Could I Have This Dance? Page 11

  In a few minutes, she gave in to her fatigue, shut her surgery text, and closed her eyes.

  She startled moments later to the sound of a man’s voice. Claire sat up, unsure whether the man was speaking to her. She squinted and recognized him as the young man who’d been waxing his truck. “Excuse me?”

  He smiled and lifted his hand in an open gesture. “I said, it’s easier to study surgery with your eyes and the book open.”

  Claire smiled self-consciously. “Do I know you?”

  “Brett Daniels. We met at the Bay Club, during the welcome reception for the interns.”

  She searched her memory. Yes, she did recall a resident by that name, but he sure looked different out here. She couldn’t help noticing his muscled chest and shoulders, and when her eyes met his, she quickly looked away, suddenly aware that she was wearing her skimpiest swimsuit, the one she only wore when she was alone. She contemplated pulling on her shirt, but thought that might seem too awkward. “You’re a resident?” Her voice was incredulous. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same question,” he responded, sitting on the sand by her towel. “Is it okay if I sit down for a minute?”

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I’m a second-year resident, but I’m out of the clinical rotations working in Dr. Rogers’ GI lab. The best part about a year in the lab is the flexible hours. There’s a ton of reading to do, and a lot of it I can do from home.”

  She held out her hand. “I’m Claire McCall.”

  “I know. E. Claire. Dr. Rogers told me what you said about your name.”

  “I wasn’t sure the chairman would remember me. There’s so many interns.”

  Brett shook his head. “He remembers everyone.”

  This all seemed so crazy to Claire. Here she was making an attempt to escape the hospital for a few hours, and the first guy she meets is yet another person with aspirations to be a surgeon. She didn’t know what to say.

  She looked out at the ocean. “So you came to the beach to wax your truck?”

  He laughed. “Not exactly. I live here,” he said, pointing to a row of town houses across from the parking lot.

  “I thought residents had to live within Lafayette limits.”

  “Only if you’re on hospital rotations. The lab guys are exempt. Besides, it doesn’t really take me that long to get in. We’re usually in long before morning rush hour.”

  “Really.”

  “What about you? How does an intern swing a day at the beach?”

  “It’s not a day, just a few hours.” She held up her hands. “I’m on the trauma service, so I’m up every other night, and off every other afternoon.”

  He nodded. “The intern group looks pretty strong. At least, that’s what I hear from Dr. Rogers’ secretary.”

  “Thanks … I guess.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Just do your job. Don’t worry about the competition.”

  “I think I’m starting to get the rules.” She smiled and quoted the Oman. “‘Everyone teaches a tern.’”

  Brett’s face broke into a wide grin again. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle in the sunlight. “I can tell who your chief resident is.”

  She paused and dug her feet into the warm sand. “So if you’ve completed your intern year, and you’re in the lab, what’s next?”

  “Hopefully, I can win my way back into a clinical spot. If I work hard, get Dr. Rogers’ name on a few papers, I suspect he’ll smile on me and put me into your year next July.”

  “Hmmm. Just how many guys are working in the lab, hoping for a spot in the second year?”

  “Just two. Sam Kowalski and I opted into the lab when it became obvious we weren’t in the top eight.” He shrugged. “It was better than being cut.

  Claire sighed and turned her eyes to the surf, contemplating the impact of this new information. “So there are really fourteen people vying for eight second-year resident spots. Twelve interns plus two in the lab.”

  “Right.” He paused, looking down at the sand, drawing a circle with his hand. “But it’s not as bad as it sounds. Some will quit on their own, realizing they just don’t have what it takes. A few will decide to go into orthopedics, maybe one or two into urology after the intern year. So that will cut down the numbers a bit.”

  That was little consolation. It was common knowledge that you couldn’t reveal your plans to give up a general surgery spot until you had assurance that your future was secure with another position elsewhere. She shook her head. “I hate the competition,” she confided. “I’ve only been here a few days and I find myself comparing myself to every other intern I meet, trying to convince myself that I have what it takes. Instead of making clinical decisions based on what’s right for the patient, I see residents concerned about how they’ll look to the attendings.”

