Could I Have This Dance? (33 page)

Della shook her head. “I’m no doctor, Claire. And Dr. Jenkins thinks this is all hot air. I’m not sure how I can add anything.”

“You can help, Mom. Dr. Jenkins said that he doubted an insurance carrier would ever even agree to pay for a test for Huntington’s disease in the absence of a family history.”

“I can’t exactly remedy that, can I?”

“No, but you could snoop into this old legend a bit. The last time I was in town, I ate at the café over in Fisher’s Retreat. The owner, Mr. Knitter, knows just about everyone. And he believes in the curse. We talked about it. He mentioned several people that he thought were affected by it.”

“So what can I do?”

“Talk to him. See if you can find out if any of these people have similar family roots. See if this supposed curse can be traced by inheritance.”

“Claire, I’d feel funny digging into other people’s family business. Besides, Dr. Jenkins thinks this is a waste of time. You don’t need to worry about this stuff, Claire. He says this disease is so rare that—”

“Mom, it’s important to me. What harm can it do to check a few birth records?” She paused. “Mom, it’s my future, can’t you see this? If Daddy has HD, then I’m at risk too.”

“Claire, don’t you think you’re out on a limb here?”

“Mom, I feel like someone is playing Russian roulette. And the gun is pointed at
my
head!”

“Are you overreacting? Isn’t there any treatment for this disease?”

“A few treatments for symptoms, but no cure. Mom, a diagnosis of HD would be death to a surgeon’s career.”

“I understand. Look, maybe I can talk to Mr. Knitter, but I’m not about to traipse all over the valley snooping into people’s lives, especially people I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem proper.”

“Momma!”

“Claire!” She huffed. “Try not to worry about this. You’ve got enough on your mind with all your studies. But if I run into Mr. Knitter, and if I find out Dr. Jenkins is right, and there are no family links around, will you drop this and pay attention to your dream?”

“Dr. Jenkins has his eyes closed, Mom. Either that or he’s embarrassed by missing a diagnosis, or worse. Why else would he be trying to get you to talk me out of my concerns?”

“He wants you to succeed, Claire, to be able to concentrate on your studies. Believe it or not, this whole little town that you think is so backwards, this whole town is excited for you. You’re going to be the first woman surgeon to come out of these parts. Don’t you think they’re not proud. So quit worrying, okay?”

“I’ll try, Mom.”

“Residency is hard enough without getting paranoid that every disease you see is haunting your own family.”

Claire’s voice was monotone. “Okay, Mom, I hope you’re right. I’ve gotta go. Tell Daddy hi for me.” Della could hear the frustration in her daughter’s voice. Claire always talked that way when she was trying not to sound mad.

Della pressed the “off” button on the phone, troubled by her daughter’s comments. She put the phone down on the porch swing beside her and stared out at the Blue Ridge mountains. She felt so suddenly alone, threatened by an avalanche of memories she had hoped to bury. If she
could only erase a month of her life, she’d delete the winter of 1972 and the images she couldn’t expunge.

It was an unchaperoned house call to a lonely navy wife, an innocent exam which initiated desire, and led to the unthinkable, a lifelong regret. It was temporary ecstasy in the arms of someone she was never intended to love.

The sound of glass shattering startled Della back to the present. She opened the screen door and rushed to the kitchen. There, on the floor, Wally flailed his arms in a mess of peach pie, milk, and fragments of a stoneware plate. His face was blue, and his eyes bulged. A gurgling sound came from his throat, and as he retched, his head bobbed on his neck like a beach ball on a turbulent sea. After a moment, he was still. Was this a seizure? Was he choking?

Della ran back to her phone and dialed 911. “My husband’s not breathing!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
he Wally McCall family sat together on the vinyl chairs in the corner of a crowded ICU waiting room. It was an awkward reunion, a forced gathering prompted by an unplanned emergency, as midnight vigils in hospital waiting rooms usually are.

Clay looked over the top of a hunting magazine. “You should call Claire.”

Margo yawned. “She just tried five minutes ago. Claire’s obviously not home.”

Clay’s head disappeared behind the magazine again. “Did you leave a message?”

