The Doctor Delivers

by Janice Macdonald

  “She has as much right to her opinion as you do.” Martin glared at Hodges, his pulse quickening. “You might even try listening to her yourself.” After a moment, he turned to Rita. “I’m sorry, what was it you were saying?”

  “I was just saying that if it’s not going to help her…” Her voice trailed off and she cast a nervous look at Hodges who stood with his arms folded across his chest. “Still, I suppose we should try everything first.”

  “Right then.” Martin addressed the respiratory therapist. “Since Rita would like us to try it…” Another pause. “Let’s give it a shot and see what happens.”

  He stood off to the side and watched as the respiratory therapist unplugged Holly from the ventilator and attached her breathing tube to the oscillator. The baby’s body shook with the force of the new machine’s rapid-fire movements. At this point, he knew they’d just about reached the limit, both technically and ethically, of what could be done to save her life. All they could do now was wait.

  He squeezed Rita’s arm, then, ignoring Hodges, left the unit. Minutes later, the man confronted him out in the corridor.

  “You know, Doc, I don’t think you’d like that TV gal to hear what I just heard in there.”

  Martin stared at him, unsure what the remark was supposed to mean.

  “The way it looks to me, you got money you get treated one way,” Hodges’s eyes narrowed. “If you don’t, tough shit. Forget about the fancy equipment—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Comprehension increased his irritation. “This has nothing to do with money. Maybe if you paid a little more attention.”

  “Hey, I know what I heard.” Hodges tapped the pocket of his polo shirt. “And I got a tape recorder in there that catches everything that’s being said—”

  “Good. Do yourself a favor and listen to it sometime.”

  “I bet you don’t have any kids yourself, right?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I knew it.” Hodges’s face was triumphant. “If you had kids of your own, you’d understand—”

  “If Holly were my daughter—” Martin fought to control his temper “—I wouldn’t want her to suffer needlessly.”

  “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say, but you don’t know, do you?” Hodges took a step closer. “’Cause she’s not your kid, right? So I don’t want to hear nothing about not treating her, or every goddamn reporter in town’s going to hear about it. Got that?” He stuck his index finger in Martin’s chest. “Huh, Doc?”

  “HEY, I THINK I saw your doctor on the news tonight. Irish accent. Tall, reddish hair. Dark blue eyes. Intense. Looks like he needs a shave.” Darcy, Catherine’s neighbor on the other side of the duplex, sat at the kitchen table drinking raspberry tea while Catherine folded laundry. “Cute though.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.” Catherine pulled open the drier door. “You think so?”

  Darcy worked as a waitress at the Jolly Roger in the marina and was quite expert at summing up men. Thirty-five, divorced and childless, she also took drama classes at Long Beach City College where she’d been a student for at least twelve years. A succession of different men moved quickly in and out of her life. All seemed wealthy in a vaguely shady way and after a week or two always turned out to be jerks.

  Catherine glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. She’d told Gary to have the children back by six. Phone lodged between her ear and shoulder, she tried calling him again while she surveyed the contents of the refrigerator. When his message machine came on, she hung up, took out cheese and a couple of eggs from the refrigerator. Quiche and a salad, she decided, and then it occurred to her that Gary wouldn’t be content with just thwarting her plans to buy Julie’s dress, he was probably stuffing both kids with junk food so they wouldn’t be hungry for whatever she’d cooked.

  “So what’s the story on this guy?” Darcy asked. “Is he married?”

  “What guy?’ Her mind still on Gary, she glanced over at Darcy, who wore a long black skirt, black lace-up boots, a black vest and what looked like a rosary.

  “Hellooo.” Darcy cupped her hands to her mouth. “Earth to Catherine. What’s with you tonight? It’s this doctor guy, right? Come on, drop the act. Every time you mention him, you blush.”

  “I do not.” Catherine ran her fingers through her bangs, glanced up at the clock again and mentally rehearsed what she was going to say to Gary. If she didn’t kill him first.

  “You’re really hot for him, huh?”

  “Hmm?” She bit her lip, looked at Darcy. “I’m sorry, I missed that.”

