The Doctor Delivers

by Janice Macdonald

  The memory of that dress still made her cringe. Even though thrift stores were kind of trendy now—Darcy always shopped in them—Catherine couldn’t bring herself to go inside one.

  She locked the doors and turned off the lights in the kitchen. In the bedroom, she flipped on the bedside lamp, one of her mother’s garage-sale acquisitions. A hideous yellow frilled number, but it had been a birthday present and Catherine didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. Same with the orange velvet couch her mother had purchased, although fortunately not as a gift. “It only cost fifteen dollars,” she’d said. Catherine had maintained a tactful silence. These days, her mother’s salary as an office manager didn’t require the sort of penny pinching she’d had to do after her husband walked out, but she still fretted endlessly over money. Her other advice to Catherine was to, “Find someone else as soon as you can. It’s too hard to make it without a man bringing home some money.”

  Ironically, marriage to Gary had only reinforced the notion. His income had allowed Catherine to create the kind of home life she felt children should have. And which she herself had always wanted. Then he’d walked out on her and the money problems had started all over again.

  She pulled off her jeans, shoved them in the closet, unclasped her bra, let it drop to the ground and unbraided her hair. Struck by a thought, she sat on the edge of the bed. If financial security equaled happiness, and you couldn’t be financially secure without a man, then maybe the answer was to find another man.

  At first, she dismissed the idea as ridiculous but after a while she began to reconsider. Despite Gary, the happiest she’d ever been in her life was when she’d been a full-time mother to her children.

  By contrast, her life these days was one giant compromise. However hard she worked, she would never be able to provide for them in the same way that Gary and Nadia could. And the problem wasn’t just the material things, it was having enough time to be the kind of mother she wanted to be. That she couldn’t be under the present circumstances.

  So why not marry again? The children aside, what would be so bad about sharing her life with someone else once more? Waking up next to a warm body instead of cold emptiness? She lay back on the bed, watched the rise and fall of her breathing. Restless with her thoughts, she got up and walked over to the dresser mirror.

  In the shadowy light of the bedside lamp, she stared at her reflection. Her unbraided hair fell around her shoulders and breasts like a cloak, the ends reached the cotton band at the top of her panties. When she moved, the long dark strands parted to reveal the tips of her nipples. While her breasts weren’t the gargantuan wonders they’d seemed in high school, they were still big enough to make her feel self-conscious in a formfitting sweater and, her stomach, even before childbirth, had never been completely flat. Would a man find her desirable?

  Hands cupped around her breasts, she tried to imagine a man’s mouth on them. Martin’s face floated into her mind. The image made her heart race, her breath come in short bursts. In the next instant, embarrassed and furious with herself, she jumped up from the bed, and yanked on her bathrobe.

  God, she was a fool. Her face hot, she tied the bathrobe tight around her middle. Who the hell was she with her big boobs and untoned body to think she even had a chance with him, when right at that very moment he was probably banging the petite and perfect white body of Dr. Valerie Webb? Angry at herself, at men in general, at women who looked like Valerie Webb, she went into the kitchen and microwaved a cup of hot water. When the timer pinged, she took a chamomile tea bag from the canister and dropped it into the cup.

  Of all the men to develop a crush on, why the hell did it have to be Martin Connaughton? Darcy was probably right, he came with a load of baggage she didn’t need. Actually the lawyer Darcy had mentioned might be a really good idea. A little pro bono legal advice on how to fight Gary—with a side order of sex. She didn’t need marriage for that. And the kids didn’t need expensive clothes.

  Besides, the financial security her marriage had offered had also exacted a considerable price. She’d paid by giving up little bits of herself: pride, self-esteem, independence. From the day they were married, she hadn’t made a single decision about her own life that didn’t revolve around Gary or the children. For fear of annoying him, she’d never taken a stand, never disagreed with him.

  He’d been the bright star and she’d wobbled around in his orbit, the good and unselfish wife, always deferring to him. No, marriage definitely wasn’t the solution.

  She took her tea into the living room, flipped on the TV, ran through the channels and stopped when she heard the words Western Memorial.