  Brett dug his hand into the sand and let it sift slowly through his fingers onto the beach. “That pretty much sums up resident life at the Mecca.”

  She felt her eyes beginning to mist, as if the emotions she’d been holding back were about to come flooding out at this first opportunity to talk with someone who actually knew what she was going through. She reached for her sunglasses, thankful that the bright sun provided a reason for her to cover her eyes. She kept her face pointed toward the ocean, but diverted her eyes behind the dark shades to examine Brett’s torso.

  His voice was gentle, steady, full of confidence. “Are you open for advice from someone who’s been there?”

  This was new. A resident who asked permission to give advice. “Sure.”

  “Just do your job. Don’t get caught up in competing. The residents who get promoted are the ones who just get the work done and aren’t as concerned about looking better than everyone else.” He paused, his eyes resting on Claire. “Listen to what the O-man tells you. He’s rough around the edges, but he’s got the attendings all figured out, and he knows how to survive.”

  “He doesn’t like me. He treats me like a child.”

  “He treats every intern that way.” He made an exaggerated attempt to stick out his gut and patted his stomach. “Come now, terns, let me show you the way,” he mimicked.

  Claire laughed. “Maybe so.” She paused, aware that Brett had easily soothed her anxiety.

  She watched a young mother chasing down a toddler who was making a beeline toward the water. The little boy squealed with delight as his mother swept him up in her arms. For a moment, Claire contemplated how comfortable it would be to escape the rat race of her career pursuits and be a mother. She could return home, marry John, live a comfortable middle-class life as a soccer mom.

  Brett interrupted her thoughts. “Just get into the mind-set that you’re there to learn. You can’t expect to know everything the first day.”

  “I called a cardiology consult on July first without asking Dr. Overby.”

  She watched Brett’s face. He winced but recovered quickly. “Wow,” he responded, shaking his head. “But it happens every year. Don’t worry about your first day.”

  “Did you do it?”

  He seemed to hesitate. “No.”

  “He made up a new rule just for the occasion.” Now Claire tried an imitation. Striking her hand against her slender abdomen, she added, “‘Keep the fleas away from my patients!’”

  He chuckled. “Oh, baby. A new Overby rule.”

  “Just for me.”

  He chuckled some more.

  “Don’t rub it in, okay? I told you he didn’t like me.”

  “Give yourself a break. It’s all part of maintaining his image in front of the house staff. Just be glad you did it on the first day, rather than right before they select the second-year residents.”

  Claire responded with sarcasm. “That’s consoling.”

  “Claire, believe me, every intern does stupid things. It’s all part of learning. Hey, if I survived, you can survive.”

  She studied him for a moment, listened to his voice, watched his expr
essions. He knew what she was going through. He had been there. She couldn’t help but be warmed by his encouraging smile.

  “I guess so,” she said.

  He paused and leaned forward. “You’re not from the northeast. Your accent is …” He hesitated.

  “Is what?” Claire put her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with a little Southern drawl?”

  “Nothing! Er, I think it’s …”

  “What?”

  “Endearing.” Color highlighted his cheeks.

  “That’s not what you were going to say.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted, hinting at a smile. “You’ve only just met me, and now you know what I’m thinking?”

  She diverted her gaze toward the surf. “I’m sorry. It just seems that some Bostonians think that everyone with a Southern accent drives around in an old pickup truck with a Confederate flag in the back window.”

  Now Brett put his hands on his hips to imitate her. “And what’s wrong with old pickups?”

  Her hand went to her mouth as a laugh escaped. She looked back toward the parking lot and the bright orange pickup. “Ooops.” She attempted a sober expression. “Nothing’s wrong with pickups. Where I’m from, everyone drives ’em.”

