Could I Have This Dance? (6 page)

“Mom, we need to get him some help.” Claire took her mother’s hand. “If he isn’t getting out at all, how is he getting the alcohol? Are you buying it for him?”

She shook her head. “Mostly Uncle Leon and a few friends, but honestly, Claire, it almost makes him bearable. It seems to take the edge off his irritability.”

“It probably just keeps him out of DTs, Mom.”

“He’s not interested in help. I can’t talk to him about it anymore.”

“Can I see him?”

Della sighed. “I don’t guess I can talk you into giving me an hour?”

“Mom, I’m family.”

Her mother walked back up the steps. “Come on. You’re as stubborn as he is, you know.” She pushed open the door. “Wally?” she called, lifting her voice. “Claire’s here.” She disappeared down the front hallway toward her bedroom.

Claire glanced around the dimly lit den and kitchen. An empty bottle of Jim Beam was on the kitchen counter, and the trash can overflowed with aluminum cans. Thankfully, most of them appeared to be Mountain Dew. The refrigerator had a picture of Margo, Claire’s sister, standing next to a pony. On the pony’s back sat her two nieces, Kelly and Casey. Claire touched the picture and looked closely at her sister’s obviously pregnant abdomen. She was expecting her third girl, Kristin, any day. It was her pregnancy that had kept Margo away from Claire’s graduation.
Lucky Margo. Maybe I should have stayed away from graduation, too.

She strained to hear her parents’ conversation. Her mother’s voice was muffled, her father’s loud but garbled. Bumping noises punctuated their speech, and it sounded as if a large object hit the floor.

She looked at the coffeemaker. The brew smelled old, the pot half-empty. Yesterday’s newspaper was open on the table, and a box of Rice Krispies was on its side, next to an empty bowl.

Claire took a seat at the table and scanned the paper, intermittently watching the hallway and the bedroom doorway beyond. The door swung open, and her father, in boxer shorts only, appeared momentarily in the hall. Della ushered him forcefully back into the bedroom again. More bumping, crashing noises followed, and her father’s protests seemed muffled. Claire imagined a shirt being forced over his head.

What is going on around this house? Can’t he dress himself?

Eventually, he appeared in the hallway again, slowly moving toward her, his gait wide-based and insecure, his hands reaching for first one wall and then the other. That’s when Claire noticed the bare walls. Once, dozens of family pictures had lined the hallway. It had been a constant joy for Della to show off the family to her friends. No longer. The pictures were gone, apparently to keep Wally from knocking them down during his clumsy passage through the hall.

To Claire, just the fact that her mother had taken down the pictures reeked of codependency. Why was her mother facilitating his self-destructive behavior?

Her heart was in her throat. She watched his lips twitch, as if he wanted to speak but didn’t know how to begin. She stood to greet him. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, Claire.” His speech was thick.

Her hand was against her mouth. “Oh, Daddy.”

He stumbled forward and on into the den. There, he collapsed onto the couch and stared at the floor. His arm lurched outward, then slowly descended to a resting place behind his head. He appeared to be chewing gum, his mouth in constant motion. His cheeks were sunken and his shirt hung on him limply, failing to conceal his wasting frame.

“Con—con—congratulations.” His head swayed gently.

“Dad, are you okay?” It was a dumb question. Claire regretted it instantly, but she didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m fine.” He looked up from the floor. “I thought you were heading off to be a surgeon. No time for your family anymore, is that right?”

“I want to be a surgeon. But not everyone makes it, Dad.” She paused, trying vainly to hold his gaze for more than a second. “But I did want to come and say good-bye. I wanted to see you before I left.”

“I—” He halted as his head jerked forward. “Hope you’re happy now.” His voice was flat, his face expressionless. It was as if his brain hadn’t notified his face of the emotions he should feel.

Claire looked at her mother. Della shrugged and pursed her lips, not speaking. She didn’t have to. Her look said it for her: “I told you this wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Daddy, how long have you—uh—” Claire stuttered and looked at her mother. “How long’s he been this way?”

“Going downhill for months. Years, really,” Della responded.

“I’m fine. I need a little drink is all.”

