The Doctor Delivers

by Janice Macdonald

  “Sorry about this,” Martin interrupted. “But I thought I was talking to my sister. Apparently I’ve reached a psychiatry hot line.”

  “It’s because I’m your sister, Martin, that I’m saying this.” She paused for a moment. “Let me give you a little parallel. You remember Paddy Murphy, don’t you? The way his mind was always stuck in the past, nursing the old grudges, reliving ancient battles as though they were fought yesterday? Now what if everyone in Ireland had that same sort of attitude? The country would never move into the twenty-first century—”

  Martin laughed aloud. “I’m a bit confused, Joan. Is it Paddy or Ireland you’re comparing me to?”

  “Sure, you can laugh if you want to.” A note of indignation had crept into her voice, “But you need to move on, Martin, and I’m not talking about Ethiopia.”

  When he said nothing, she started on another topic. As they chatted back and forth, he finished the newspaper, then leafed through the mail he’d put on his bedside table. Little of it held his attention, a few bills and the latest issue of Western World, the medical center’s quarterly staff publication. Idly, he leafed through the pages until he came to a section called Recent Additions: pictures and short profiles of employees who had joined Western in the last quarter. On the top row, between a lab tech and an optometrist, was a picture of a woman with a braid of dark brown hair and a slightly bemused smile. The caption underneath said Catherine A. Prentice, Public Relations. He stared at the picture.

  “Martin. Have you fallen asleep? Did you not hear what I just said?”

  “Sorry, no, I’m wide awake.” He reached in his bedside drawer for a pair of scissors. “What was that again?”

  “I said that maybe the next time I spoke to you, you’ll tell me that you’ve met someone and are planning to settle down and raise a family.” Silence. “It was a joke, Martin,” she said after a moment. “Like saying you expect pigs to fly.”

  “Ah well, you never know, do you?” Martin finished clipping out Catherine’s picture and propped it against the lamp, so that she seemed to be looking at him. “One of these days I might surprise everyone.”

  “SOMETIMES I THINK I’d rather sleep in for an extra hour, than drag myself out here every morning.” Catherine, in an old red sweatshirt and black warm-up pants, jogged along Second Street beside Darcy. Clouds of vapor poured into the cool morning air. “Are you sure this is worth it?”

  “Listen, when we’re all skinny and gorgeous…” Darcy stopped suddenly, clutched at her turquoise-spandexed side. “Jeez, I’m dying. Maybe you have a point.” She arched an eyebrow. “Winchell’s?”

  “No.” Catherine grinned. “We can’t give up that easily. Come on. Let’s just go over the bridge and circle the marina. That’s about two miles. Then I’ve got to get back and get the kids off to school.”

  As they crossed the Alamitos Bay Bridge, she thought of the day ahead. A press conference with the Hodges family at ten. The Ned Bolton interview to set up. Then she needed to talk to Martin. Her stomach tightened. The agreement she’d struck with Derek had kept her awake for the last couple of nights. The challenge scared the hell out of her but in a strange way it also exhilarated her. She’d taken a stand, held out for something she believed in. The old Catherine would never have had the confidence to take such a risk.

  “I heard the parents of those triplets on the radio this morning,” Darcy said. “The dad was yakking away, the mom hardly got a word in.”

  “I think he overshadows her a little,” Catherine said.

  “Yeah, I kind of got that feeling.”

  “She kind of reminds me of how I was with Gary. The way she sort of tiptoes around him, like she’s scared to say anything to upset him.”

  “Why the hell do women put up with jerks like that?” Darcy checked the traffic and sprinted across the street.

  “Hey, I did it for twelve years.” Catherine ran beside her. “That’s the weird thing. You can spot the problem in other people, but you don’t always recognize it when you’re in the same situation.”

  They jogged into the marina, quiet but for the creak of boats against the moorings, the occasional slam of a car door or an engine starting. Gulls wheeled and circled, scavenged over trash cans. True, there were days that she’d rather stay in bed, but she loved the twice-a-week early-morning jogs. It was even worth the stress of having her mom sit with the kids, although she had to pay the price of hearing dire warnings about the dangers of excessive running and how it could lead to anorexia. Fat chance.

