Could I Have This Dance? (50 page)

“Stay here, Claire. I was just joking.”

She took a deep breath and tried to keep from raising her voice. “I thought it was sweet for you to treat me so nice, making dinner, giving me flowers. You acted like a perfect gentleman. But you’re not being a gentleman now. I want to know what happened. And you’re playing with me.”

“Claire, I said I was joking.”

He paused, and she studied his serious expression. She was seeing a side of Brett that she didn’t like, a side that didn’t seem to mind seeing her squirm.

Brett smiled and added, “I was joking. You never called me John.”

“Brett!”

He appeared to soften, perhaps finally sensing Claire’s rising temperature. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you the truth.” His eyes were clear, and his voice low, wavering once or twice, thick with emotion. “You’ve got to know how I feel about you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you that day at the beach. But try as I may, every time I make a move, you’ve turned me away. But not the other night. After dinner, you were the one making the moves. You made it abundantly clear what you wanted from me.”

Claire blushed. Was he telling the truth?

Brett continued. “But I’m no fool, Claire. I’m at this university hospital for one reason, and one reason only. Because I want to be a surgeon. And sleeping with a woman who only wants me when she’s drunk sounds like a problem to me.” This time he stood up, his face still serious. “I’ll be seeing you. I need to get back to the lab.”

“Wait, Brett,” she called to his back, but he kept walking and disappeared through the cafeteria exit.

Claire stared at her uneaten salad, amazed at what had just transpired. She’d gone from anxiety, to anger at Brett, to guilt for her behavior. Her self-accusations began.
You were angry because you thought he might have taken advantage of you, and you come to find out that you were the one playing the part of the aggressor.

Wasn’t that just like a McCall, acting deplorably under the influence of alcohol? For all these years she’d held up her righteous little war against drinking, and then she fell right into the same trap. Some Christian she was.

She was a lot more like her father than she’d ever admit.

She looked around, relieved that the crowd of people around her seemed too consumed with their own lunches to be observing her.

She stood and took her tray of uneaten food to a conveyor belt where it would be taken back to the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry.

She was due in the OR to assist on a laparoscopic cholecystectomy. She was assigned to run the camera, which meant she needed to concentrate every moment to keep the video camera centered on the action. If the cameraperson drifted off, thinking of something else, everyone in the room immediately knew, as the video monitor would show a picture somewhere other than where the surgeon was working. Claire performed flawlessly, disliking only the way her chief resident elbowed her in the chest every time he changed his grasp of the gallbladder.

At five, she gathered with the oncology team for teaching rounds. When she arrived, she found Pepper entertaining the medical students with a rubber Foley catheter. Normally used as a flexible tube to drain the urinary bladder, Pepper had invented other unique uses for the device. He slid the open tip of the catheter beneath his scrub tops into his left armpit, trapping it against his body with his arm. He put the other end in his mouth and blew. The resultant raspberry noise was a brilliant imitation of forceful colon gas expulsion. The male medical students snickered. Claire rolled her eyes and snapped, “Grow up.”

Pepper only grinned. “I can play ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ with a chest tube. Want to hear?”

The Foley catheter disappeared when Dr. Rogers arrived. During attending rounds, the interns and patients endured a litany of questions about cancers, the treatment, and the potential complications of surgical therapy. Pepper was on top of his game and couldn’t be stumped. He even quoted a recent publication when answering a question about breast cancer. Claire was tired and distracted by hunger. She bobbled a question about how to handle metastatic colon cancer, but came through when asked about melanoma.

After rounds, they sat through a lecture by a visiting professor from Boston who talked about pheochromocytomas, something Claire would see on the board exams but would be lucky to treat once in a lifetime of private practice.

Claire drove home with her spirit showing a dramatic limp. She was scheduled to scrub on a pancreatic resection in the morning, and she knew
it was important to read up on the procedure, especially since the chairman, Dr. Rogers, was the attending. Since the interns each only got one month on his service, it was of critical importance to shine when you had the chance. She wouldn’t be doing the procedure as an intern, but all of the questions would be directed to the intern first, before the chief resident, who would actually be doing the case. Although a medical student would be present, the chairman would ignore him, considering his presence equivalent to a mechanical retractor. He spoke to a medical student only if he relaxed on the job.