  “…Holly, the smallest of the Freeway Triplets remains in critical according to her neonatologist, Dr. Martin Connaughton, who delivered the babies during rush-hour traffic on Interstate 710. But a difference of opinion on the prospect of neurosurgery for Holly may have created a rift among members of the medical team. While Dr. Connaughton believes Holly is too medically fragile to undergo the complex procedure, Western’s chief of pediatric neurosurgery, Dr. Nate Grossman, and Holly’s father, Mr. Edward Hodges, are both upbeat about the baby’s prognosis and say the surgery is needed to save her life.”

  Eddie Hodges’s image flashed on the screen. “Holly’s doing real good,” he said. “She’s hanging in there. We all feel real positive that the surgery’s gonna fix her right up.”

  The remote still in her hand, Catherine stared at the screen in dismay. During the morning’s press conference, she’d been too anxious to really hear his comments. Now in the context of Grossman’s and Eddie Hodges’s optimism, she understood the potential for controversy. When the phone rang, she knew it was Derek.

  “Goddamn it.” He didn’t bother with a greeting. “I’ve been watching this crap all night and every damn segment is the same. One of the stations even got another medical expert who says he agrees with Connaughton. This whole story is going to go south unless we get him to backpedal.”

  “I just caught Channel 5—”

  “Connaughton’s out of control.” Derek interrupted. “I ran into him tonight as I was leaving. He came up to see you about something and went off the deep end. I’ve just got off the phone with Jordan. If Connaughton isn’t willing to cooperate and publicly endorse the surgery, administration wants to cut him loose. If we get media—”

  “Hold on a minute, Derek, I don’t understand. What do you mean by cut him loose?”

  “I mean that he’s always been enough of a renegade that if anyone asks us about his difference of opinion with Grossman, all we need to do is drop a few hints that suggest his credibility is in doubt. Just for starters, there’s the whole issue of him attacking Grossman’s kid in the parking lot. A little hint that perhaps his opposition to Grossman is based more on personal animosity than clinical judgment.”

  “That’s not true, though.” She leaned her head against the back of the sofa. “We talked about this at lunch, remember? I mean, there’s a genuine difference of professional opinion. We can’t deliberately set out to ruin a doctor’s reputation just because he disagrees with Grossman. It’s…unethical.”

  “Connaughton’s a loose cannon. Everyone knows that.”

  “If he were such a loose cannon, they wouldn’t have kept him around.” She pulled her robe tight, the room suddenly felt cold. “You said yourself he’s a brilliant doctor. Doesn’t it occur to you that maybe he is right, and Holly shouldn’t have the surgery?”

  “For PR purposes, that’s irrelevant,” Derek said. “Grossman wants to do the surgery, and Western wants to pay for it. Our job is to arrange the publicity. If Connaughton’s going to stand in the way of making this a good story, then it’s his fault if he gets mowed down. We all do what we have to do.”

  “Listen, Derek—” she took a deep breath, tried to organize her thoughts “—before you say anything else to the press, let me talk to him first, okay? Maybe I can work something out.”

  “Are you willing to put your job
on the line for him?”

  Catherine swallowed, felt her stomach contract. “I’m not sure what you mean…”

  “It’s quite simple. You’ve accused me of being unethical. I don’t think that’s the case, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. We’ll wait. If you can guarantee that the next time he talks to a reporter, what he says is in accordance with what we’re trying to do, we’ll all be happy. But if he says one more damn thing that causes any grief, he’s set loose and so are you. That’s what I mean.” He paused. “Do you want to take the risk?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ONE OF THE NURSES said it had to be the full moon. It wasn’t a theory Martin subscribed to, but whatever the reason, the unit was suddenly flooded with so many admissions that for a couple of days he had time for little else but thoughts of ventilators and respiratory rates. Holly lingered on, her prognosis no better. He hadn’t seen Catherine and despite what he’d told her, the Ethiopia decision was still hanging.