  “So the Bostonians are right?”

  Claire sighed. “Only partly. We don’t all have Confederate flags hanging in the rear window.”

  “That’s a relief. By the way, I’m from Baltimore. My father is the chief of vascular surgery at Hopkins.”

  She lifted her sunglasses. She was impressed. “Oooh, I suppose you’ve always wanted to be a surgeon.”

  “Something like that.” He paused and picked up another handful of sand. “At least my father has always hoped so.”

  She studied his face for a moment. It seemed like a sore subject, so Claire backed away. “So how is it that a surgeon’s boy ends up driving an old orange pickup?”

  He shrugged. “My mom’s brother owns a body shop. I worked there every summer since high school. I must have painted every vehicle I own a dozen times.”

  “There are others?”

  “I drive an old Mercedes most of the time.” His eyes flashed. “I have an image to preserve, you know.” He paused. “But my Chevy truck is my favorite.”

  Claire thought about her own car. She’d never even given a thought to maintenance of an image. She was concerned with survival.

  A comfortable silence fell between them as they looked out at the blue ocean. Claire dug her feet deeper into the sand, enjoying the cooler sensation a few inches beneath the surface.

  Brett asked her about her first few days as a new intern, questioning her first impressions about attendings, residents, and the other interns.

  It felt good to talk to someone who knew what she was going through. And he seemed to actually care about her opinions. Claire relaxed and told him all about her tumultuous experience with Beatrice Hayes, including the story of the man with HD and how he reminded her of her own father.

  Brett’s expression turned serious. “Your father? He has Huntington’s disease?”

  “No,” Claire responded. “I just said it was eerie how much my patient reminded me of my father.”

  Brett leaned forward. “I think I’d keep this quiet around the hospital, Claire. You certainly don’t want anyone getting the idea that you might be at risk for Huntington’s disease.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  “Claire, it would be a sure ticket off the pyramid. No one with HD would be a safe surgeon, and certainly couldn’t practice beyond midlife.” He paused. “And if you haven’t noticed, most of us are approaching that by the time we finish this marathon of training.” He shook his head. “I’m sure Dr. Rogers would find a good reason to keep someone like that out of training.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You can’t keep someone out of training just because they’re at risk for an inherited disease. That’s discrimination.”

  “Maybe so. But just the same, I wouldn’t let the rumor circulate. It couldn’t help your chances for Dr. Rogers to think that someone he’s put years into training might only carry his legacy into the future a few short years beyond residency.”

  Claire felt her gut tighten. “Well, I haven’t told this to anyone else, Brett. And, just for your information, my dad doesn’t have HD. It’s nowhere in my family tree. My father … is an alcoholic.” She looked away and fought a sensation of rising dread. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so open with Brett so quickly. But he seemed so friendly and understanding.

  Apparently, he sensed her discomfort. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, touching her arm. “My family has similar demons. My brother’s been in and out of alcohol rehab so many times, I’ve lost count.” His hand lingered for a moment, gently squeezing her forearm.

  For the second time since meeting Brett, she found herself blinking back tears. Thankful for her sunglasses, she forced a smile. “Hey, I’m all right. I’ve accepted the hand I’ve been dealt. I don’t let my father’s choices get me down.”

  As he withdrew his hand, Claire was acutely aware of the adolescent goose bumps his touch had stimulated. Good grief, she chided herself. I’m just upset thinking about my father.

  She avoided his gaze as he stood, fumbling with a small towel he had been using to buff his truck. “I’d better let you get back to your reading.”

  Claire smiled. “Right. But I’m afraid I was using my text as a pillow.”

  He retreated a step. “Come back, Claire.” He shrugged with feigned awkwardness. “I could show you my truck.”

  “Is that a pickup line?” She laughed at her own pun.

  Brett waved and walked away, laughing at her response.

  She watched him as he picked his way through the sunbathers, not taking her eyes from him until he had made it to the parking lot at the far side of the beach.