But she felt like sleeping. Perhaps she could get up thirty minutes early to read about pancreatic cancer. Hopefully, skimming the high points would prevent her from making a fool of herself.

The mailbox contained a rare piece of personal snail mail, a letter from John Cerelli. Immediately, her heart quickened. News from home was like an oasis to a desert traveler. She collapsed on the couch and ripped open the letter.

My dearest Claire,

I am writing with a heavy heart. I’ve never been very good with spoken words, so I thought I’d put what I need to say on paper, in hopes that you will understand.

I have cried enough in the last twenty-four hours, tears I thought I was too much of a man to shed. I know all about Brett, and I am releasing you from our engagement. He certainly seems to respect you, at least enough to encourage me to talk this out with you in private, and avoid an ugly confrontation with all of us present.

I’m sure by now you know of my surprise visit to Lafayette, but I suppose the surprise was all mine. I never expected to find a man living at your place, and I never dreamed when I gave you a diamond that it would sit unworn on your desk.

I guess if the truth be known, I sensed your ambivalence from the moment you accepted it. I suppose I was just a dreamer to think I could hold such a prize as you from such a long distance and with the demands of surgery taxing you on a daily basis.

I’m thankful for the time we had together. Don’t cry for me. I know God will continue to work out his plan for me.

If I have one regret, it is for the way I treated you. I was fooled into thinking that sex could be okay for our relationship, that our relationship was different, special, and that certainly God didn’t demand a marriage license for us to enjoy what he’d created. Boy,
was I wrong! I’ve opened a Pandora’s box of temptation for myself and stolen a gift you can never regain. Can you ever forgive me?

I’d appreciate having the ring back. I hope that asking doesn’t seem too tacky, but I know you’re not wearing it when I’m not around anyway.

Sincerely,
John Cerelli

Claire’s head began to swim. John Cerelli had been here? John talked to Brett? She didn’t understand. What had Brett told him? Why didn’t Brett tell her John was here?

She thought back to the evening she’d spent with Brett. Obviously John must have shown up before she came home and found Brett preparing dinner. She dropped her head into her hands. Unless John showed up after she passed out. If that was the case, what would he have seen? Her on the couch with Brett? Or worse? She remembered how Brett had described her behavior to him that night. The thought that John could have witnessed that kind of drunken behavior horrified her.
Oh God, how did I ever get this so messed up?

She read the letter a second time. There was no mention of seeing her and he specifically stated, “I’m sure by now you know of my surprise visit to Lafayette.” Certainly that meant he didn’t see her, didn’t it?

She ran her hand through her hair and sighed. What would John have seen if he showed up late, after Claire was in her own bed? Her bra on the floor? Evidence of a romantic candlelight dinner?

She felt sick. And guilty. She couldn’t exactly call John and ask him what he saw. Maybe she could call Brett and ask him. But he wasn’t any too happy with her either.

Oh well, it was the lesser of two evils. She picked up the phone and called Brett. After two rings, his answering machine picked up, and Claire pushed the “Off” button.

She took a deep breath and dialed John. She had to talk this out. “Hello.”

“John.” She paused. “It’s Claire.”

He was silent for a moment. She heard the TV quieting down, as if he was walking out of the den. “Yeah.” His voice was sober, definitely not enthusiastic.

She wasn’t sure where to start. “I got your letter.” “Good.”

Great. This is so like John. He clams up on the phone. This is serious, and he’s going to give me one-word answers.

“John, I don’t think you understand about Brett.”

“I understand enough.”

“John, it’s not what it seems. I—”

“Claire, I saw what was going on. I saw the romantic dinner. I saw my ring. I even called back later in the night when I couldn’t quite believe what I’d seen. And he answered the phone.” He coughed nervously. “I understand plenty.”

“John, I didn’t sleep with him. We had dinner—”

“A candlelight dinner, Claire. With wine. Do we really have to go over this? I think my letter should be a gracious enough response to this situation.”