Claire shook her head. “Let me take you back to Brighton. They have a detox unit there. You can dry out. They can take care of you.” She attempted a smile. “Maybe fatten you up a bit.”

“I got all I need right here. Leave me be.”

“Daddy, you need help.”

He waved his fingers in the air, pointing first at Claire and then the floor. “Stop playing doctor, Claire. It’s okay for you to play that in the hospital, but you leave it at the door when you see me. I’m fine!”

“But Daddy—”

Della stood up. “Leave it alone, Claire.”

“Is that what you want? For me to leave him like this?”

“Shut up, Claire! Shut up!” he screamed. “First my mother, and now my daughter. And neither of you can leave me in peace.” His hands were flying around him again, this time one coming to rest on the couch, and the other onto an empty beer bottle on a side table.

“Just look at yourself, Daddy,” she cried, her voice breaking. “You used to be so much more.”

His fist closed around the bottle. “I said—said—said—” He lurched forward to the edge of the couch and threw the bottle over Claire’s head. It shattered loudly against the wall behind her.
“Get out!”

She shrieked, ducked, and watched her father tumble into a heap on the carpet in front of the couch.

Immediately Della was at his side.

“I want her out!” he cried.

Her mother looked up. “You’d better go. I’ll take care of this.”

“But—”

Wally mumbled something unintelligible.

“Go,” her mother urged. “I’ll take care of him. We’ll be okay.” She nodded. “Really, it would be best if you’d leave.” Della turned her attention to Wally, leaving Claire standing by the front door, her mouth open in disbelief. “There, there,” Della said softly. “Just a little fall. Let me help you up, dear.”

Claire wanted to scream.
What about me? He could have killed me with that bottle! And you just get down and comfort him?

She reached for the door and moved numbly to the car. In a minute, with gravel spraying behind her, she turned onto Route 319 to take her back to the interstate.

Five minutes later, she slowed at the paved lane leading up to her grandmother McCall’s mansion. She thought momentarily about stopping, then stepped on the gas. She couldn’t stand any more heavy conversation. Her short visit to Stoney Creek had already exhausted her, and it wasn’t even nine A.M. She could handle her grandmother with a letter. At least that way she wouldn’t have to listen to more foolishness about the town curse.

It was time for Claire to move on. She needed to be far away. Far away from the distractions of this crazy family and from the small-town atmosphere that fostered it. And, as much as she loved him, she wanted time away from John Cerelli, time to sort out her feelings and gain some objectivity.

She purposefully loosened her death grip on the steering wheel. “Just calm down, girl,” she said softly to herself. “Just calm down.”

Some things you can’t change. But you can take charge of your own future.

She thought about her father’s outburst, then brushed back tears so she could drive. She had wanted so much more from her visit.

So much for closure!

Part Two

Chapter Three

June 30, 2000

T
here is a deceptive softness to the mountains viewed from my bedroom window at my father’s house. When I was just a little girl, I used to imagine the tree-covered peaks as a colorful blanket cradling my body as I nestled into the wrinkled terrain. The illusion is only appreciated from a distance, however. Like life, my fantasy of pampered comfort dissipates with closer inspection. Thick prickly pinecones and briars appear. Jagged rocks come into view. Huge ones, the kind Easterners call boulders, with outcroppings the size of Uncle Leon’s Cadillac.

Tomorrow, I think I’ll miss those mountains. Tomorrow, July first, the day that strikes terror into the hearts of sick and dying patients in teaching hospitals everywhere. At least terror for those who are lucky enough to know. You see, July first is the day new doctors begin their training, unleashing their fresh degrees and arrogance, their clumsiness and naïveté, their aspirations for diagnostic greatness, all upon the innocent patients, none of whom volunteered for illness on the first of July.

Terror grips not only the hearts of the patients, but claws the soul of the intern as well. I know because I will be one: Dr. Claire McCall, intern, department of surgery

I feel sick. I bet I’ve forgotten everything. Tomorrow. Everything changes tomorrow, the day when I’ll be expected to know what to do when the nurses call.

