Could I Have This Dance? (46 page)

She sniffed and blinked back the tears. “I don’t feel very strong.” She turned her head and clung to his broad shoulders. She needed the support. Brett was offering it freely. So why did she feel on edge? She could sense his breath quickening. Slowly, softly, he was applying pressure on her lower back, edging her even closer.

Her thumb felt for the diamond on her ring finger. She spun it around and closed her fist. She felt his breath on her hair, on her ear. The hairs on her arms stood up as she tilted her neck to allow his face access to her neck. He nudged her earlobe with his nose, then his lips. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Claire closed her eyes and tried to push aside her hesitancy. She longed for comfort, and his arms felt strong and secure. She shifted her upper body against his, her skin fully aware of his warmth.

She pinched her eyes closed and put her palms on his shoulders. She pushed back and avoided his gaze. His fingers drew across her back and arms, lingering, tracing a meandering path down her arms as she backed away. His touch electrified her. His hands were lightning, warm, and full of energy. With her throat suddenly parched, her breath came in short gasps. As much as she wanted to surrender to the comfort he wanted to give, resting in his arms felt like a betrayal. “I—I should finish this dictation.”

Brett took a step forward and swept her into his arms. In a moment, his mouth was on hers, kissing, searching. Her movement was firm, more decisive than she felt, her hand against his chest pushing forcefully until her arm was at full extension.

“No.”

She saw a flash of fire in his eyes. Hurt? Passion? Anger? She watched as he pumped his hand into a fist.

“Claire—”

“I can’t. I—”

“You can!” Brett stepped away, still holding his hand in a fist. “You talk with your lips, not with your heart.”

Claire shook her head. “No.”

“Claire, listen to your heart,” he pleaded.

“Don’t do this to me. I need you. I need you as a friend, a confidant. No one else in this department has heard the story I told to you.”

Claire watched as Brett took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips.

“Sometimes I think I should just quit the program.” It was an admission that shocked her, even as she spoke. “Just one more straw on this camel’s back, and I’m outta here, back to Stoney Creek and a simple life.” She dropped her eyes to the table. “The Lord knows my mother could use the help with my father.”

“You wouldn’t quit. You’ve lived for this.”

“What makes you think you know what I will do? And how can you presume to know my heart?”

“I—well, I—” He threw up his arms. “Vibes, I guess.”

“Vibes?”

“Good vibrations. I thought you felt what I felt.” He looked down.

“Brett, the last thing I want to do is hurt you. If I’m sending you vibrations, it’s out of my own confusion.”

Brett looked at his watch. “I’d better leave you. I know Rogers has you on a tight schedule.” He took a step to the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Brett, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Brett gathered up their trash from lunch. “I’ve got to get back to the lab.” He opened and shut the door without saying good-bye, leaving Claire alone. She sunk to her chair and stared at the Dictaphone.

I must be see-through. If I have an ounce of desire for that man, he can sense it like I’ve shouted it from a stage.
She paused.
I’m just like Grandma, inviting unwanted advances … or are we getting what we want?

“God,” she whispered. “I finally decide to share my problems with another resident, and I just seem to end up with one more problem.”

Looking at her watch, she shook her head and backed up the Dictaphone to listen to what she’d just recorded.

Then, picking up where she’d left off before Brett’s interruption, she took a deep breath and continued.

The blue rental Dodge Durango SUV wove across the double yellow line as Billy Ray Davis squinted at the map. He swerved back and muttered a
curse as the driver of an eighteen-wheeler loaded with turkeys laid on the horn. A feather lodged momentarily on his windshield before flying off toward a field of corn to his right. “Blasted poultry trucks!”

He pulled out a cell phone and started to dial with his thumb, but when the road curved sharply to the right again, he lost his place and decided it was time to find a place to stop.

He found a gas station in Berryville and pulled in for gas, a six-pack of Heineken, and a large bag of jalapeño nuts. He’d found the delicacy on a recent trip to the South, and loved the peanuts seasoned with peppers enough to endure the heartburn he was sure to experience. That’s why he bought the Heineken. Not that it made the heartburn better; in fact, it made it worse. His physician had said something about relaxing his gastroesophageal sphincter or some such fancy doctor-speak. But the Heineken would cool him down enough to sleep, even if the peanuts tortured him.