  “Jeez. You’re more absentminded than this college professor I dated. He used to walk out of the house, I kid you not, with the labels still on his clothes.” A pause. “Ten minutes after we screwed, he couldn’t remember whether we had or not…”

  “Come on,” Catherine protested.

  “No, that one was a joke, I just wanted to see if you were listening.” Darcy grinned, leaned across the table, stuck her face under Catherine’s. “I think we need to work on your doctor guy.”

  “He’s not my doctor guy.” She checked the clock again. “He’s someone else’s doctor guy. This incredibly beautiful pediatrician. Long red hair and white skin. And really tiny. I hate her.”

  “Hey, Cath, you’re not exactly chopped liver.”

  “Listen, we’re not even in the same league.” She started grating a block of Monterey Jack cheese. “I mean, I can fix myself up, but…I still have this high-school yearbook picture in my head. Big feet, big teeth.” She stuck out her teeth in a bucktooth grin. “I looked like a big goofy horse. Even a long mane of hair.”

  Darcy laughed.

  “I’m serious. Ask my mom. Well, no, don’t ask her because she’ll tell you if that I’d just watched my weight I could have had any boy I wanted. And then being something of a masochist for that sort of thing, I married Gary, who told me I had hips like a peasant. I’d always be baking cookies and stuff, but I never ate them because I was scared of getting fat.” She sipped her tea. “But I got fat anyway.”

  “Well, you look good now, Cath. Really. Don’t put yourself down.” Darcy’s eyes glimmered with interest. “But tell me about this guy. What is it about him?”

  “Martin?” She traced a pattern on the table with her forefinger. “Nothing. You think I should get my hair cut?”

  “No and quit changing the subject. He’s really hot, huh?”

  She shook her head at Darcy. “You are relentless.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Okay.” Actually, it was kind of a relief to finally unload. “Last night when we were talking, he looked at me and…”

  “And?”

  “Well, I actually felt weak. I swear, I’ve never felt that way before. I thought it was all a myth.”

  Darcy grinned. “Poor sheltered Catherine.”

  “Yeah, I know, what can I say?” She reached for the carton of Little Debbies, hidden behind cans of corn and green beans on the middle pantry shelf so that the children wouldn’t find them. It had been a Little Debbie kind of day. She threw the box onto the table and thought about how to describe Martin. “He’s got this reputation for being, I don’t know, kind of—”

  “An asshole?” Darcy’s expression was disapproving. “Just what you need.”

  “No.” Catherine ripped the plastic wrapping from the cake, surprised by the vehemence of her defense. “No, sort of an outsider. He’s very intense. Serious. At first I thought he was really cold, but he cares, I can tell. Not in some superficial way, but really deep down.” Blood rushed to her face. “God, listen to me. I hardly know him.” She bit into the cake. “Drop it, Darcy, okay?”

  “I’m going to fix you up.” Elbows on the table, Darcy regarded her. “You gotta have something else besides kids and work. This Martin guy probably comes with a load of baggage and you don’t need that. Listen, there’s this friend of Brad’s, I’ve met him. Nice-looking. He’s a lawyer.”

  A HORN HONKED, a car door slammed and Cathe
rine glanced at the clock. Ten. No chance of her buying Julie’s dress tonight. Gary had won this round. As she went outside, she caught a fleeting glimpse of his blond hair as the black BMW sped off into the night. The children stood on the grassy patch by the curb, their arms filled with packages. A faint drizzle beaded their parkas. In the glow of the street lamps, loaded down with their bundles, they seemed small and very vulnerable, their skin and lips a bluish hue, eyes huge and dark. Like little refugees, Catherine thought, shipped from one place to another. A chill ran through her, and she gathered them both to her sides. The bastard couldn’t even stick around until they were safely inside the house. Some father.

  “Mommy.” Julie tugged at Catherine’s hand, her voice shrill with excitement. “Let’s go in. I’ve got to show you something. You can’t look though.” Inside, she disappeared into her bedroom. “Don’t peek.”

  “Okay. I’m not moving.” Catherine looked at Peter who had immediately dropped on the floor in front of the television. “Hi, sweetheart.” She planted a kiss on the top of his head. “How did everything go? How was your day?”