“But you’ve got it wrong.”

“Do I? Did you want him to stay?”

She sighed. “Yes, but—”

“Look, Claire, you don’t really have to tell me about this. I’m not really in the mood to hear about this.”

“When did you show up?”

“Right before dinner, I guess.”

That relieved her a little. “And just what did Brett tell you?”

“Claire, I really don’t feel like going over this.”

“You assume you know what’s going on. That’s not fair, Cerelli. You don’t trust me.”

“Are you wearing my ring?”

Her right hand grasped her left ring finger. She still hadn’t put the ring on since Brett had cleaned it for her in the lab. “I do wear it. I just—”

“Save it, Claire. Engagement is a commitment, just like marriage. It’s to one person. And I’m not about to jump into marriage if you are acting this way now.”

“Me? You don’t trust me. And the last time I checked, trust is a pretty important component of a relationship’s foundation.”

“Trust? How can you twist this and blame me for this?”

“John, I’m not blaming you. I just want you to stop jumping to conclusions and hear me out.”

She heard John breathing into the phone. “Okay,” he snapped. “Tell me your side.”

“He surprised me with the dinner. I didn’t know he was going to do it. It wasn’t my idea.”

“Did you like it?”

“Sure, but women like that kind of treatment.”

“But you’re not supposed to get that treatment from anyone except me. That’s the deal.”

“So what was I to do? Tell him to pack up and get out? He was just doing me a nice favor. He’s a surgery resident. He knows what internship is like.”

“Why does he have a key?”

“He doesn’t.”

“He told me you gave him one. Otherwise, how could he have gotten in to surprise you? And just because he cooks you a meal doesn’t mean he gets to have a sleepover.”

“It’s not what you think, John. Remember what I told you about the little girl who died in the CT scanner?”

He sighed again. “Yes, but what’s that—”

“Let me finish. Her father is suing me for malpractice. And someone called my house the other night and called me a baby killer, and said he’d be watching.”

“Who? The father?”

“I don’t know. The caller wouldn’t identify himself. But it’s made me so scared that staying in my house alone frightens me.”

“So I guess Brett is just being a good Samaritan and volunteering to stay overnight to protect you, huh? Give me a break! He has other intentions, Claire.”

“We don’t sleep together, John.”

“Just what do you do after a romantic dinner with wine?”

“You know what happens when I drink wine. Remember that New Year’s Eve party at Amy and Larry’s? One glass of wine and I—”

“I remember, Claire. That’s what scares me.” He paused. “Okay, just what did you do?”

She bit her bottom lip and squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t remember exactly. I think I just passed out on the couch.”

“Oh, that’s rich. This Brett has eyes for you, and you get drunk, and he’s got you right where he wants you.”

“I told you I didn’t sleep with him.”

“And you also said you don’t remember what you did. How do you know?”

“I asked Brett.”

“You asked him? You were that unsure?” John’s voice was booming.

Claire started to cry. “I’m sorry, John. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

John’s breathing was heavy in the phone for a moment. This conversation wasn’t going the way she wanted.

“I’m sorry, too,” he responded. “I wouldn’t have wanted it to be this way.”

“Why don’t you come back up? We can talk this out.”

“It seems to me that you have all the support you need right there.”

“John, don’t do this. Don’t push me away.”

“I’m not pushing, Claire. I’m holding you with open arms. You’re the one who chose to run away from Virginia. You’re the one who chose to walk away from me—”

“I’m not walking away—”

“Having a candlelight dinner with your doctor friend is walking away.” John’s voice was strained, and his voice choked when he tried to speak again. “Send me the ring, Claire. I’ve still got enough self-respect to not allow myself to be mistreated.”

“This is your decision, John.”

“No, Claire, you made these choices. I’m just requesting that you stop playing games with my heart.”

She hung her head. She was exhausted. John was hurt. And as much as she hated to admit it, even if she had been faithful not to actually sleep with Brett, she hadn’t been faithful in her heart. “Okay.”