Ramsey had insisted he leave right away. “We’ve got to do our groundwork early, before everyone is on their toes,” the attorney instructed. But now, Billy Ray was lost on a country road, buying beer at a mom-and-pop gas joint, with a map that didn’t even show a town by the name of Stoney Creek.

He found the nuts without a problem, but settled for an American brew when he discovered that the store didn’t sell imported beer. He placed a case of Michelob on the counter and smiled at the woman behind the counter. He knew she had been admiring his new vehicle, and he had dressed the part of a professional, so he opened his wallet and told her it handled a little rough, but was much more fun than his Mercedes at home.

The woman appeared to be in her forties, fifties maybe, pretty well preserved for a hardworking country woman. She eyed the beer.

“Want to see an ID?” Billy winked and lifted his hand to his temple. “Prematurely gray.”

The woman smacked her chewing gum. “Whatever.” She smiled back and whistled between the gap in her front teeth. “I earned every gray hair I own.”

Billy Ray stared at her big hair for a moment before asking, “Ever heard of a town called Stoney Creek?”

She eyed the man suspiciously. “Are you a reporter?”

Billy Ray pushed his shoulders back. “Me? No.” He snickered. “Why?”

“'Cause just last week some feller driving a vehicle just like yours came through asking about Stoney Creek. Said he was writing about solving the curse or something. Seems our little Stoney Creek has caught the eye of some of the doctors over at Brighton University.”

Billy Ray leaned forward to study the gap in her front teeth. Every time she said an “S” sound, it came spraying right through her front teeth, whistling as it sailed past her ruby red lipstick.

“Hmmm. So you know of it?”

“Sure. Just take this road south to bypass Brighton. Then head west on Highway 2 toward the Apple Valley. First town is Fisher’s Retreat. The second is Stoney Creek.”

He paid for his purchases and settled back into the rental. He opened the nuts and buried his bulbous nose into the foil container. After inhaling deeply, he moaned. The heartburn would be worth it. He tossed his first handful into his mouth and pulled back onto the road.

He reviewed what he could remember about the extraordinary woman he knew only by name and the data he’d collected. Born a twin, Elizabeth Claire McCall had risen above the normal dismal heights of her small-town roots. Billy Ray had focused his early search on Claire’s academic records, hoping to find something that could be exploited to their advantage, hoping to uncover a fact that could paint a picture of the young doctor as less than studious, less than dedicated to her craft or the patients she served. But, so far, every academic rock he overturned revealed her to be a stellar example of what every patient wanted. She was consumed with excellence, and her nose seemed to be pointed straight toward her goal. If he could find a flaw, it wouldn’t be in the grade book.

Ramsey had made him tail her for a week, back in Lafayette, hoping to find a drinking problem, or a tawdry affair with a married attending, or anything which could make a jury understandably concerned about her judgment. But other than one stop at a grocery store, the young intern spent all of her waking hours at the hospital. If there was a weakness, it was that the poor girl never got out. Maybe the overworked, sleep-deprived angle would work to their advantage. It had worked for Ramsey in the past. Maybe it could work again.

Billy Ray sighed. The nuts were burning the back of his throat. He eyed the Michelob. Maybe just one on the road wouldn’t be so bad. He checked the rearview mirror and carefully screwed off the cap of a cold beer. He took a long swallow before shoving the bottle between his legs to hold it steady. He turned right on Highway 2, and soon discovered that he needed both hands for adequate control on a road he swore was designed by an engineer with a tremor.

Why couldn’t Ramsey just be content to play the sleep-deprived intern angle again? No, Ramsey always had to have a backup plan. “There are skeletons in everyone’s closet, Billy Ray,” the attorney proclaimed. “It’s our job to bring them out so the jury has a chance to judge for themselves.” It
seemed relevancy to the case had little to do with Ramsey’s exhaustive searches. Anything and everything which could create an environment of mistrust of the accused would be used to his advantage.

On the first straight stretch of road, Billy Ray grabbed the rearview mirror and adjusted it so he could see his face. He smiled at himself, then picked a nut fragment from between his teeth.

“Hello, ma’am,” he practiced. “I’m Harvey Bridges with the Great South Health Plan. May I have a moment of your time to show you our policies?”