  “Fine.” Peter didn’t move his eyes from the TV. “My bike got a flat tire. Dad fixed it.”

  She bit back an anger-fueled response. The divorce hadn’t been his fault. As she started to ask about his homework, Julie’s voice came from the bedroom.

  “Okay. Close your eyes,” she called with a squeal of excitement. “I’m coming out.”

  Catherine obeyed, heard a rustle of fabric, then her daughter’s breathless laughter. She felt her mouth curve in a smile. Felt overcome suddenly with a rush of tenderness. Whatever else went on in her life, she knew where her center was.

  “Okay. Now.”

  She opened her eyes. Julie, six, all blond curls and dimples, stood before her, a confection of peach-colored gauze and satin. For a moment Catherine couldn’t speak. Kneeling down on the floor, she hugged the child, kissed her face then leaned back on her heels to get a better look. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. You look like, I don’t know, an angel.”

  “It’s my new ballet dress, for my dance thing at school on Friday.” Julie executed a wobbly pirouette. “Isn’t it pretty?”

  “Dad and Nadia bought it for her,” Peter said from his seat by the TV.

  Catherine swallowed, felt her pulse quicken. She watched as Julie began a series of leaps across the room, arms flung wide, fingers and toes pointed. A final leap brought her down beside her brother.

  “Show Mommy what they bought for you.” She looked at Catherine, her eyes wide. “It’s soooo neat.”

  “Shut up, Julie.” Peter pushed her. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “You shut up.” Julie jumped onto the couch then leaped off and bounded back across the room. She stood in front of her brother, flapping her dress up and down. “Peter has a girlfriend,” she chanted.

  “Mom, make her shut up.” He scowled at his sister. “You’re lame.”

  “Am not.” She stuck out her tongue. “Not. Not. Not. You are. You said the F word. Four times.”

  “Julie.” Catherine caught her daughter’s hand. “Come and sit down with me.”

  “But he did, Mommy. I heard him.”

  “That’s enough, Julie.”

  “I like Nadia.” Julie regarded Catherine. Her face turned sullen. She curled a strand of hair around her finger. “Nadia’s nice. She said she’s going to take me shopping a whole lot of times. We’re going to do girl things. Daddy says she’s real pretty and smart.”

  Catherine met her daughter’s guileless blue gaze. A wave of anger washed over her, left a bitter taste in her mouth. Once again she felt her hands encircling Gary’s neck.

  “Watch, Mommy.” Julie broke away from her grasp and leaped suddenly across her line of vision, a blur of peach satin.

  Catherine looked away. The dress seemed to taunt. It wasn’t fair. She wanted to stomp and protest. She and Julie were supposed to buy the dress. She wanted to tell the child to take it off. Instead, she got up and walked over to the TV set where both children, now suddenly quiet, were watching a car chase. She sat on the floor between them, put an arm around each of their shoulders and pulled them against her.

  “I love you guys a whole lot, you know that?” They both nodded, their eyes glued to the screen. Catherine sat with them for a while, tried just to be with them, not spoil the present with negatives thoughts. She took a deep breath and began to feel calmer. Then she remembered the time and got up and switched off the set.

  “Come on, Mom,” Peter said. “Just let me watch this one show.”

  “Nope.” She kissed his nose. “It’s ten-fifteen and way past your bedtime. Come on.” She poked his ribs. “Up and at ’em.” After she’d got Julie to bed, hung the hateful ballet dress in the closet and kissed her good-night, Catherine went into Peter’s room. He was already undressed and in bed, his eyes wide open, fixed on the ceiling. She could hear the faint asthmatic rattle of his breathing.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” She sat down on the bed next to him, smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Do you need to use your puffer?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He reached under his pillow, pulled out the blue plastic inhaler. “That little puppy Dad bought Nadia? It’s supposed to not cause allergies but it kind of makes me wheeze.”

  “You didn’t have your inhaler with you?”

