” I’d be near Harvard Square.

  “And how long will it take you to change into your dinner date clothes from yesterday?”

  “No more than fifteen minutes.” I liked the way she grilled me. To take care of my needs.

  “So ... five to quarter past. Then let’s give you thirty minutes to get upstairs, shower, do whatever else and get dressed. May I call for you at six?”

  I gulped. “Yeees, but ....”

  “Yes, but what, baby?”

  “Raven, is it possible you’ll be paged again tonight?”

  She laughed, a bark of a laugh. “Managing your expectations?” she asked. “No,” she said definitively. “I’ve taken care of that. Someone else is doing my call tonight.” She allowed a slight pause. “Did you think I’d leave you as a destitute and despairing Juliet forever, milady? Never.”

  “I hoped not, good sir, but yes, I was managing my expectations. I’ll admit it. I’ve spent too much time as Juliet, truth be told. I’d like to spend more time as a fulfilled and beloved leading lady.”

  She was quiet. “Fulfilled and beloved, did you say? I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you,” I said sweetly.

  “Have a magical day, baby. I’ll see you at six, and think about you till then.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” I sent her a heartfelt promise. “See you at six ....” It was hard to hang up. I wanted to listen to her breathe.

  “Bye, baby,” she said softly. And made the decision for me.

  I had to scamper for real or else I’d open the door to my apprentices in a towel, not to mention my patients. Yow. It’s a good thing I’m one of those femmes who can get dressed STAT. It’s an art, believe me, and not every one of us can do it.

  Chapter 11

  Sara and Mickey are true delight for me. There’s nothing like students who are totally engaged with their chosen profession and are eager to excel. I thoroughly enjoy them. So much that we ordered lunch and spent an extra hour together before we had to go off to our afternoon groups.

  Part way through our sandwiches, Sara gave me an appraising eye and said, “Verity, something’s different about you today.”

  Mickey agreed. “I noticed it, too,” she said to Sara.

  I blushed.

  “Come on, out with it,” Mickey pushed.

  I was aching to tell someone. “I met someone, I think,” I admitted, blushing even more.

  Sara asked, “You think?”

  “You don’t know?” from Mickey.

  “Okay, yes, I met someone. It’s brand new. I met her this weekend.”

  “Ooooh, how?”

  I laughed. “Delivering a baby.”

  Their astonishment made them cartoon characters. Finally Sara asked, “You delivered a baby?”

  “No, she did,” I said. “Well, Rosie did. The woman I met was the OB.”

  “Oooooh, a doctah!” crooned nice Jewish girl Sara.

  “A doctah for a doctah!” added Mickey.

  “Uh, there’s a teaching moment here ....”

  They groaned, but listened attentively as I explained breaking the rules for Rosie so as to be present for Nate’s birth.

  “That’s so cool,” breathed Sara.

  “It is,” I agreed. “Have you ever seen a birth?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Well, it’s way more than cool. Even if it’s a Caesarian.”

  “Especially with a hot butch OB,” Mickey teased me. She was a rather hot butch herself, too young for me. “When are you seeing her?”

  “Tonight,” I grinned.

  “Ooooh, a date!” said Sara.

  “Exactly,” I said. “A real date.”

  “She’s coming to pick you up.” Mickey made a statement.

  “She is.”

  She added, “And she’s already sent you flowers ....”

  “Very observant. You are correct.”

  “Good form,” Mickey explained to Sara.

  Sara smacked Mickey’s arm. “For straight boys, too,” she admonished.

  “Girls,” I said. “We need to go.”

  “I’ll drive,” Mickey offered.

  “And bring me lickety-quickety home? I have to get home, shower, and change for my date.”

  “Naturally,” said Mickey.

  So off we went to Harvard for one on-campus group session, and then we’d go to the exclusive in-patient program for another. And my afternoon would be complete. I resolutely put my thoughts—honestly, longing—for Raven to one side.

  Whilst we were in the car on the way to Cambridge, my phone rang.

  A dulcet baritone greeted my ear, “Hey, baby.”

  Oh my God. I dissolved in the front seat of Mickey’s Honda. “Hey,” I beamed.

  “It’s her,” Mickey mouthed to Sara in the backseat via the rearview mirror.

  “How’s your day?”

  “Um,” I said.

  “I called to say something particular,” Raven went on.

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “Yes, I wanted you to know that I am missing your beauty at this point in my day. I need a picture of you.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “There’s someone there,” she deduced.

  “Yes,” I said, “but, regardless, that’s nice to hear. Perhaps that might be arranged later?”

  “Count on it, baby. I’ll see you later.”

  “You will,” I agreed ringing off.

  “She missed you,” teased Mickey.

  “No,” I said. “She called to say she missed my beauty.”

  “Oooh, so romantic,” cooed Sara.

  “Indeed,” I agreed. “Indeed it is.”

  Finally by tea time, I’d had it with being challenged by this one particular young psychiatrist, who had no intention of practicing psychotherapy but instead planned to be a psycho-pharmacologist, one of those docs who handed out ‘scrips for a living. His name was Martin Seligman.

