by Elaine Fox
“So, have you been watching?” Michael asked after her whispered “hello.”
“What? Now?” She sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and wrapped the phone cord around her finger. She really needed to get a cordless phone so she could sit in the living room. She felt as if she never sat in the living room, and it was her favorite room. The one Jack was so proud of.
“No. Destiny’s Children. You have been watching, haven’t you? Sybill’s passing her baby off as Ruark’s, and they just got married on Friday. Isn’t that great? Just like you and Jim!” He cackled merrily on the other end of the line.
Delaney let his laughter dwindle, then said, “Except that Jim doesn’t exist and Jack thinks Sybill’s a selfish bitch.”
“Who’s Jack?” Michael asked.
“Who’s Jack?” she repeated, incredulous.
“Oh, your Jack.” He laughed again, sheepishly this time. “Jeez, sorry, Dee. I thought you meant someone on the show.”
“No, Jack. Or maybe I should say my Drake.”
“Jack watches too? God, is this a great show or what?”
She heard him shift the phone from one ear to the other.
“Are you in bed?” she asked.
“Yeah. Late night, last night. So Jack watches too, huh? That’s great.”
“No, his mother watches it and tells him about it. And apparently they both think Sybill’s a selfish bitch for what she’s doing.”
Michael was silent, then, “So what?”
“So he therefore thinks I’m a selfish bitch for what I’m doing.” She sighed and slumped down in the seat, pulling her hair back from her face with one hand.
“Except he doesn’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know, but still…” She hesitated. And she wasn’t going to tell him, so what difference did it make? “I bought a lot of stuff this weekend, want to hear about it?”
“Oh yeah. This was the visit with Ru—, uh, I mean Jim.”
“Ha. Ha. Don’t you dare start calling him Ruark, or I’m liable to have to make up some lame story about Jim having two middle names.”
“Sorry. What did you buy?”
She rattled off the list: a large-screen TV with a universal remote; a huge stereo system and a rack of compact discs; some socks, sweatshirts, pajamas, and robe; shaving cream, razors, aftershave and cologne; and frames for her medical-journal photos of Jim Poole.
“Then I stopped at this thrift shop and found a gorgeous Burberry’s raincoat that I thought would look great on the hall coatrack. And it does. It’s fabulous.”
“Burberry’s? In Boston? You’d think you’d only find L L Bean or something,” Michael said.
“Yeah, but Burberry’s is better, since Jim’s from D.C. And then I went to Cambridge and picked up a tiny little Harvard tee shirt for Emily,” she told Michael. “Jim, you know, graduated from Harvard Law.”
“So, you’re expecting the guy to be riffling through your closets looking for clues, huh?”
“No, of course not. I don’t think he’d do that. But if he does, I’m ready for him.”
Michael laughed. “Sounds like it was fun.”
“It was, in a way.” She ran her fingernail over a sticky spot on the kitchen table. “I loved going through the men’s departments at Filene’s and Nordstrom, picking out ties and suits, looking at the money clips and cuff links, the leather slippers and travel bags. Who knew men’s departments had so much cool stuff?”
“So how much did you spend?” he asked.
She sighed. “Too much. And not enough.” She hesitated, debating whether to talk to Michael about her volatile feelings.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, reading her mind as he so often did. Why could she never find a guy who could read her like Michael did? Why did it take a gay man to give her that feeling of being truly loved for herself, and cared about?
“The problem is I started imagining all that male paraphernalia strewn about my house. Coins on my dresser, razor stubble in my sink, athletic socks on my floor.”
“Sounds like a nightmare,” he said. “Sounds like your nightmare.”
She laughed and felt disappointment sting the backs of her eyes. “I know. But the more I shopped the more I got into the idea of it, of having this wonderful man to shop for, of living with all of these things as part of some idyllic kind of life.”
She paused and sniffed, mortified to be getting so watery.