  Eyes narrowed against the light coming off the water, Catherine looked out at the bobbing boats, some of the masts decorated with Christmas greenery and ribbons, and felt her spirits lift. Despite some lapses—like the other night when she’d seen marriage as a rescue—the changes she had started to see in herself were definitely positive. Every day she seemed to shake off a little more of the old Catherine and she liked the way that made her feel.

  As they made the lap around the marina parking lot, something familiar about the loping stride of a tall man in a leather bomber jacket and khakis diverted her thoughts. He headed toward her, briefcase in one hand, a couple of heavy binders under his arm. As he drew close, she saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. Martin. The sudden acceleration of her heart had little to do with jogging.

  “Hi.” She felt her face color. “I didn’t expect to… What—”

  “I live on one of those boats down there.” He pointed to a gangway a few yards away. “Third one along.”

  Disconcerted by his obvious pleasure at seeing her and by her own erotic fantasies, she looked away. He’s just another a doctor at the hospital, she reminded herself. Involved with someone else. Leaving the country. All you need from him is a little professional cooperation. Next to her, she could feel Darcy’s avid interest. She tucked her hair behind her ears, made the introductions.

  “We’re practically neighbors,” Martin said.

  “True.” Catherine smiled, at a loss for words. He smiled back. His hair was slightly damp and tousled. Under his open jacket, he wore a heavy knit sweater, almost the same dark blue as his eyes. Behind him, traffic rumbled on the bridge. He moved the folders under his arms. She shifted her weight to the other foot. Then they both spoke at the same time. He’d started to ask a question, just as she voiced hers.

  He grinned. “You first.”

  “I wanted to…uh, there’s a few things I need to talk to you about. Holly Hodges, specifically. I guess you’ve seen the press coverage?” He nodded, seemed about to speak, then stopped, an expression on his face she couldn’t read. “Anyway, we need to develop a more coordinated press plan. What’s your schedule like today?”

  “We could have lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  “Lunch,” he said with a laugh. “You look as though I’d suggested we spend an illicit weekend together.”

  “No, I’m just…” Distracted by the sudden image his words conjured, she felt her face color. God, she was never going to pull this off. “Lunch would work,” she said. Briskly, she hoped. “How about the cafeteria around noon?”

  “Actually, I was thinking of fish and chips.”

  “Fish and chips?” Now she sounded like a parrot.

  “I called back to Ireland yesterday.” A smile broke across his face. “My father mentioned the fish shop. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. There’s a place on the pier. If you come up to the unit around noon, I’ll drive us down there.”

  She looked down at her running shoes, up at him. There was no real reason she could think of to object. At least none she could bring up. “I’ll see you at noon.” Then she remembered his question. “You had something you wanted to ask me?”

  “Well, I’d wanted to ask you out to lunch,” he said with a smile. “You do still owe me for the press conference. Remember?”

  “He’s hot for you,” Darcy said as they jogged away.

  “Oh, come on,” Catherine protested, but she couldn’t stop smiling
.

  CATHERINE WATCHED a couple of reporters vie for a closer spot to the stage where Eddie and Rita sat in rocking chairs. Each parent held a sleeping infant, tiny red faces barely visible above the swaddled wrappings. Holly was still too sick to be moved from the nursery. Eddie grinned and shifted his bundle to allow a TV cameraman to get a better shot.

  “This one’s Berry.” He glanced at Rita. “Right?”

  “Noelle,” she said with a smile. “This is Berry.”

  Laughter broke out among the assembled reporters. Cameras flashed. Heads bowed toward rapidly filling notepads.

  “Are you going to dress them the same?” a reporter shouted.

  “She better not,” Eddie retorted, “or I’m gonna have some big problems.” He paused. “Just wait till they start dating.”