  “Dr. Seligman,” I said, in front of the whole group, “is there a problem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do you have a problem with me? If you do, you need to state that problem directly, and to me, rather than acting out as you have been this afternoon.”

  He had no idea what to do with such a direct challenge. He spluttered, and stuttered, and stammered, generally hemmed, hawed, and said nothing.

  “Dr. Seligman, speak now or clean up your act. I tire of you challenging me on every case.”

  “You tire of me?”

  “I said I was tired of your constant challenging of my casework. At the risk of stating the obvious, I am the supervisor for this group, not you. And while I understand that you have an M.D. from Harvard Medical School, I have twenty more years of experience, so that, in and of itself, makes me worth heeding.”

  He began to get angry, and then he tried to hide it, which made it worse.

  I held my ground. I’d had enough of his shenanigans. In fact, plenty. It had been going on, to one degree or another, for the whole semester. We were a month in and the last drop day loomed. He wouldn’t want to drop the class; he needed it for his licensure.

  “Unless you can cooperate and contribute to this group, I suggest you drop the supervision.”

  “No, no, Dr. Spencer, I don’t want to drop the class.”

  “I didn’t think so,” I responded. “So do you think you can participate without constantly challenging me or my methods? Your behavior is disrupting the group.”

  `Well, I am sorry ...,” he started sarcastically, “but I fail to see ....”

  “Yes, that�
��s exactly it,” I interrupted. “You fail to see. You are unaware of how your behavior is affecting the group dynamic. You are disruptive. You are rude, and I am unwilling to tolerate it any more. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, perfectly,” he clipped.

  “Good. Feel free to go to the dean and complain, as you no doubt will.”

  He blanched.

  I pivoted to the rest of the group and carried on explaining one of the patients we’d seen. For too much of my life, I’d let particular types run slipshod over me, and that stopped when I divorced Shelby. Martin Seligman, M.D. had no allowance to do the same.

  We finished the afternoon. The groups had gone well as they usually did, save the Seligman glitch. Mickey whisked me home, bussed my cheek with a well-wish for a grand time that night, and left me off at my front door, calling, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

  I flew up the stairs, practically tearing my clothes off as I went, tossed my hair up in a butterfly clip, and tore into the shower. Raven had planned for me to have thirty minutes to get ready. I wanted to be done in twenty so I’d have a few to meditate and chill out after the confrontation with the naughty-boy doctor, and to handle the butterflies in my belly that had taken on gale force.

  Chapter 12

  Six on the dot. I swear. I buzzed her up, opened the front door, and there she stood.

  She took my breath away.

  “Hey, beautiful lady,” she opened softly, taking me in head to toe.

  “Hey,” I blushed. Again. I had a feeling it would be the first of many that night.

  Raven took that one step forward and enfolded me in her arms. One hand lifted my chin and she kissed me on both cheeks, and then, ever so delicately, like she’d done at the hospital, on the mouth.

  “That’s an art,” I said holding her eyes.

  “What?” she gazed at mine.

  “Kissing a femme without ruining her lipstick,” I explained. “And using some kind of butch magic,” I added wonderingly, “to make her feel thoroughly kissed.”

  She grinned down at me. “I have lots of hidden talents, milady.”

  “Unquestionably you do,” I gave her Prim.

  “But you won’t be learning them all tonight,” she said.

  “No?” “No,” she hung her head sadly. “You’re not the kind of girl who sleeps with a butch on a first date no matter how much you like her. Even I know that.”

  “Good,” I said truthfully, pacified. We were negotiating the end of the evening before it began. “I’m so glad we understand one another.”

  “About the lipstick, milady?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, so you know ..., there exist only two viable approaches.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” she reminded me of a teenage boy, “delicate like the one I opted for tonight or go mad and kiss it all off.”

  “I see.”

  “Otherwise,” she explained earnestly, “everybody involved ends up resembling a clown.”

  I laughed. She was dead right. I’d never heard it articulated quite that way. Come to think of it, there’s a third way, but I decided to keep that one to myself for the nonce.

  “Well done, darling,” I said lightly, “and good to know you understand.”

  “Your steed awaits, milady. Do you need a coat?” I moved toward my studio to get my coat when she stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Tell me where it is, baby.”

  “In the studio closet,” I said. “A black raincoat with a pleated hood.” It had been one of the best gifts Shelby had given me.

  “I’ll get it,” she said.

  Ohhh, I thought. Is she that kind of butch or are these date manners? Oooh, I hope she’s that kind of butch.

  Raven had stood quietly behind me holding my raincoat as I mused. Finally, she said, “Baby?”

  I snapped out of it, and let her wrap me in my coat. She gave me a hug then she spun me around as I buttoned it.

  “Gorgeous,” she said. “You’re like a movie star in that coat.”

  She nailed it because I felt like a movie star in the coat and had since the first time I’d put it on. People stopped me in stores and asked where I’d gotten it, it was that yummy.

  “Thank you,” I said, another blush rising.

  “You’re very sweet when you blush, you know.” I didn’t say anything. I had a double blush at that point, which is: a blush over an already extant blush. She offered me her arm. “Shall we?”