  When he left Western, just before twelve on Sunday night, the temperature had dropped. Damp drafts seeped through the Fiat’s canvas top, and he turned on the heater, held his hands to the vents. After the exchange with Eddie Hodges, he’d gone immediately to his office and started to call the fellow who was organizing the Ethiopia trip, then put down the phone and tried unsuccessfully to catch up on paperwork. Now—two days later—he was gripped by an illogical thought. He had to talk to Catherine.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” he imagined himself saying, “but I can’t stop thinking about you and the thing is…well, I know I told you I was going to Ethiopia but Eddie Hodges said my judgment about Holly would be different if I had children of my own and since you do have children, I wondered whether you thought me cold and detached and…well, whether you cared if I went to Ethiopia or not and, if I stayed, whether there was any possibility that we might see each other, outside the hospital, I mean.”

  Fortunately, he didn’t know Catherine’s address or phone number.

  At Lucky’s market in the marina, he stopped to pick up a newspaper and some beer. One corner of the parking area had been cordoned off as a Christmas-tree lot and strung with lights that shone down on the spruce and firs. When he’d picked up the paper the day before, the trees had seemed wilted under the blazing sun. Now, in the damp air, they looked bedraggled and forlorn. He walked into the brightly lit market, vaguely depressed by the sight. Those that weren’t purchased would be ignominiously dumped. The chosen would be festooned with tinsel, bask in the spotlight for a day or two, then those, too, would be dumped. Either way it seemed a sad waste.

  The whole Christmas frenzy couldn’t be over soon enough to suit him, he thought as he headed back to the car again, purchases under his arm. The holidays somehow underscored his solitary existence, created this sense of always being on the outside looking in. In other years, he’d seldom given it much thought. Now as he walked down the gangway to the boat, he felt like a seaman with his bundled belongings. Walking alone down to the port, prepared to sail out into the dark, but not without a wistful glance over his shoulder at the lights on shore.

  When he climbed into the galley, the flashing red light on his phone machine turned his thoughts to more immediate concerns. Three new messages. The first was Ed Jordan telling him to be in his office first thing in the morning. He didn’t sound happy.

  The second message was from one of the organizers of the Ethiopia expedition reminding him that they still needed his decision. The third was from Dora Matsushita wanting to know whether he’d evaluated the fifteen-year-old prospective WISH client she’d mentioned.

  He ground the heel of his palm into his eyes, then made a note to call Dora tomorrow. In defiance of Jordan’s warning not to take on new clients, Martin had set up an appointment for the girl, but she hadn’t kept it, or even called to cancel. He thought of Dora’s comment about the young mothers being on the edge. WISH could help, but the desire to change had to be there first.

  Hungry now, he scanned the refrigerator for possibilities. He grabbed a couple of eggs and a package of bacon, broke the eggs into a frying pan and tore off four strips of bacon. While the food was cooking, he went back to the machine, replayed the Ethiopia message and jotted down the number. Even as he did, he wondered whether this was really the sort of change his life needed.

  The sound of the bacon sizzling and the smell of hot grease reminded him of the food cooking on the stove. With the spatula, he broke the egg yolk, let it solidify over the bacon and sandwiched the whole thing between a couple of slices of bread. Then he popped a beer, carried it with his food, the newspaper and the day’s mail into the bedroom.

  Sprawled across the bed, he scanned the paper until he came to an update on the Freeway Triplets, as the press had dubbed them. The focus was mostly on Holly. An upbeat quote from Grossman in which the neurosurgeon went on at length about the proposed lifesaving surgery was followed by his own pessimistic remarks about Holly’s prognosis. Not that it changed his opinion, but he could understand Jordan’s concerns. His own gloomy prognosis was like the thundercloud hovering over a picnic. As he turned the page, he wondered whether the administrator had made his dissatisfaction known to Catherine. Tomorrow, Martin decided to see Catherine.

  Catherine. Struck by an idea, he put the paper aside for a moment, briefly considered calling the hospital operator for her number. When he looked at the clock, he saw it was eleven-thirty, probably too late for an out-of-the-blue call from a man who had announced he was going to Ethiopia.