Yep, I’m gonna miss those Blue Ridge Mountains tomorrow. Tomorrow? Who am I foolin’? I miss ‘em now. Today.

Claire closed her diary and slid it beneath the residency handbook in her lap and sighed. If surgery internship was anything like she’d been told, there wouldn’t be any more time for this. Recording her thoughts would be a thing of the past.

Her thoughts evaporated as the conference room erupted in laughter. Dr. Dan Overby, the administrative chief resident in surgery, smiled
broadly before chuckling at his own joke, the last in a string of one-liners about those physicians who had chosen the field of internal medicine. “Fleas,” he called them: the last ones to leave a dying dog.

Claire smiled nervously and wondered what she’d missed. She focused on the overweight man at the podium. He had short brown hair, moist either from grease or hair gel, and little round wire-rimmed glasses that sat halfway down his pudgy nose. Along with his enormous size, rumors about Dr. Overby’s feats within the university hospital made him legendary among the house staff. All the new interns had heard of his operative speed, his finesse under the attending’s glare, and his memorization of the current surgical literature. “Dr. O,” the patients called him. To the house staff, he was just “Dan,” or “O,” or “Dan-the-man,” or “the O-man.”

“Welcome to the medical Mecca,” Dan chuckled again, straightening his tie and pulling his white coat lapels forward in a futile attempt to cover his expansive abdomen. “Your mother may think that the Cleveland Clinic or the Mayo Clinic represent the pinnacle in medicine, but I’m here to inform you otherwise.” He made eye contact with Claire. “Being a surgical intern in this university places you among the elite.” He paused, taking time to look at each of the twelve new recruits seated in front of him.

The chief resident continued. “Dr. McGrath has already explained the division of services. Now I’m here to tell you how to survive.”

There was more nervous laughter from the twelve interns. Claire watched the others from the corner of her eyes and fought the urge to pull out a legal pad to take notes.
The last thing I want is to look like a medical student again.

“Rule number one. Eat when you can.” He looked around the room before pulling a pack of crackers from his pocket. “Here,” he added, tossing it to the closest intern. “There will be many days and nights with too much to do, when you think that you can’t make time for a meal.” He smiled. “But don’t believe it. If you don’t eat, you can’t work to your potential.

“Rule number two. Everyone teaches a tern.”

Claire nodded. It was apparent that this was a term of endearment to the chief resident. It was his slang for “intern.”

“You can and will learn from everyone around you. Your patients are your teachers. Their families are your teachers. The
nurses,
as irritating as they can be, are your teachers. Even the medical students, as exasperating as they will be, have more time to read than you do. Treat them right, let them help you with a procedure, and they might be willing to find an article that will help you on rounds.

“Conversely, come in here with a God complex …” He paused and turned his nose in the air and imitated the attitude he discouraged,
“I’m
a
surgical intern in the Mecca.” He shook his head. “Come in here with that attitude, and you won’t be around long enough to see what it looks like from the top of the pyramid.”

The
pyramid.
It wasn’t a word Claire wanted to be reminded of. Half of the interns audibly groaned. It referred to the structure of the surgical residency. There were twelve spots for interns, eight spots for second-year residents, five for third-year residents, and four spots each for the fourth year and the fifth, or chief residency, year. There were also a variable number of research lab spots when grant money was available for residents who had academic or research aspirations. The lab also served as a holding tank, a place for residents to study to improve their in-service test scores in the hopes that they could propel themselves back into a coveted third-, fourth-, or fifth-year clinical position. Almost everyone spent time in the lab, making the residency a six-year program for many, and a seven-or eight-year marathon for some. The pyramid fostered competition. The pyramid prompted long hours, desperate commitment, and ruthless back-stabbing. You needed to shine, to perform, above the level of your peers, or you might not be promoted to the next year.

“Rule number three. If you don’t know, ask. We won’t tolerate lone rangers. Anyone acting like a cowboy or a loose cannon is sure to sit before the residency review board before next May when we select the second-year residents. It’s better to ask than guess. You’re not taking a test on paper anymore. Tomorrow, you will have real patients, God help them, and
what you don’t know will hurt them!”