“I mean it was ridiculous,” she continued. “It wouldn’t have happened if the damn men’s department hadn’t been so full of stuff that men would never buy for themselves. They were definitely catering to the women in those men’s lives. I mean, there were these gorgeous, classic suits that you never see outside the fashion magazines. And overcoats and bankers’ umbrellas, boxer shorts and tee shirts and sweater vests and collar stays. I kept imagining this man in my house with excellent taste and a closet full of thick woolly sweaters that would look great on a fall day with his dark blond hair.”
“Tell me you didn’t buy all that stuff, Delaney.”
“Of course not. Mostly I just walked around picking it out, as if he might come and find me in the store at any moment. It was sick. I’m sick.”
She didn’t add that she had gone on from the department store to discover that her “husband” was partial to biographies, which she picked up a couple of, and that he couldn’t live without a barbecue grill she’d seen at Sears, so they were shipping it to her.
“Then,” she added, and here she had to laugh, “I decided that had he been real and really shopping with me, he definitely would have insisted that I get something for myself too.”
“Oh no, here we go. And what was left for you to buy?”
“I got myself a pearl ring. It’s beautiful, so simple and charming. He knows just what I like.”
“This is getting scary.”
She laughed. “Tell me about it. But then, as I was returning to Filene’s to check out the home furnishings department, I realized something.”
“That you were losing your mind?”
“Yes. You laugh but that’s exactly how I felt. All around me, in advertising for the store and posters and stuff, were pictures of men with women who were supposed to be their wives, with kids who were supposed to be their children, with other couples who were supposed to be their friends. And standing there, alone in the middle of this incredibly bright mall, I started crying.”
“Oh, honey.”
“I mean, how pathetic have I become? I’m pretending to be married. Pretending to have a life that includes all the stuff I just bought. I’m setting myself up with all the props for a happy marriage, and I’m missing the main ingredient.” She trapped a tear from the corner of one eye on a knuckle and wiped it on her pant leg.
“The leading man.”
“I mean it, I thought I’d hit rock bottom when I found out I was pregnant from a one-night stand, but this was different. This was deliberate.”
Now she was perpetrating a charade so contemptible, living a lie so incredible, it was worse than the circumstances she was trying to make up for.
“Don’t tell me you returned all that stuff.”
She laid her head in one hand, her elbow on the table. “God, no. Are you kidding? I kept it, if for no other reason than that it would have taken forever to take back.”
“That’s my girl,” Michael said. “And besides, you need a decent-sized TV to watch Destiny’s Children on.”
“No,” she said adamantly, shaking her head. “I’m through watching that stupid show. All it does is depress me.”
“Are you kidding? Watching a woman get away with exactly what you’re doing depresses you? You should be studying Sybill’s every move. The hell with Jack, the woman’s a genius.”
Chapter 12
In Delaney’s fantasies, she always imagined herself the first to arrive at her small-town country clinic. She would mount the steps on some sparkling summer morning, breathe in the fresh salt-sea ai
r, pull from her pocket the reassuring cluster of keys to her sanctuary, and open the door to her own oasis of healing.
In reality, however, Nurse Knecht arrived at some ungodly hour seen only by fishermen and drunks, and staked out the oasis ready to defend its shores with ever-present scowl and scathing tongue.
So it wasn’t her ideal, Delaney thought as she pulled her Toyota in next to Nurse Knecht’s big brown Oldsmobile. But she wasn’t one to despair of a situation just because it wasn’t picture-perfect. After all, she could still smell the sea air, admire the clear blue morning, and ensconce herself in her office until the first needy patient arrived.
This morning, however, the first needy patient was already there.
“Got an abdominal pain in exam one,” Nurse Knecht tonelessly informed her as she pushed through the door. “And a postnatal exam at eight-thirty. Kathy Blevins’s boy.”
So much for ensconcing herself in her office, Delaney thought, wishing she’d stopped for coffee on the way in.
“Is the abdominal pain an appointment?”