  “I guess I forgot it.” He exhaled, closed his lips around the plastic mouthpiece, depressed the metal top and inhaled. “Anyway,” he said after he’d let out a breath, “Dad said I should try to control the wheezing myself and not just rely on medicine.”

  “Well, since Daddy doesn’t have asthma, maybe he doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Catherine snapped, unable to hold back the words. “And maybe he shouldn’t have a dog in the house when he knows you’re allergic to them.”

  Peter toyed with the inhaler’s metal cylinder, his eyes downcast.

  “God, Peter, I’m sorry.” Filled with remorse now, Catherine bit her lip to stop the tears she could feel welling up. “It’s just that Daddy…” Is the world’s biggest jerk. “Well, we don’t exactly get along too well lately and…look, I didn’t mean to bring you into this. I’m sorry, really.”

  “It’s okay Mom.” He patted her arm. “Dad gets kinda…well it’s like he’s always bragging about how much money he and Nadia have and all the things they’ve got. Don’t let it get to you though. I like it better here, Julie does, too. Dad keeps asking if we want to live with him, but we both want to stay with you.”

  Catherine looked at her son’s pale face with its delicate bone structure, the still ragged movement of his breathing through his blue cotton pajama top. She saw the man he would one day become, imagined the other women who would think they loved him and the children he would one day sire and she knew that no one would ever love him with the fierce intensity she felt right then. Her throat closed and she reached over to hug him.

  “Thank you Peter,” she said finally. “You can’t possibly know how much that means to me.”

  “S’all right,” he said with a grin. “It’s kind of like I’m the man of the house now, huh?”

  THE LEATHER JACKET Gary had bought Peter probably cost the equivalent of what she made in an entire month, Catherine thought as she hung it in the hall closet, an exotic bird amidst the flock of inexpensive parkas and nylon wind-breakers. Hours after both the children were asleep, the expensive jacket and Julie’s equally costly ballet dress seemed like demons sent by Gary to torment her. And, despite Peter’s reassurances, they had succeeded.

  Her head propped up on pillows, feet dangling over the armrest, Catherine lay on the sofa and tried to analyze the anger that was pulsing through her blood. Segovia played on the stereo, a vanilla-scented candle flickered on the coffee table and cast an amber light on her glass of Chardonnay. Along with bubble baths, they were her usual remedies for relaxation, but tonight they weren’t helping. Over and over, like a stuck record, she replayed
the words she would say to Gary. I’m doing everything I can to provide for the children, and you’re undermining my efforts by buying them expensive gifts I could never afford. Not only that, but you’re dishonest. It’s not even your money. It’s Nadia’s.

  Over and over, the demented recording in her head played on. Every time she forced herself to think about something else, her brain eventually returned to the Gary sound track until she wanted to scream in frustration. When the Segovia piece finished, she padded over to the stereo, flipped through the CDs for something else to play, then decided she couldn’t be bothered. What was the point when it didn’t drown out the mental clamor?

  What really bothered her about Gary’s gifts and his campaign for the kids, she decided as she turned off the stereo, was that she, herself, somehow equated financial security with happiness. She blew out the candle, took the wineglass into the kitchen and rinsed it under the tap. Gary, or Nadia, had more money than she did and, Peter’s reassurances aside, she worried deep down that Gary was right, that perhaps he could somehow give the children a better life.

  Intellectually, she knew that they didn’t need expensive gifts to make them happy. But that didn’t stop her from feeling somehow inadequate. She hated the thought that Gary could afford to buy the children the kind of things she wanted to but couldn’t. Take him to court for more child support, her mother kept urging. A solution that would only give Gary more control. That definitely wasn’t the answer.

  She wiped off the counters, rinsed out the few dishes in the sink and stacked them in the drainer. The whole money thing went back to her own childhood. After her father walked out, there was never enough to go around. Her mother would buy clothes for her from thrift stores. Once, when she was thirteen, her mother had bought her a dress to wear to a birthday party. To this day, she could remember it. Pale green polished cotton patterned with tiny white flowers. The color brought out the green in her eyes and the cinched-in waist flattered her budding figure. She’d felt great until one of the rich girls at the party recognized it as one of her own castoffs, a discovery she’d announced to everyone.