Could I Have This Dance? (31 page)

Dr. Wong Lee, a chief resident, was next, and presented a vascular case where the distal anastomosis of a femoral-popliteal bypass was accidentally hooked up to the vein instead of the artery. This brought a vigorous outcry from Dr. Denton, who proclaimed Lee to be the victim of a stupidity virus, and warned the audience never to get sick in July at a teaching hospital. Lee sat down humiliated, but breathing. He’d been through this too many times in his six-year stint to be defeated by the hot air of Dr. Denton.

Claire was next, and was thankful that the podium wasn’t transparent. She presented the details of the case without faltering and admitted her mistakes quickly before any of the attending sharks had the chance to smell blood. “I made two critical errors. I didn’t keep in mind how rapidly a pediatric patient can deteriorate.” She looked down. “And I didn’t keep my eyes on my patient at every moment. I was too distracted by my interest in her CT findings. I’d never seen a liver injury so severe, and I was caught up in going over the scan with the radiology resident rather than paying attention to my patient.”

Dr. Stan Fowler stood up. Claire would have been surprised if he hadn’t. As a trauma attending, he was obligated to speak out. She just hoped she’d have the answers to his criticism. But, instead of questioning her, he turned to the audience. “This illustrates a point I’ve made in this conference time and time again. The most dangerous place for an unstable trauma patient is in the radiology department. They don’t have the proper equipment handy in case there is an emergency just like this.”

Dr. McGrath spoke next. “Why did this patient need a CT scan at all? Wouldn’t a portable ultrasound in the ER have been more rapid and given you the same information?”

Claire wasn’t sure what to say. “Well,” she began, just as Dr. Overby interrupted.

“The decision to get a CT scan was mine. An ultrasound would have given us information about free blood in the abdomen and could have shown the liver laceration, but it would never have shown us the additional information about her kidney function and could never have shown us the detail that a CT offers.”

The group argued among themselves, pontificating over the virtues of CT versus ultrasound in the management of acute abdominal trauma.
Claire stayed quiet and tried to appear interested, and not just relieved at having the attention off of her.

Dr. Tom Rogers concluded by thanking Claire for bringing the case to discuss, pointing out the necessity of securing all central-line connections with care, and reviewing the steps to manage a patient with possible central venous air embolism.

Claire sat down and took inventory. She’d fielded one question that Dr. Overby answered for her. And she hadn’t cried. Score one for the O-man. She looked over her shoulder and caught his eye. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

He made a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment before looking away.

She relaxed and wished there was an inconspicuous way she could get to the donut table. She was suddenly aware of her famished state and salivated at the aroma of the morning brew.

After waiting through two more presentations and Dr. Rogers’ dismissal, she joined the throng at the refreshment table, listening quietly to Dr. Lee murmuring about the treatment he’d received. She picked up a donut and silently walked out behind him. He leaned toward his junior resident and complained, “If she’d have been a man, they would have taken her to task. But they sat there drooling like they were ready for dessert. I’ve never heard Dr. Rogers thank a resident before. He’d never treat a male resident like that.”

The other resident laughed. “I’ll bet she paid them in advance. Did you see how quickly the O-man took the heat?”

Claire shrank back and paused to let the dispersing crowd go around her, pretending to make a note on her scut list. She took a deep breath and counted to ten, attempting to shrug off their comments.
Chauvinist jerks.

Dr. Lee was just jealous. But what did he care? He’d already made it to the top of the pyramid.

She looked up and waited until Dr. Lee disappeared around a corner.
I hope I don’t have to work with him anytime soon.

On Friday evening, Claire drove her Toyota up the alley behind Safeway, across Thompson Street, and into her driveway. She paused when she saw the items in the yard next door, the evidences of young children and their play. A wagon, a basketball and a bike, a purple one with training wheels, seemed haphazardly arranged, abandoned by the kids, likely in response to their mother’s call for supper. The only occupant of the yard was a miniature schnauzer named Tiger, who ran up to say hello.