“Walk-in.” Nurse Knecht scowled. “Been here forty-five minutes.”
Delaney stopped on her way back to her office. “Forty-five minutes! Why didn’t you call me?”
“You were coming in anyway. He could wait.”
Delaney gaped at her. Nurse Knecht returned the look with a stony obstinacy.
“Next time,” Delaney said deliberately, “call me. I can come in early if someone’s in pain.”
Nurse Knecht nodded once, then repeated, “He could wait.”
Delaney dropped her bag in her office, wondering if she could possibly hire a different nurse without upsetting the whole town, and made her way straight to exam room one.
She was pulling on her white lab coat as she opened the door, grabbing the chart with one hand and shrugging into the jacket with the other, when she glanced at the name. Her eyes shot to the examining table when both evidences hit her at once. There, sitting on the end of the table in a paper gown, was Jack Shepard.
He looked as shocked to see her as she was to see him.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “hello, Jack.”
In fascination she watched as he flushed to the roots of his hair. “Hi,” he managed, looking past her as she shut the door behind her.
“I apologize for your having to wait,” she said, busying herself with the chart. “I didn’t know you were here. I’ve told Nurse Knecht to call me next time someone comes in early.”
He cleared his throat. “No, it’s okay.”
She opened the chart and sat down on the rolling stool, schooling her face to professional composure. Her heart hammered, and her hands threatened to sweat, but she felt that this was an opportunity. Maybe dealing with him as a patient, and thinking of him as a patient in the future, might help her stay poised around him whenever she saw him.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked, looking at his chart. It was remarkably short for someone who’d lived here nearly his whole life and undoubtedly had seen Dr. Jacobson for the last ten or fifteen years. Jack was a healthy guy, aside from a sprain here or a tetanus shot there. She felt glad for Emily’s sake.
When Jack didn’t answer she looked up.
He swallowed hard and glanced at the door. “I, uh, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but…” He rubbed the side of his neck nervously with one palm. “I thought I was going to see Doc Jacobson.”
Delaney smiled calmly. He wasn’t the first person to say such a thing. It was natural to distrust a new doctor, and she found it quaint that Jack was no different than the children and little old ladies she’d had to comfort before him.
“It’s true, he does usually take Monday morning appointments,” she said. “But Dr. Jacobson decided to take a long weekend.”
Jack’s eyes flashed to the door again and then down to his paper gown. His hands gripped his knees as if holding the gown in place for dear life.
“He’s fly-fishing, I believe,” she added.
She knew what he was feeling, the unfamiliarity of having to trust someone you know in one capacity with fulfilling another capacity entirely.
“Jack,” she said gently, “I know our relationship is an odd one, but I am a professional. I’ve treated people before that I knew much better than I know you.”
The moment her words sank in to her own mind a blush crept up her cheeks. She knew they were both thinking of that one night when their hands, lips, and bodies had gotten to know each other quite well.
Which wasn’t what she’d meant. That is, she hadn’t meant she’d known people even more intimately, though of course she had, in the context of a relationship but…oh hell.
“What I mean to say is,” she added, rising and turning her back on him to retrieve the thermometer off the counter, “you can trust that I am well qualified and impartial, and anything that goes on in this office will remain completely confidential.”
Jack sighed heavily. “Delaney—or should I call you Dr. Poole, now that we’re in your office?”
She turned and sat back down on the stool. “Whichever you’re more comfortable with.”
“I don’t mean to insult you—I really don’t—but I really think it would be better if I waited for Doc.” He started to push off the table, but the gown moved too and he grabbed at it, sliding awkwardly to his feet, his hands clutching the paper hem.
Delaney did her best not to notice the generous length of thigh the gown exposed.
“Listen, if you’re uncomfortable, I’m certainly not going to make you stay, but are you sure you want to wait? Dr. Jacobson won’t be back until Wednesday.”
