Could I Have This Dance? (13 page)

Claire pulled the pillow over her head.
Come on, Beatrice, everyone knows you have to write complete post-op orders or you’re gonna get tortured by the nursing staff.

In a few minutes the whistling noises resumed above her. Claire tossed in frustration for the next hour before exhaustion led her from her anxiety again, and brought a temporary respite with sleep.

Chapter Seven

I
n the morning, Claire crawled from the call-room bed thirty minutes before rounds, only to find Bea already locked in the adjoining bathroom. Claire waited a few minutes before rapping on the door. “Bea?”

She listened for a reply. When she heard none, she spoke again, “Bea? I need to use the sink.”

There was no answer, only the sounds of running water.

Claire sighed and waited. And waited. When the water stopped, Claire knocked again. “Bea, can you let me in?”

The sound of a blow-dryer was the only response.

Claire opened a small compact mirror and resorted to applying her mascara with the small mirror propped on the top bunk. She pulled a brush through her blond bangs and listened to the noise in the bathroom. Finally, with only five minutes left until rounds, Bea appeared, looking like she was ready for a fashion magazine. She brushed past Claire and glanced pointedly at her watch. “Don’t be late again,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You never know what you’ll miss the next time.”

Claire clasped her hand on Bea’s shoulder. Bea spun around. “Don’t touch me.”

Claire lifted her hand. “I was late because I was taking care of your ER patient, Bea. You wouldn’t have gotten to do my OR case if you’d been doing what was right for Mr. Davis.”

“I did what was right.”

“He had a gaping wound. It would have taken forever for that wound to heal without sutures.”

“That drunk wasn’t worth my time.” She backed to the door of the small call room. “I made a disposition. You shouldn’t have been involved.”

“He wasn’t drunk,” Claire countered. “Your patient had Huntington’s disease, a fact you’d have known if you’d read his chart like you should have!”

“It doesn’t take a chart review to diagnose his problem.” Bea turned and slipped through the doorway.

Claire watched Bea’s back disappear down the hall. She gritted her teeth and hurried to the ICU.

Outside the SICU, the trauma team gathered around Dr. Dan, who stood grinning, with a Nike shoe box in one hand. He extended his free hand to Rick, who surrendered a large Styrofoam cup. “Aah, Rick, how thoughtful.” He held the cup into the air. “There is a tradition here at Lafayette. Every time an intern manages to nab his or her first major case, we offer a toast.” He looked at Beatrice Hayes. “For your appendectomy.”

Jeff, Elaine, and Basil lifted their coffee cups. “First blood!”

Dan smiled and echoed the phrase, “First blood.” He held up the shoe box and handed his coffee back to Rick. “And for the first intern in a new year to draw first blood,” he said, lifting a tarnished trophy from the shoe box, “this prestigious award.” He held up a trophy that appeared to be a crude modification of an old sports award. At the top, where you might expect to find a little baseball player or perhaps a bowler, stood a large scalpel dripping with red plastic. On the base, “FIRST BLOOD” was printed in red letters. “This year’s recipient is our very own trauma tern, Dr. Beatrice Hayes.” He held out the award to Bea.

She gripped the award and laughed, while the other members clapped.

Everyone except Claire.

Dan explained. “This award is to be kept on display in the surgery resident’s lounge.” He turned the trophy around to reveal a series of smaller engraved nameplates listing the names of interns from prior years. “As you can see, you are joining a highly select group of individuals.” He pointed his index finger to his own name.

Beatrice read off the names.

“We’ll see to it that your name gets added to the list,” he added.

Beatrice clutched the front of her scrub top. “I’m honored.”

Claire forced a smile and clenched her jaw.
Stupid award. What do I care?

Dan put the trophy back in the shoe box. “Okay, team, let’s get this show on the road.” He punched the small panel on the wall to activate the door to the ICU. “Who’s presenting the first patient?”

By midday, Claire was relieved to be officially off duty. Before heading home, she stopped at the medical school library to see what she could find out about Huntington’s disease, the mysterious illness that had afflicted her ER patient, making him look for all the world like a common drunk. She was troubled by the encounter, and hoping to dispel her anxiety with knowledge, she opened a neurology textbook and began to read.

Unfortunately, the written descriptions about the disease only tightened the growing knot in her stomach. Huntington’s disease, or simply HD, had been first described by Dr. George Huntington in 1872. It was a degenerative disorder with catastrophic, progressive effects on movement, emotions, and the intellect. Originally known as Huntington’s chorea, it was named for a Greek word for “dance,” because of the repetitive, dancelike movements of the arms and legs which characterized the disease.