She knelt and scratched him behind his ears, receiving his wet greeting with gratitude while her heart sank. Why did it have to be a purple bicycle? Why not red or blue?

She blinked back the image that the bicycle evoked: Sierra’s birthday party, shattered by a drunk driver and an incompetent intern.

A sudden weariness enveloped her as she pushed open the car door. Head down, she plodded toward the front door, lifted her key to the doorknob, and gasped. There, on her door, in orange paint, a vandal’s message was scrawled in uneven letters. “DIE REBEL.”

She stumbled back a step as the message sank in. She glanced around the neighborhood. No one was around, not a single person visible anywhere. Claire felt the hairs on her neck stand up, and fought the eerie feeling that she was being watched. She fumbled with her keys and unlocked the door, slamming it behind her and turning the dead bolt. She pressed her eye to the peephole, but the distorted, circular appearance unnerved her. She was alone, far from home, and someone wanted her to die.

She rushed to the phone and called the Lafayette police department. The woman on the other end of the line was friendly, but explained that this was a Friday night, and that most of the officers were responding to priority needs near the university campus, and she’d get an officer out to investigate the vandalism as soon as she could.

“Please,” she begged. “Someone wants to kill me.”

“Ma’am, stay inside and lock your door. I’ll have someone out there as soon as I can.”

She called Brett Daniels and got his answering machine. “Brett, this is Claire. Someone vandalized my house. I’m so afraid.” She paused. “I didn’t know who else to call. Can you come? I live at 201 Thompson Street, behind the Safeway.”

She hung up the phone in frustration, then checked her watch and waited. It was seven P.M. She fixed a bowl of cereal and picked up a paperback, but couldn’t concentrate. Every time she heard a car on the street, she was up, peeking through the closed venetian blind in the front room.

At eight-thirty, Brett arrived. He looked handsome even through the peephole. Claire unlatched the door and practically dragged him in.

“After yesterday, I was surprised to hear from you.”

She frowned. “I know.” She paused. “But can we just forget about that? I need you right now. As a friend.” Her eyes were pleading. “I’m afraid to be alone.”

He nodded his understanding.

“Did you see the door?”

“Hard to miss. Have you called the police?”

“Right after I called you. But they don’t consider vandalism high on their list.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Some cereal. And I made myself eat that. It’s hard to have an appetite.”

Brett sat on the couch opposite Claire. “What’s your theory?”

“The obvious one, I guess. The only person that has threatened me lately is Roger Jones. He blames me for his daughter.”

“But why would he do this? How would he know where you lived?”

“Anyone can look me up through information. Why?” She shrugged. “He’s a loon.”

“Striking out this way may be the only way he can cope.”

“Wonderful. My first major clinical faux pas and it has to happen to a psycho’s daughter.”

A sharp rap at the door interrupted their conversation. A young officer, an African American with “Boone” on his name tag, was visible through the peephole.

Claire opened the door and poured out her story.

“Why ‘rebel’? Are you from the South?”

“Yes. Virginia.”

“How would this man have known this?”

Claire hesitated.

“He asked you in the ER where you were from,” Brett said. “That’s what you told me, remember?”

Officer Boone raised his eyebrows. “You told him?”

“Yes.”

The officer made some notes. “Anything else I should know?”

“Can’t you go get this guy? Lock him up?”

“It’s not that easy. The department will do an investigation.”

“But I don’t want to stay here with this guy on the loose.”

“People who do this sort of thing rarely act out violently. He’s probably just trying to scare you.”

Claire wondered if the young officer knew what he was talking about, or if he was just trying to make her feel better. “Well, he’s been successful at that. I’d feel better if I knew you were watching the house.”

“I’m sure you’ll be safe with your husband here,” he responded, looking up at Brett.

Brett pushed his chest out.

Claire shook her head. “He’s not my husband. I live here alone.”

“Oh. Well, just the same, I’m sure you’ll be okay. He obviously did this in secret, knowing you’d be away. He’s not likely to come back when you’re home.”

She looked at him without speaking.

The officer continued. “We’ll be sending a detective over to take some pictures tomorrow. Don’t have the door repainted until after that.”