  Chapter Eight

  Delia McCall bowed her head over an open book on her kitchen table.

  The quietness of the morning offered little comfort as she took inventory of the McCall family. The months since Claire’s graduation from medical school had taken their toll. Wally was picking up speed in his long journey downhill. Della, under pressure from Leon, Wally’s brother, and from Elizabeth, felt a growing urgency to intervene. Somewhere, someone could help.

  Her husband became insufferable. When drunk, he was belligerent. When sober, his jerky movements reminded Della of watching someone illuminated by a strobe light, catching only brief intervals of movement separated by blackness.

  She’d promised herself years ago that she would stay. She owed him. Wally had stayed with her through tough times, when normal men would have left without another thought. Now, it was her turn. She would stay with Wally and accept her just desserts. Now, in the silence of the morning, before her husband would rise with a noisy clatter, Della sought strength to follow through. “Oh, Father,” she prayed. “Help us to make it through.” She rotated the ring on her left hand, a reminder of her promise.

  Guilt is a powerful motivator. Love is even stronger.

  She drank coffee and read quietly from the passages open in front of her. When she finished, she nodded her resolve. Claire wasn’t here to help her anymore. Clay wasn’t about to help. Margo was too busy with her own young family. Uncle Leon was too absorbed in the family business, way above the fray of helping out his brother. And Elizabeth, while concerned, was too caught up in her own theories of Wally’s problems. That left Della alone to get Wally to someone to help. She’d tie him up if she had to. She’d sign him into the new rehab program in Carlisle with the help of a judge if she had to. She couldn’t face another day of watching her husband grow more and more helpless. If alcohol had irreparably damaged Wally’s brain, there had to be some test, some X ray that could show it. She had to know what was wrong. She had to know if something, or someone, could help.

  She heard Wally stirring in the bedroom. Quietly, she whispered a prayer that Wally would be receptive
to her plea. She helped him dress, shave, and fix breakfast. She waited for just the right opportunity to, once again, suggest that he see a doctor.

  The chance came when Wally knocked his coffee mug onto the linoleum floor. He stared at his hands and shook his head. He looked up, his eyes meeting Della’s. “I just can’t stop,” he said, his arm jerking wildly again. “I just can’t hold still.”

  She grasped his face and caught his gaze for a moment before his head jerked away. “Let’s go to a doctor in Carlisle. We have to find out what’s wrong.”

  Maybe it was the desperation in her voice. Maybe it was her prayer, but Wally seemed to sense the futility of resisting. He was giving up. His head bobbed up and down.

  She studied him for a second. Was this a positive response? Or just another example of his nervous twitching?

  “I’ll go,” he slurred.

  Her relief escaped in a clumsy hug. “Oh, Wally,” she gasped, as their heads collided. “I’ll clean up breakfast. Then we can go.”

  After a thirty-minute drive up the Apple Valley, they endured an hour’s wait in a crowded waiting room outside the hospital’s emergency ward. Then, after another twenty minutes in a cool hospital gown, Della was sure Wally would give up and leave. She could sense his reluctance returning, and his patience, if he’d ever had any, growing thin.

  Finally, a young doctor appeared and began a barrage of questions.

  Della fumbled with her scarf beneath her chin and winced at the doctor’s tone as he questioned Wally repeatedly about his drinking. She’d been afraid of this. It had taken forever to convince Wally to seek treatment, and now this doctor was badgering him. An explosion was inevitable. Della regretted even mentioning to the triage nurse that her husband was a dry alcoholic. That was probably why the physician seemed so intent on getting a confession of alcohol consumption.

  She tried to catch the doctor’s eye. She cleared her throat and shook her head. But it did no good. Apparently frustrated by Wally’s denials, the physician, who looked no older than her own children, turned to Della. “Has he been hallucinating? Seeing insects on the wall? Maybe picking at his skin, complaining of ants or insects bothering him?”