Jack faced her as he edged toward his pile of clothes on the plastic chair near the scale. “It’s all right. It’s better now. It’s just a little—aghh.” He doubled over, arms folded across his lower body as if someone had just kicked him in the groin.
Delaney shot to her feet and took him by the shoulders. “Jack, come here.” Her voice was firm and he moved back toward the examining table. “Now, I understand your concerns, but you’re obviously in pain. You’ve got to let me help you. What does it feel like? Where exactly is the pain?”
He sat back up on the table, his breath coming back to him as the pain seemed to subside. His face was beet red, and a fine sheen of perspiration lined his forehead.
“It’s this shooting, searing pain—agh, God—” He gasped.
“Where?” Delaney asked, pushing him gently back onto the table until he lay completely prone. His hands covered an area very near his groin. “Here?” she asked, touching his hands.
He closed his eyes, exhaling. “Yeah. Jesus.” He took a deep breath and exhaled again. “It’s going away again. Thank God.”
She slowly moved his hands, her fingers exploring the area with infinite softness.
“Sometimes it starts higher. Sometimes it’s lower than that.”
She glanced up at his face, but he was looking at the wall. She could tell from his ear he was still blushing. The sight of it gave her the same tender feeling she’d had when he’d told her about his boyhood knitting. She smiled slightly and looked back at her hands.
Which is when she noticed the unmistakable rise in the paper gown below the area her fingers explored.
I’m in hell, Jack thought. Pure, unadulterated, mortifying hell.
The pain had disappeared again just in time for him to become aware of Delaney’s hands. He lay for a moment willing his arousal away, then sat up as abruptly as he could manage in the revealing paper gown. If he could just get home, he could probably last another two days.
“Look, this isn’t good. I—I’ll just wait until Wednesday. Really, how much worse can it get?”
His question was answered immediately by another stab of pain. He tried to conceal it but couldn’t, and ended up leaning over his own knees with a guttural moan.
“Jack, lie back and take deep breaths.” Her hands were touching him, cupping his shoulders and ur
ging him to lie back. It was ridiculous. He couldn’t go anywhere—suppose he had an attack while he was driving? This automatic doubling over wouldn’t work very well on the road.
He lay back and took deep breaths. At least his erection was gone, for the moment, anyway, he thought, wishing he could dissolve like an ash onto the floor.
He glanced at her under hooded eyes as she resumed her palpation of the offending area. Her cheeks were pink, he noted. So the experience was mortifying for her, too.
He closed his eyes.
After a moment, she stopped and he heard the metal clatter of wheels on linoleum. He opened his eyes to see her sitting on the rolling stool, chart and pen in hand.
“There are several possibilities,” she said, looking strictly at the chart. He watched her throat as she swallowed. “The first, and most obvious thing I should check for is a hernia.”
And he thought this day couldn’t get any worse.
“No. Absolutely not. It’s not a hernia.” He shook his head, teeth clenched. “I’m sure of it. I’ve had one before, and it’s not a hernia.”
He knew the way doctors checked for hernias, and he wasn’t about to let Delaney Poole perform that humiliating examination on him. Not to mention the fact that direct contact with his, uh, privates was certain to produce another completely unsuitable reaction.
“You’ve had one before?” she asked. “In the same spot?”
“No, over here.” He indicated the place on the opposite side of his abdomen. “But this isn’t that. Trust me. No.” His eyes demanded that she believe him.
“Okay,” she said slowly.
Her pale blue eyes looked back at the folder in her hands, and her shiny hair draped against the side of her face when she bent her head. All in all she was far too pretty to be taken seriously as a doctor, he thought. She looked more like some sultry nurse from a Penthouse video.
“Have you had any difficulty urinating?” she asked.
A-ha! So it could get worse. He closed his eyes, the image of the sultry nurse fleeing like a startled cat.
He hesitated a long time, measuring the merits of leaving against his likely inability to withstand the pain until Dr. Jacobson returned. Maybe he could make it to the hospital in Bangor before passing out….