All I'll Ever Need Page 6

  “So what do I do?”

  “Give yourself plenty of time to remember. And give yourself permission to think about that night. For some reason, perhaps even as a defense against your own pain, you’ve chosen to forget. Give yourself permission to remember.”

  It sounded like psychological mumbo jumbo to Claire. She had been attracted to surgery because these were problems she could get her hands around. And for the same reason, she had avoided psychiatry. She mumbled the phrase back to Joanne. “Give myself permission to remember.”

  Joanne didn’t hear the sarcasm. “Exactly.”

  Claire turned her hands palm up. “I’ll try.”

  “It may help to spend time in the places that carry the clearest memories. Lie on the bathroom floor if that’s what it takes.”

  Claire raised her eyebrows. She could just see Della walking in on her. She’d better keep the bathroom door locked.

  “And concerning your boyfriend. Perhaps you ought to lay off the physical contact until you get this sorted out.”

  The advice seemed old-fashioned for such a chic professional. But maybe old-fashioned is good.

  Joanne stood up. “You’re going to get through this, Claire. Lots of women have. Can we meet again in two weeks?”

  “Sure.”

  “Same time, same place.”

  Chapter Six

  After work hours on Friday, Claire startled at the sound of a key in the back door. Who could that be? She initialed the lab result in her hand and set it in her out-box before standing in response to footfalls in the hall.

  A second later, Jimmy Jenkins appeared. “Oh, Claire, I didn’t realize you’d be working late.”

  “Just signing off on test results and finishing my dictation.”

  He nodded and fumbled with his keys for a moment before moving down the hall with his back toward Claire.

  She followed, puzzled by his quiet manner. Normally, he’d have taken the opportunity to chat about old patients or ask how things were going. Perhaps he was overwhelmed because of Miriam’s death.

  He opened a large closet where the clinic kept its drug supplies.

  She leaned against the wall to appear casual. “How are you doing, Jimmy?”

  He glanced over his shoulder as if surprised that she would bother watching him. “Fine, really.” He opened the lock on the refrigerator. “I’m just here to get some medicine for a friend.”

  She watched as he picked up a vial of morphine from a small box. He squinted at the label, then put the vial back in its container and lifted the whole box.

  “That’s a lot of morphine for one patient.” She stepped forward as he locked the refrigerator and backed out of the closet. “You’re not planning to — ”

  He must have read the alarm in her eyes. He smiled. Too broadly. “Oh no, Claire. It’s not for me.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled prescription. “This is for the patient record.”

  She took the paper and read the script he’d penned for Richard Childress. It was written to give one to five milligrams every thirty minutes as needed for pain. She shook her head. “Jimmy, I don’t know how much you know about Richard. He’s very depressed. This amount of morphine in his hands could be dangerous.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Claire. I didn’t really want to get you involved.”

  “I’m already involved. He’s a patient of this clinic.”

  “And they called me for help.” He took a deep breath. “Look, if you need to know, they called me because I’ve treated Ricky for years. I made the diagnosis of his cancer. They just . . . well, they just didn’t think you were being responsive to their needs.”

  “He wants to die.”

  “He doesn’t want to suffer.”

  “So deal with his pain.”

  “That’s what I’m doing. Read the prescription. That dose isn’t even close to lethal.”

  “So why dispense so much? And why give it to them?”

  “They have no insurance. They are living off of what little she can make part-time at McCall Shoes.” He said McCall Shoes as if he tasted sour candy.

  Claire stepped back, uncomfortable challenging her mentor. She touched her forehead and sighed. “Look, there are other issues here. I’m concerned about you. You’ve given up your malpractice insurance. If you write a prescription and something goes wrong, a lawsuit could bring down the whole practice.”

  He nodded. “Then there goes everything I built for this community.”

  And there goes my job!

  She watched as his knuckles seemed to whiten over the box of narcotics. “There is another option, Claire. One that would protect the practice.”

  She locked eyes with him.

  “You write the prescription, sign it, and put it in his record. Document that you are writing the prescription for pain relief only.” He paused. “Then you’re covered.”

  She puffed her cheeks and exhaled slowly with her lips pursed. “I don’t know.”

  He touched her shoulder. “I’m going to tell them exactly what a safe dose is.”

  She nodded, knowing that the unspoken double meaning would be communicated. If they know the safe dose, they will know a lethal one.

  “He’s terminal soon, Claire.”

  She plodded to the file room and pulled Richard Childress’s file. She couldn’t let Dr. Jenkins write a prescription, especially one like this when he had no malpractice coverage. After scribbling down the prescription, she made an entry in the chart. This will be the last entry in this file. Her eyes met Jimmy’s again. “Please, please tell them only to use this dose.” She shook her head, knowing she was playing a dangerous game with her conscience. It’s only for pain relief. She held out her hand. “You’ve given him too much. They can pick up some more in a few days.”

  Jimmy tightened his grip around the small package. “If he uses five milligrams at a time, this only represents twenty doses. He’ll be through that in no time.” With that, he turned, but paused at the door. “Thanks, Claire. You’ve done the right thing.”

  “He’s weaker today,” Nancy said.