  The paper slid to the floor and he reached down to pick it up. Even in the turmoil of the past few days, Catherine was a constant presence in his head. There in unguarded moments; her face, her voice, a certain expression. And, despite himself, he couldn’t help thinking…what if… He took a swig of beer, leaned back against the pillow, hands folded behind his head.

  Conflicting forces tugged at him. On the one side, the tremendous pull of everything that had shaped his life until now. On the other, little more than an ephemeral vision of what the future might be. While the force of the past weakened a little each time he saw Catherine, it still exerted the greater strength. If he let go, if he were able to let go, the sudden release would send him hurtling into uncharted territory. The thought unnerved him enough that all he could do was hold on: unable to let go of one side, unwilling to let go of the other.

  With a deep intake of breath, he turned back to the paper. If Catherine’s feelings were mutual, and she had any idea of what was good for her, she’d give him a wide berth. He bit into his sandwich. In world news, the headline Embattled Northern Ireland caught his eye. A story about the bombing in Belfast along with a grainy black-and-white picture of a narrow street of houses. People stood clustered about, arms folded across their chests. A woman in an apron and head scarf. Men in cloth caps.

  A pang of nostalgia made him pick up the phone. He calculated the time difference then dialed his father’s number.

  “It’s you, is it, Marty?” the old man asked a few minutes later. “Sure and it’s about time, too. Just having a cup of tea we were. Funny thing you should call right now. I was just after saying to Joan that it’s been a while.”

  Martin closed his eyes and listened to his father’s voice, remembering the anger that used to fill that voice. Age had softened the dour sternness, or perhaps it was the physical and emotional distance that now separated them. In his mind he saw the dark narrow kitchen of the house he’d grown up in. His mother—who’d died when he was twelve—would joke that she could stand by the gas stove, cook dinner, wash clothes, scrub her feet and face without moving from the spot.

  “I saw Sharon’s mam yesterday down at the fish shop and she asked after you,” his father went on. “She always does. Down at the cemetery every day she is, putting flowers on the girl’s grave.” When he didn’t answer, the old man said, “Well now, your sister’s here. Shall I put her on?”

  “Sure.”

  “Martin,”
she said after they’d exchanged greetings. “You sound like a Yank.”

  He grinned through a mouthful of food. Joan said the same thing every time he called. He pictured her face, her hair, much the same color as his own. Three years older than him, she had a large and rambunctious family. At last count, he was Uncle Martin to three nephews and two nieces.

  “You’ve probably got one of those big, smart cars—”

  He thought of his battered Fiat and laughed. “Oh right. Great big Cadillac. I smoke cigars, too. Come over and visit me and see for yourself.”

  “Och. It’s too far away. What with Sandra and all. She’s just gone eighteen, can you believe it? All that she has on her mind is going to the discos. And then there’s the wee one. Four, he is.” She chattered on for another few minutes. “Ah, but you don’t want to hear all this rubbish, do you now?” A pause. “What about yourself? Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Sure. A different woman every night.” Prepared for the inevitable question, he finished his sandwich, licked bacon grease off his fingers. “They’re attracted to my money and good looks. But I’m heartless—”

  “Get on with you. You need to settle down and get married. Start a family. You’ve punished yourself long enough—”

  “Joan, for Christ’s sake.” He paused, tried to think of something that would send her off in a different direction. “Actually, I’m thinking about going to Ethiopia.”

  “Ethiopia.” The scorn in her voice was evident. “For God’s sake, why? Is there not enough to keep you busy where you are? What about this WISH thing you were so fired up about?”

  “That’s not the reason, Joan. WISH is…well, it’s a long story.” He hadn’t expected he’d have to justify leaving, wasn’t in fact sure he could. “They’ve a need for pediatric specialists and—”

  “Enough. I don’t want to hear your nonsense. If you had a wife and family, you wouldn’t have the need to be running off all the time. You can’t keep your defenses up forever, you know. We all need people close to us. You might tell yourself otherwise, but you’re wrong and—”