That evening during attending rounds, Dr. Rogers treated Claire as if their encounter earlier in the day had never happened. She followed his example, obviously meant to instruct her that she was never to mention the suit outside a carefully monitored situation.

After rounds, she sent Pepper home and proceeded to slog through the scut list. There were two central lines to change, one new admission from clinic to pre-op for a gastric resection, and a few X rays to follow up. She changed the first central line and talked a medical student through the second one. She had been brought up at Brighton University Medical School to observe the philosophy “see one, do one, teach one.” It made her extremely popular with students who were normally relegated the lowest scut jobs on the ward.

By seven, she made it to the cafeteria for a bowl of cooling vegetable soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. She sat at a table with Beatrice Hayes and her senior resident on the neurosurgery service, Dave Barnum. “Hi, guys,” she offered with a smile.

“Evening, Claire,” Dave responded.

Beatrice looked up and moved her tray an inch closer to Dave’s. “Oh, hi, Claire.”

Claire stared at her plate for a moment and thought about praying.
I feel like such a hypocrite, God. I’m not pious at home. Why should I pretend to be here?
She picked up her spoon and lifted the soup to her lips.

Dave looked like so many neurosurgery residents; working long hours was taking its toll on his demeanor. He tapped his fingers against his furrowed brow. “Whose service are you on?”

“Oncology.”

Beatrice lifted her eyebrows. “Ooh. Getting a chance to impress the chairman?” She pushed back from the table and crossed her legs. “I hear he’s been in a bear of a mood lately. I hear he’s in a funk about a lawsuit.”

Claire didn’t flinch. “Really?”

Claire watched them exchange glances. Obviously they expected something else. They must know about the suit. They were just baiting her.

“Come on, Claire, I know you’ve heard something.”

She held her ground. This was just a test. “I really shouldn’t say,” she responded quietly. She locked eyes with Bea’s. “Just what do you know?”

“Nothing, really. I just heard someone is suing the university over some resident screwup. Pity the poor resident that has to take the fall for a department that Dr. Rogers heads up. He’s not likely to let the blame get too close to him or his department.”

Claire tried to swallow the bite of grilled cheese sandwich in her mouth, but she seemed suddenly short of saliva. She reached for a soda for assistance. She stayed quiet for a minute, focusing on sipping her soup, but not really appreciating its taste. Her mind was on a little girl with a purple bicycle.

After a few more minutes, she watched Beatrice brush a few crumbs from Dave’s thigh and smile. “I guess we should go. I hope you have a quiet night.”

“Thanks. You too,” Claire responded. She watched the duo walk out, shoulder to shoulder, barely a molecule of space between them.
Watch out, Dave. She only wants to climb the pyramid.

After supper, Claire made post-op rounds on the patients who had undergone surgery that day and retired to a call room for a date with her Sabiston text. By eleven her eyes were heavy and she drifted into a fitful slumber. At one, she responded to the emergency room to see a colon cancer patient with a bowel obstruction. It had been twenty-four hours since the patient had passed any flatus and the X ray showed dilated small intestine. It was time to summon the chief resident.

They had the patient in surgery by three, finished by five, and had an hour and a half to sleep before rounding again. Drew Tripp, the chief resident, looked whipped. He’d had two nights in a row in the OR. Claire studied his unshaven chin for a moment and pondered her own plight. At least an intern got every other night off. The chief residents, with the exception of the trauma service, had to respond to their service’s demands every night.

After rounds, Claire helped with the daily notes, missed lunch while pulling on an abdominal retractor during a gastrectomy, and attended an afternoon tumor conference. During the gastrectomy, she wedged her slender frame between the operating surgeon, Drew Tripp, on her right, and the board supporting the patient’s arm, on her left. Surgical procedures, she had learned, forced the team together, bodies in close contact in order
to concentrate on the same small field. Right Guard, peppermint gum, and a tolerance to having your body pressed against your assistant’s were prerequisites. Whenever she relaxed her grip on the hoe-shaped metal retractor lifting the abdominal wall out of the surgeon’s way, the chief resident would repeat, “Ski, baby, ski,” making reference to the leaning-back motion used while holding a water-skiing towline. She must have heard it thirty times. Every time she changed her position to relieve her forearms of the cramps, the phrase was the same. “Ski, baby, ski.”