  Jimmy watched as Richard seemed to work for every breath. “It won’t be long now.”

  Richard tipped his head in Jimmy’s direction as tears spilled on Nancy’s cheeks.

  Jimmy handed her a small paper sack. “Here’s the pain medicine. A milligram or two should be enough to keep him comfortable if you give it straight in a vein. You can use up to ten milligrams if you give it in the muscle.” Jimmy pushed away the sheet and pinched up the skinny flesh on the top of Richard’s yellowing thigh. “Here.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve included some syringes and needles. Are you sure you can do this?”

  “My daughter taught me how to give intravenous injections when Richard had pneumonia. She was in nursing school when she . . .” Her voice weakened.

  Jimmy put his hand on Nancy’s shoulder. “It’s okay.” He remembered well how Nancy’s daughter had her first psychotic episode during her first clinical year at Brighton University. She was home on vacation when Nancy brought her by the office, a young woman completely out of touch with reality.

  He looked up when Nancy squeezed his arm. “You should get back to your family.”

  He nodded. “It’s a zoo over there,” he said, smiling. “My brother from Michigan brought his three boys.” He shook his head. “I’ve forgotten how much teenagers eat.”

  Not knowing what to say, he took a deep breath and reached for Richard’s hand.

  Richard looked up, his eyes locking on Jimmy’s. He communicated with a weak hand squeeze what he couldn’t verbalize.

  Perhaps it was the fact that he sensed death was standing at the door. Perhaps it was the stress of dealing or not dealing with his wife’s sudden departure, but regardless, Jimmy suddenly found himself on the edge of tears. His throat tightened. He squeezed Richard’s hand and looked away.

  Pulling his hand away, he backed toward the doorway. He ste
adied his voice against the sorrow that rippled through his surface calm. “Say everything you need to say, Nancy.”

  She lifted her hand to her mouth.

  “You won’t have many chances to get it right.”

  That evening, Della found herself in the familiar role of servant. She’d stopped by Jimmy’s place to pick up her plate, began talking to the neighbors and Jimmy’s brother, and soon was sharing in the abundance of food which had been contributed by nearly everyone in Stoney Creek. Now she had retreated to a comfortable spot for her, the kitchen sink.

  She scrubbed a persistent bit of crusted macaroni from the bottom of a casserole dish and looked up as Jimmy entered. Noise from the other room mingled with the clink and splash of her work. It seemed that his nephews had come to comfort their uncle, but found it more interesting to sit in front of Jimmy’s widescreen TV. “You have a nice family.”

  He leaned against the counter and sipped a glass of wine. “I do. But tomorrow I’m giving them the boot.” He laughed.

  She turned her attention back to the dishes, thankful to have something to occupy her hands. She glanced at Jimmy, aware that he seemed to be watching her. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m getting them clean.”

  “No, it’s not that.” He became quiet, looking at his glass as he swirled his drink.

  She found herself wishing that his talkative brother Bob would join them. She didn’t know what to say to fill the silence between them.

  “It’s ironic.”

  “What?”

  “I kept the secret about us from Miriam for so many years.”

  “It was a long time ago, Jimmy. We don’t need to talk — ”

  “I finally knew that the right thing to do was to ’fess up. Work on opening up communication with Miriam so we could go forward in our retirement years with a fresh start.” He sipped from the goblet in his hand. “So I came home and talked to Miriam through the bathroom door.” He sniffed. “I thought she was mad at me, that she wasn’t talking back because she was angry.” His hand trembled as he set the glass on the counter. “But she was on the floor the whole time.” He wiped the back of his hand against his nose and his voice dissolved as he spoke again. “I wanted her to forgive me, but she never heard me say, ‘I’m sorry.’ ”

  She squeezed the water from her dishrag, laid it in the sink, and opened her arms to receive him. There, with him falling against her chest, she hesitated, then placed her wet hands against his back. She held him as he wept, a man broken by loss and by his too-little-too-late repentance.

  She looked up to see Bob in the doorway of the kitchen. Their eyes met before she closed hers and laid her head on Jimmy’s, letting him purge his grief in deep, hot sobs against her neck.

  Chapter Seven

  Outside of town, down Spring Creek Road, just beyond the corrugated steel fence surrounding Burner Towing Company, the serene appearance of the Childress home belied the sorrow within. Nancy watched as her husband’s gasps for breath slowed to a stop. She held his head in her lap, stroking his forehead and promising she’d see him again. Then, mechanically, she rose and called Lindsey’s Funeral Home.

  After that, praying that the stress of Richard’s loss wouldn’t break her daughter’s fragile psyche, she telephoned to give the news.

  “Hello.”

  “Ami, it’s Mom.” Her voice quivered.

  “W – what’s wrong? Is it Richard?”

  “Yes, honey. He just died.”

  She listened as her daughter gasped.

  “It will be okay. We all expected the end was near.”

  Her daughter sniffed. “I know. I know. Should I come over?”

  “No. I think not right now. I’ll let you know about a memorial service.”

  Silence separated them. Nancy could hear her daughter cry.