  You know how you just know stuff, sometimes? At the precise second she opened the front door of my flat, I knew Chérie, her cherry red Mustang, would be centered out front, that she’d walk me around her, check for traffic, open the door and put me in the car, tuck my coat in, then go around and take her place behind the wheel.

  It went exactly as my intuition had known it would. My femme self purred.

  By the time she got in on her side, I’d started to smirk.

  “What’s amusing?”

  “Do you know about Flash?”

  “You mean, `It doesn’t look open to me-e’?” she laughed. “I do.”

  “I was thinking of dear Flash, and how you put her to shame.”

  “Aw.”

  One of my secret pleasures is watching a hot butch drive. It might not be the case for every femme but for this one, it’s how a butch handles power. Horsepower, yes, but the way a butch drives (and most of them love to) says a lot if one knows how to read the signals.

  She put her arm over the top of my bucket seat to check the hill as she pulled out onto my one-way street. I shivered.

  “Cold?” she asked.

  “Um, no,” I glanced over at her. Then, as if I did this every day of my life, I reached over the center gear shift console and placed my French-manicured hand on her leg. It grounded me instantly, and I stopped shivering.

  She didn’t say anything but her eyebrows hit her hairline, or close.

  “Okay?” I asked.

  “More than okay,” her voice was husky.

  “Good,” so was mine.

  The silence in the car was easy. That’s rare.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I asked.

  “No. Don’t you like surprises?”

  “I do. I prefer good ones.”

  “Oh, this’ll be good,” she promised.

  We drove on local streets toward, I thought, Davis Square, which we zipped through and right-turned on Mass Ave, as it’s known in Boston, cruising the main drag of Arlington. Raven parallel-parked Chérie effortlessly.

  Then she leaned over and kissed my cheek lingeringly.

  “I’m going to miss you,” she sighed.

  “Miss me? I’ll be right in front of you.”

  “I know. That’s the problem.”

  “Problem?”

  “Yeah, I want to be touching you constantly.”

  “Ah.” I understood her dilemma. When I wasn’t touching her, I was shaking in her presence. I leaned toward her and put my cheek against hers. Then I whispered, “Not to worry, darling. I play a mean game of footsie.” She chuckled. “Besides, it’s a Wednesday night and we’re early. Maybe they’ll give us a four-top and we can sit kittycorner.”

  “So smart,” she admired me.

  “Yes, well, that’s true. It’s gotten me into trouble my whole life,” I said.

  “Being smart?”

  “Well, not so much that as opening my mouth because I’m smart.”

  “Oh, I see. A smart mouth.”

  “You might could say that. Why just today I told off a Harvard M.D. in my supervision because I didn’t like his attitude.”

  She chuckled. “Punch pause, baby. I want to hear the rest but let’s go in, shall we?”

  I waited as she came around to hand me out. My cells sang with gladness at how she treated me.

  “Thank you, darling,” I said smiling at her.

  Her arm snaked around my waist as we walked the few yards to Tango, the Argentinian steakhouse. I’d always wan
ted to go there. Perfect for a first date. And a good surprise.

  Chapter 13

  We got lucky. Not only did they give us a four-top but they understood that we needed to be on our own, and put us in the front window where only two tables resided. They were not close to one another, and no one sat at the other one. We were, ostensibly, alone.

  I watched Raven from under my eyelashes. She was gorgeous. Hot, like Rosie had said, and she totally, but totally, blew my skirt up. I went into a sort of mental review over her hands—prompted by the driving which she, of course, did masterfully (how else?). I’d seen those hands perform surgery and deliver a baby. Both highly unusual. I’d had the sensation of those hands in my hair, around my waist, on my cheek. Then I wondered what else those hands might do.

  I totally spaced as I read the menu so that when she said, “What do you fancy, milady?” I was completely tongue-tied, and I’d done it to myself.

  “N-no idea,” I stammered. “I got lost in you for a minute.”

  Raven had eyes like a hawk. “I know how that feels,” she said softly. She didn’t mean getting lost in herself. “Would you like me to order for you?”

  I melted. Right there. Into a puddle. At her feet. Or wherever else she wanted me.

  “Would you? Please?” I breathed, my eyes huge.

  “Gladly, milady.”

  I put down the menu. She asked me a few discerning questions and managed the garçon when he arrived.

  When he left, I asked, “How did you know not to order me a drink?”

  “I don’t know. I did though.”

  The waiter bowed with a glass of red wine for her. “I might have a sip of yours if you’ll let me,” I said.

  She offered me the glass.

  “With my dinner. Thanks.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Do you quote the Dread Pirate Roberts, sirrah?”

  “I do,” she burred. I chuckled. “So, telling off the Harvard M.D?”

  My eyes flashed. “Oooh, he pissed me off,” I began.

  “Milady! Such language.”

  “It’s the only language that will suffice,” I tossed at her. “You see, there’s something about M.D.s—most particularly psychiatrists—and even more particularly, psychiatrists from Harvard Medical School. They graduate with something extra.”