Claire read on about the early signs of the disease, which often included subtle changes in emotional stability, with patients showing irritability and angry outbursts.
Just like Daddy.
As the disease progressed, patients experienced more and more involuntary movement until they were no longer able to walk, dress themselves, or even sit in a chair without support or restraints. With each new paragraph she read, she saw her father. Every symptom seemed to fit. Patients with HD often appeared inebriated, and in the alcohol user, symptoms were confused with signs of intoxication.

The problems usually surfaced in midlife, she learned, and progressed to death in ten to twenty-five years. The disease was inherited. Children of patients with HD had a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting the disease. The worst part was that there was no cure, and most people who came down with the illness had already had children, who would be at risk for inheriting it.

Claire sat back in relief. The descriptions had sounded so much like her father. But since her grandparents didn’t have HD, it would be impossible for her father to have it.

She yawned and closed the reference book.
Poor Mr. Davis. He has an incurable progressive disease that will certainly kill him. And while he’s on the downhill slide, everyone who doesn’t know him thinks he’s a common drunk … like my dad.

Claire stepped out the large glass doors at the entrance of Lafayette University Hospital and held her hand up to cover her eyes. It was sunny and hot, the kind of a day made for sand castles and cool surf. She paused and lifted her face to the wind. There was salt in the air, a light scent of the ocean. Yes, this day, Claire resolved, would be about relaxing. She’d spent the last eight weeks holed up in her brownstone cramming for her internship. Maybe she should grab a towel and some sunscreen rather than a textbook for a change.

Some good all that studying did,
she mused.
Internship survival seems to have little to do with how much you know. It’s more about following the Oman’s stupid rules.
She smiled.
Eat when you can. Everyone teaches a tern. If you don’t know, ask.
Her smile left as she thought of the latest rule.
Keep the fleas away from my patients.

Maybe I should add my own. Never turn your back on Beatrice Hayes.

She trudged to her car alone, longing for a few hours away from Beatrice, uncooperative ER patients, and the medical Mecca.

She drove home in a daze, her little car finding its way through the city streets with minimal input from Claire. She had turned her thoughts to John Cerelli. Their summer separation had been helpful, in a way. At least she knew that her love for John would outlast a physical separation. But, she was discovering, long-distance communication did not seem to be his strong suit. She e-mailed and called, expressing her feelings about everything she experienced. He returned e-mail with short reports of his activities or calendar.
He tells me what he does. Not what he feels.
And a nagging anxiety remained: John seemed better able and more willing to communicate with his clothes off.

She thought back to her last night with John and frowned.
How come all my friends think sex is so great, when all I seem to get out of it is guilt?
She thought through the virtues her mother had instilled in her: Good Christian girls don’t smoke. They don’t drink. And they wait until marriage to surrender their virginity.
Is two out of three really so bad?
She tapped the steering wheel, hoping the traffic light would turn green, and promised herself that she would do better. But she knew the true test was yet to come, when John would come to Lafayette for a visit.

Claire arrived home and pulled a single letter from the mailbox. Her excitement disappeared when she saw the address label for “occupant.” She checked her answering machine and e-mail with similar deflating results.

She walked through the house telling her plants she didn’t care that John hadn’t called. “I’m sure he just didn’t want to leave a message. He wants to hear me in person,” she said. “I’ll just go on to the beach like I planned.”

She selected a revealing two-piece suit, something she used only for tanning, not social events. She held it up to the mirror.
I’ll find a quiet spot to myself.

Claire changed and put John’s football jersey over her swimsuit. She grabbed her sunscreen and a pair of sunglasses and looked at her desk. An old Bible, her Sabiston’s surgery textbook, and a
National Geographic
seemed to be the only options for beach reading. She paused a moment, heaved a sigh, and hoisted the large textbook. “Let’s go, Sabiston,” she whined. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to spend a few free hours without you.”

She drove to a sandy cove ten miles southeast of Lafayette and parked at a public beach access. The lot was crowded with cars from Pennsylvania, New York, and Massachusetts. She’d forgotten that school was out for everyone
else, and her hopes for a secluded getaway diminished. She exited her car and glanced at the sun before picking up her beach bag and her surgery textbook.

At the end of the parking lot, she noticed a man about her age waxing an old orange pickup. As she passed, he smiled, and she quickly diverted her eyes. He was blond, shirtless, and well-tanned, and would have looked at home on a lifeguard stand. Claire moved on, not wanting to initiate a conversation with the handsome stranger.

She picked her way through beach towels and sunbathers, the scent of suntan lotion and surf urging her forward, the sand quickly getting between her feet and her flip-flops. She slipped them off and dug her toes into the sand, feeling herself beginning to relax for the first time since leaving the hospital. She trudged slowly to the end of the beach, where she spread out her towel and slipped off John’s jersey. She applied her sunscreen and lay down on the towel.

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.’”