  “It’s going to be fine. I’ll be fine.” She listened for a response. “You’ll be fine. He told me he loved you just before he left.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  Nancy pressed the phone into her forehead and closed her eyes, as if she could hold back the tears. “I’d better go. I have some other calls to make.”

  “Okay, see you soon.”

  Nancy set the phone in its cradle, looked back at the body in the hospital bed, and cried.

  Claire pushed aside another bridal catalog and moaned. “I didn’t know it was going to be this expensive.”

  Della smiled and looked toward the front of the Bridal Gallery that bustled with Saturday morning clients. “Just take a take a deep breath, honey. You’re the only one I get to plan a wedding for. I don’t want to have regrets because we cut every corner.”

  “Tell me that again after you’ve been eating rice and beans for a month.”

  She watched as Della’s forehead wrinkled for a moment until she met Claire’s gaze. Her mother laughed and pointed at a picture. “Oooh. I like this one.”

  “The neckline’s too low.”

  Della winked. “You’ve got it to flaunt, dear.”

  Claire reached over and shut her mother’s book. “Grow up, Mother.” She pulled her hand through her blonde hair. “Besides, I’ve got it narrowed down to three.”

  “Okay. Shall we get something to eat?”

  “Something quick. I want to look at a few houses with John this afternoon.”

  “I thought you were going to the mountains.”

  Claire laughed and started walking to the front of the store. “That was John’s idea.”

  That night, after hours of house hunting in Stoney Creek and a late dinner at Claire’s house, Claire yawned. “I’m beat.” She looked at John, who was already stretched out on the couch. “So are you ready for the little McCall family reunion?”

  She knew John was dreading it. Past pain fractured the McCall family so that they were never really the cozy unit that Claire longed for. But she hoped that little efforts like her planned cookout could be the start of some mended fences.

  John just smiled. It was a good smile. She almost believed it meant he was happy about it.

  She kissed his forehead and pointed to a pillow and a folded blanket. “I hope you enjoy the couch.”

  He pulled her to him and kissed her mouth leisurely. “I love you.”

  Her heart thrilled every time he spoke those words. “I love you too.” She pushed him away. “Now don’t you even think about getting off that couch until morning.”

  She talked in jest, but it took every fiber of her strength to keep from falling into his arms. Help me, Lord.

  A few minutes later, she exited the bathroom and passed John in the hall. “Night,” she said, before slipping into her room and closing the door. Then, with a slight hesitation, she pushed the button to lock the door.

  Collapsing onto her bed, she thanked God for bringing John Cerelli back into her life. Floorboards creaked in the hallway as John passed by, and she curled away from the door, pulling her comforter over her shoulders. She had not yet undressed. In that condition, a memory tickled at the edges of her mind. I remember sleeping with the light on. Sleeping in my clothes, just like this.

  I remember being afraid.

  She turned over and looked at the door. I remember watching for shadows under the door.

  She shuddered and thought about the question her counselor had asked about men in the house. Certainly my father couldn’t have. But sometimes he was crazy drunk.

  The thought sickened her, spurring her heart to a gallop. “God,” she whispered. “I don’t want to remember. I can’t deal with this.”

  But even as the words escaped her lips, she knew she didn’t have to. Trust, right, God? That’s what it’s about.

  She thought of the phrase Joanne had used. Permission to remember. It sounded so simplistic, yet she realized that perhaps her will stood in the way. If there was more pain in her past, she didn’t want to dig it up.

  That’s when she remembered a phrase her pastor used as an illustration. He talked of God dealing with our pain layer by la
yer, like the peeling of an onion. Done too quickly, the aroma makes us cry. Maybe I just need to peel back one layer at a time.

  She closed her eyes and tried to focus on her past. Had she locked away painful events in defense of her own sanity?

  What happened that night?

  I remember drinking with Tommy and Shelby and Grant. I remember someone pulling at my jeans. I remember resisting.

  Claire fought a sense of rising panic. I can’t remember what happened next. My next memory is of being in my bed. Waking up in my clothes. Knowing someone had touched me without permission.

  I remember the smell of alcohol on his breath. The next thought pierced her soul like a knife. Daddy came to my room that night.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered in the darkness. “I don’t want to remember this.”

  She shook her head, brushing her hair against her pillow as a memory solidified. Fragments coalesced. A hand groping beneath my shirt. Daddy was here. I remember Daddy being here. Her mind whirled with the shock of discovery.

  She sat up and covered her mouth with her hand. I think I’m going to be sick.

  The next afternoon, after church, the Wally McCall family gathered in the backyard for grilled hamburgers, potato salad, fresh veggies, and homemade ice cream. In all, Claire felt the event had gone well. Kyle seemed to warm up to John, although they never seemed to dive much deeper than the current slump the Atlanta Braves were in.

  After dinner, Della teamed up with Casey to face Kyle and Kristen in a fierce game of backyard badminton with John sitting in a lawn chair on the side, raising his cane to indicate points for each side.

  Claire looked on with glee before retreating to wash dishes in the kitchen with Margo. She took a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to sort through some things in my past,” she began. “I was having so many nightmares after this rape attempt that I finally contacted a professional to talk things out.”

  Margo set aside a drying towel and sat down, her face reflecting concern. “I hope it helps.”