“I’ll tell my landlord.”

The officer left, and Claire closed the door and turned the dead bolt. She leaned with her back against the door and yawned.

Brett looked at her. “Now what?”

“Can you stay?”

“I’ve been waiting for an invitation.”

“Brett! You know what I mean. I’ve got a sleeping bag. I can stay on the couch and you can have my bed.”

“Forget it. I’d never agree to put you out. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Besides, your bed probably smells just like you do. I’d be crazy before midnight.”

“Smells?”

He laughed. “A nice smell, Claire. I didn’t mean it like a smelly smell.”

She rolled her eyes. “It will only be for tonight. I’d feel a lot safer.”

“Sure.”

Claire headed to the bathroom to prepare for sleep. She took a long shower and tried without success to erase the tension from her body. She was standing in her robe, brushing her teeth, when she heard the phone ring.

John! I’d better get that.

She heard Brett pick up. “Hello. Oh, no, you’ve got the right number. She’s just taking a shower. I’ll get her for you. Claire?”

He tapped on the bathroom door. She opened it and took the portable phone from his hand. She closed the door again and sat on the edge of her tub.

“Hello.”

“Claire, it’s John. What’s going on? Now you’ve got male visitors while you shower?”

“John, it’s not what you think. He’s just another resident here.” She paused. She hadn’t talked to John since before her last night of trauma call. So much had happened. Where should she begin?

“I called the other day. It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you.” She could tell by his tone that he was upset.

“It’s been an unbelievable week.”

She could hear John sigh. He obviously wanted to talk. She was exhausted and hardly knew how to explain.

“I’d like to hear about it.”

She took a deep breath. “I was on call in house Monday night for the trauma service, and Tuesday night for cardiothoracic surgery service. I got
home in time to crash on Wednesday night, then went in Thursday, spent the night, and just got home this evening.” She paused. “On Monday night, a seven-year-old girl was hit by a drunk driver, and she died in the CT scanner when I was supposed to be watching her. Her father sought me out and threatened me because he blames me for his daughter’s death. The hospital attorney met with me because they are worried about getting sued. I had to present my mistake to the whole surgery department in conference this morning, and when I finally made it back to my apartment this evening, someone had vandalized my house by writing ‘Die Rebel’ on my front door. The police just left. And I was too scared to stay here alone, so I invited one of the male surgery residents to sleep on the couch. Oh, and did I mention that my mother called to tell me that my twin brother is going to court for a DUI, my father continues to deteriorate, and his primary physician at home thinks I’m a fool for wanting him checked for Huntington’s disease?” She paused and added with saccharin sweetness, “And how was your week?”

“Claire, I—I don’t know how to respond. This all sounds terrible. And I don’t know what I can do. I wish I was there. How are you holding up?”

“I wish you were here too.” Suddenly, she felt like crying again. “I’m too tired to cry anymore. The only good thing about internship is that they work me so long that I don’t have time to worry about all these troubles.”

“Great,” he replied with sarcasm. “A side benefit of being abused: They make you so miserable that you forget the other bad things in your life.” He paused. “Would you like it if I came up for the weekend? If I left early in the morning, I could be there late Saturday night.”

“I’d love to see you, honey, but it’s hardly practical. I’ll be back in the hospital tomorrow morning until midday on Sunday. I’d probably barely get to see you before you’d have to turn around and leave again.”

His voice was soft. “I guess you’re right.”

“Are you mad about me having a man stay here?”

“Yes, but I understand. I don’t think it looks good, but under the circumstances, I guess I understand. I’m jealous, but I understand.”

“Thanks.”

“Claire, I think we ought to pray.”

“If I close my eyes, I’ll be asleep.”

“I’m serious, Claire. I mean like we used to do, when we first started dating, when we both seemed more concerned about what God wanted for us.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. She knew he was right. It was the right thing to do, but she felt so spiritually dry. It had been months since she’d been to church, shoving her needs for fellowship and the Bible aside so she could pursue her career in surgery. “Okay,” she said. “I’m listening.”