  “Jeez, he laps this stuff up, doesn’t he?” Derek stood at Catherine’s side. Arms folded across his chest, he had the thoughtful expression of a gallery browser. “I wish the mother were a tad more animated.”

  “I think the whole thing is much harder on her.” Catherine watched Rita Hodges blink in the glare of the TV lights, recalled the painful time when her own son had been in the NICU. “She’s worried about Holly. His main concern is how many reporters he can talk to.”

  “Mmm.” Derek narrowed his eyes. “I still think we should have put Santa hats on the kids,” he said. “It would have been much more visual.”

  “We couldn’t get any small enough—” Catherine broke off to listen as Rita answered a reporter’s question.

  “All I mean is positive thoughts are good and everything—” Rita glanced at Eddie “—but sometimes you’ve got to, like, face up to things… I mean if Holly’s not going to get better…” She bowed her head for a moment. “Well, I’m just saying that maybe it’s something we should think about.”

  Catherine heard Derek groan.

  The Channel 7 reporter looked from Eddie to Rita. “So do I take it that the two of you have different ideas on what’s best for Holly?”

  “No, that’s not it,” Eddie said quickly. “Rita feels the same as me—”

  “No, Eddie—”

  “Rita.” He glared at her. “It’s just like that ossywhatsit breathing machine she’s hooked up to. I mean, they weren’t even gonna try it—”

  “But it’s not helping her,” Rita broke in. “Dr. C. said it wouldn’t and he was right.”

  “Dammit.” Derek shook his head. “It’s not enough that Connaughton shoots his own mouth off, now he’s got the mother singing the same song.” He looked at Catherine. “When are you going to talk to him?”

  “After this.”

  “Okay.” He moved toward the platform. “I’m going to get this damn thing wrapped up before she says anything else I don’t want to hear. You go find Connaughton. For God’s sake, get him to stick to the script and tell him he’d better make the mother see the light, too. If he can’t do that—”

  “Derek.” She caught his arm. “I’m not comfortable with this. The mother has a right to decide what’s best for her child—”

  He sighed. “Look, the mother’s opinion is Connaughton’s opinion. If he told her snake oil would cure the kid, she’d want snake oil.” The only thing that’s of any concern…any concern to us is the publicity, and we need everyone singing the same song from the same hymnbook. And that song is ‘Hallelujah for Surgery.’ If that offends your moral principles, let me know and I’ll do it myself.”

  Catherine said nothing and he headed toward the platform where Rita Hodges stood surrounded by reporters. Then he glanced over his shoulder at her.

  “I just thought of something,” he called out. “There’s an administrative meeting at two. I can’t make it. You’ll need to attend for me. You can fill Ed Jordan in on what you’re doing with Connaughton.”

  WHICH WAS a good question to ponder, Catherine thought as she left the office and headed up to the NICU to meet Martin. What was she doing with Connaughton? An hour earlier, she had gone to the rest room, brushed her hair loose, carefully redone her makeup and rolled up the waistband of her dark green pleated skirt so that the hem skimmed her knees rather than hanging dowdily around her calves. When she returned to the office, one of the secretaries did a double take and asked if she had a date. The question brought her to her senses and she’d rebraided her hair and pulled her skirt down to its original length. It was a professional meeting, she reminded herself, not a date.

  At the bank of elevators, she pushed the button for the fifth floor. The problem was that no matter how many reminders she issued, the message didn’t quite sink in. Every time she thought of Martin, things got totally confused. Last night she’d dreamed that Peter was about to have surgery and she’d woken sobbing because Martin was trying to take him from her. She took a deep breath, flipped back her braid and signed in at the NICU main desk.

  She found him bent over a bassinet, his eyes intent on a nurse who was drawing blood from a baby’s heel. The card over the bassinet bore a rosy-tinted sketch of a chubby baby who bore no resemblance to the bed’s scrawny occupant. The hand-lettered name on the card read Hodges, Holly.

  The stout, gray-haired nurse gripped Holly’s foot and pricked it with a needle. The baby flinched and Catherine turned her face away, unable to watch. She saw Martin reach for the syringe.