Della blew her nose. “Of course.”

“Did you tell her that her father’s in the hospital, that he looks like he’s gonna die?”

Della yanked the magazine from his hands. “Will you put this down?” She looked at the cover, a picture of a hunter with a large dead animal beside him. “I feel like I’m talking to a moose.”

“It’s an elk, Mom.”

Margo stood up. “Would you guys call a truce?” She looked at a vending machine along the far wall. “Anyone want a soda?”

Della shook her head silently.

“Well,” Clay whined. “Did you tell Claire he’s hooked up to that breathing machine?”

Margo was searching through her jean’s pockets, retrieving a handful of change. “That’s not exactly the kind of thing that’s appropriate to leave as a phone message.” She sorted the coins. “Anyone have a dime?”

Della opened her purse and retrieved a quarter. “This is all I have.” She paused and looked at Clay, who seemed to be eyeing the magazine that she still clutched in her hand. “I just told her that her father was in the hospital in Carlisle and that I’d call back later.”

Margo accepted the quarter, then looked up and grabbed her mother’s arm. “It’s the doctor.”

Della dropped the magazine and stood to face a middle-aged man with a starched white coat with neat embroidered lettering above a breast
pocket: “R. W. Smuland, MD, Internal Medicine.” He slipped a thumb beneath his ample belt and nodded his balding head silently as if to announce the importance of what was to follow. He had two chins and, in Della’s opinion, was way too tan for a busy doctor.

Della gripped Margo’s elbow. Clay kept his seat and folded his arms behind his head.

The physician spoke at a low volume, and glanced around at the others in the waiting area. “Can we speak here?”

Della looked around. No one else seemed to be paying attention. “Sure.” She paused, angry that Clay had retrieved the magazine she’d dropped. She cast a disparaging glance in his direction before looking back at the doctor. “How is he?”

“Your husband has had a large aspiration.”

Margo squinted. “What?”

“He vomited and choked some of the material back into his lungs.” He wrinkled his forehead. “This is very common in alcoholics.”

“He’s not drinking anymore,” Della responded.

“Mrs. McCall, your husband had an alcohol level higher than the legal limit for intoxication.”

“No,” she responded. “I’m with him most of the time. He couldn’t have been.” Her voice trailed off as the physician folded his hands across his chest.

Margo patted her mother’s hand. “He was alone when you went to church.”

Clay spoke up. “She’s in denial, Doc. Tell ‘er. My dad has ‘er fooled.”

Margo snapped, “Shut up, Clay. Let the doctor talk.”

Clay huffed and lifted his magazine.

Della thought back over the day. Wally had done nothing but sit on the couch and stare at the TV all afternoon. He was there when she’d arrived back from the morning service, and he hadn’t replied to her questions. “Will he be okay?”

“It’s hard to say at this point. He is on the ventilator to assist his breathing. He was fighting the ventilator and jerking around so much that we’ve had to give him medicine to temporarily paralyze him.”

“He jerks around like that all the time. He’s been doing it for months,” Margo reported.

Clay turned a page noisily. “How would you know? You’re never around.”

Della rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered softly to the doctor. “But she’s right. He jerks his legs and arms. He can’t walk straight. It’s like he’s restless. Even in his sleep.”

The doctor squeezed his lips together and shook his head. “I’m afraid what I saw may be evidence of brain injury. He may have had some brain damage from lack of oxygen after he choked.” He unfolded his hands. “It may be a few days before we know.”

“Can you help him?”

“I’ve started him on antibiotics. I’ll support him with the ventilator. If he keeps fighting it, I’ll have to keep him sedated or paralyzed until his lungs improve enough for him to breathe on his own again.”

Margo tightened her grip on her mother’s hand. “Could he die?”

The physician nodded. “That’s a possibility.” He held up his hand with three fingers extended. “There are essentially three outcomes. He could decline and die in the hospital. He could survive and be brain damaged, or, hopefully, he could recover and be his old self again.”

Clay’s voice came from behind a magazine. “Like that’s something we should look forward to.”

Della reached for the magazine and gave it a sharp tug, but this time, Clay held it secure. They struggled for a moment, the magazine bobbing up and down between them, before she emitted a frustrated huff and let go.

She looked at the doctor who diverted his eyes to the floor, obviously not caring to observe two adults fighting over a magazine. She looked at Margo. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had stepped away, looking at the coins in her hand.

Della then turned her eyes back to Clay. His fingers were blanched where he gripped the periodical, a vein on his forehead protruded, and he scowled at the elk on the magazine’s cover.

She gathered the neck of her blouse beneath her chin and began to sob. She cried because she couldn’t reach Claire. She cried because she’d embarrassed Margo. And she cried because her husband was lying between life and death and his own son wanted to read a hunting magazine.

He doesn’t care if his father lives or dies.

Her next thought arrested her sobs, and came as an abrupt revelation, a horrible dose of reality which terminated her cries with the suddenness of a switching on of a lamp in a dark room. Suddenly, the things you deny are brightly illuminated, in plain view, and impossible to ignore any longer.

Della buried her head in her hands.
Wally is hanging between life and death … and
I
don’t even care.

Claire shopped all afternoon, carefully selecting two dresses, two skirts, a blouse, and a dress suit to use for more formal presentations. She took her
time and gladly paid the purchases in cash with the money from her first paycheck as a real medical doctor.

She had borrowed money throughout college and medical school, but she knew her day of accounting was near, and she had sat down before starting her internship to plan a repayment schedule for all of her school loans. She couldn’t afford to be extravagant, and her house rental took a fair share of the budget, but she saved on extracurricular spending, because she had too little time to spend money. Sunday, she made time, and judiciously made purchases out of need, not want, and had the rare insight of knowing the difference.

She ate supper at a local mall and seriously considered going to the beach to watch the sunset, but nixed the idea, knowing she would just end up at Brett’s. Instead, she went to Foster Park and walked along the Danberry River and considered the options for the night ahead. She could return home to sleep and be mauled by an intruder. Or she could return home to sleep and invite Brett to protect her, and face the jealousy of her fiancé and the temptations that came with having a hunk sleep on her couch. Or, she could stay in a hospital call room with her beeper off, unavailable to the nurse’s beck and call, and safe from vandalizing intruders.

She wondered about Roger Jones and how he was coping. He had dared to confront her with threats in a public place. What would restrain him from attacking her in private?

With her options analyzed, her obvious safe choice was the hospital. But what would a male intern do? She doubted they would cower in a call room. But then again, who would ever know?

She walked in quietly, hoping she wouldn’t run into Martin or anyone else who knew she wasn’t on call. She stole away into a small call room on the first floor and locked the door. She laid her call bag in the corner and sat at a small oak desk, the kind you might find in the homes of a middle-class high schooler.

She opened Sabiston’s
Textbook of Surgery
and turned to a chapter entitled “The Breast.” Finally, a subject where a female surgeon had a real advantage over her male counterparts, at least in the area of empathy. How could a man really understand what it meant to have a breast surgically biopsied or removed? She looked down at her own anatomy.

She read for a few minutes before remembering the promise she’d made earlier in the day, when just seeing the outside of a church made her feel guilty. She was going to read her Bible today, but she’d left it at home. She felt a pang of remorse and looked down at the massive book in front of her. But this was God’s work for her. Surgery was her calling. She’d felt that ever since caring for Grandma Newby.

It’s Sunday. I should have brought my Bible.

I’ll be back home Tuesday night. Certainly I’ll read my Bible then.
She looked around the meager call quarters. Neat. Clean. Safe.

I’ll read my Bible at home on Tuesday. If I go home.

By Monday morning at nine, with the CT fellow and the attendings in the OR, Claire and Martin slogged through the patient charts. There were transfer orders to write, progress notes to complete, labs and X rays to check, and medical students to teach.

Claire looked at the trio of students sitting at the counter writing notes. They were still a bit clueless, having just started their third-year rotations. Claire smiled. As hard as her job was, she wouldn’t change positions with them for a million dollars. They worked hard, got no respect, and still had to study for tests.