  “Let me give it a try,” he said, his eyes on the baby.

  The nurse gave him a withering look. “Listen, Dr. Connaughton, I was doing this sort of thing while you were still running around in diapers. I can manage without your help, thank you very much.”

  Martin looked up then and saw her, but he didn’t return her smile. Both he and the nurse seemed tense, an edginess to their banter. He reminded Catherine of an engine idling, ready to spring into action in an instant. His eyes darted from Holly to the monitor each time the nurse pricked the skin.

  “Did you come here to talk to Dr. Connaughton?” The nurse held the baby’s foot once again and glanced up at Catherine. “Because if you did, you’ll need to speak up. He’ll forget you’re even here.”

  “In case you haven’t picked up on it,” Martin said, “the consensus around here is that I’m losing my objectivity with this baby.”

  The nurse looked at the vial of blood she’d finally managed to draw and rolled her eyes. “Losing it?”

  “Lost it,” he amended.

  The nurse grunted. “He’s like an anxious daddy and a doctor all rolled into one. A bad-tempered one, to boot.” She gave a sigh. “Trust me, it’s no day at the beach around here lately.”

  “Ah sure, anyone would think you didn’t like me at all.” Martin put his arm around the nurse and grinned. The earlier tension seemed to lift. “I only hope that Catherine’s opinion of me is a little more charitable,” he said with a wink at her.

  Catherine just smiled. Had she really seen him as cold? Sure. That’s the way men were. In the blink of an eye, they could just change so that you never knew where you were with them. Which was why she didn’t need one in her life.

  “We’re off to lunch,” he told the nurse. “We’ll be gone about an hour and I have my beeper—”

  “Go.” The nurse fluttered her hands. “And make sure he gets some decent food,” she added with a glance at Catherine. “He lives on oranges and black coffee and candy bars, which do nothing for his disposition. What he needs is someone to take care of him.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I LIKE CALIFORNIA beaches in the winter,” Martin said as they walked briskly along the Long Beach pier to the small kiosk at the end. “They remind me of Irish beaches in the summer.”

  Catherine laughed, and turned for a moment to look at him. The beach stretched endlessly on either side of them, a pale field of sand edged by a distant strip of steel-blue water. Straight ahead lay the palm-tree fringed oil islands and beyond them tankers like toy boats. Gulls wheeled and circled overhead, filling the air with their raucous sounds.

  “It’s the truth.” He dodged a
bait bucket set out in the middle of the pier. “I remember our holidays. We’d all sit on the sands, bundled up in our coats and blankets, drinking tea out of thermoses to keep warm.” He shot her a sideways grin. “And that was July.”

  “No danger of sunburn, huh?”

  “Frostbite more likely,” he said, and shot her a sideways glance. Her green tartan skirt, navy blazer and long braid made him think of a schoolgirl. Which, he reflected, was perfectly in accordance with the way he felt. As though they were playing truant from classes. They took their food to a wooden bench and sat with the paper plates of fish and chips between them. Nearby, half a dozen men in parkas and boots fished, their lines propped against the railings. Catherine started to open a package of ketchup, and he took it from her.

  “Vinegar.” He handed her the bottle he’d taken off the counter. “It’s the only way to eat fish and chips.”

  “But these are the same as French fries—”

  “Shh.” He put his finger to his lips. “You’re indulging me. I want to think they’re exactly like the chips I had at home, so they have to have vinegar on them.”

  “What if you were eating a hamburger?”

  “Then it would be okay to use ketchup.”

  She grinned. “It sounds pretty complicated.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “And that’s only part of it. Really good chips have to be soggy with vinegar and wrapped in newspaper.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “It’s Martin Connaughton’s Law of Fried Potatoes.” He doused his food. “Have you never heard of it?”

  “No, indeed I haven’t.” Catherine imitated his accent.

  “Ah well, there are very serious penalties for breaking it,” he said. “One of them is being forced to hear nonstop renditions of ‘Danny Boy.”’