by Cindi Myers
He returned to his sanding. “I told Car this wasn’t a good time to buy a house, that I was saving for a shop.”
“Why not buy a house with a garage you could use as a shop?”
“That’s not what I want.”
And of course it was all about what he wanted. Poor Carrie. Now that she’d pushed him, Dave was never going to back down.
“What’s with you and that doctor?” Dave asked.
“Mike?” She trailed one hand along the edge of the bench, deliberately casual. “I told you, his daughter is in one of my classes.”
“So where’s the girl’s mother?”
“They’re divorced.”
“You two dating?”
“Not exactly.” They’d only spent a few hours together without Taylor around. He’d punched a guy on her behalf. They’d enjoyed two incredible kisses. But what did all that add up to?
“What are you doing with a guy like that? I thought you’d have had your fill of doctors after all they put you through.”
He meant after Pete and Riley died. She’d battled with doctors and the hospital and the insurance company for a full year after the funerals, every new bill or statement ripping the wounds open again. “Mike’s a nice guy,” she said.
“Cute kid.” He set aside the spindle and picked up another one and began sanding it.
“Taylor’s great.” She hesitated, then said, “We met because of her.”
“You already said that. She’s in your class.”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. She…she has Riley’s heart.”
He froze, gripping the spindle. A piece of sand paper fluttered to the floor. “I didn’t think you were supposed to meet donor recipients.”
“We found out by accident. One of life’s weird coincidences.”
“I don’t know. Do you really think getting friendly with these people is a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I’m just saying, are you really interested in this guy, or just trying to replace what you lost?”
She gasped, and struggled to find her voice. “That’s not what’s going on. Just because I’m friends with Taylor and with her father doesn’t mean I’m trying to replace Riley or Pete.”
“Yeah, but this kid, you don’t think to some degree you’re looking for Riley in her?”
She wanted to deny him, to tell him he was crazy. The heart was just an organ. A body part that no more carried any trace of Riley’s personality than his little finger would have.
But there was no sense lying to Dave, or to herself. “Of course I’m happy that a piece of him lives on in Taylor. But she’s not my son. She’s her own, distinct person.”
His expression grew gentler. “I’d just hate to see you hurt. And I really don’t want to have to go to the trouble of kicking the guy’s ass if he hurts you.”
That surprised a laugh from her.
“What’s so funny?” Dave asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just—” She laughed again. “You might be the one to come out on the losing end of that fight. A couple of weeks ago, Mike came to the restaurant where I was dancing. One of the customers had had too much to drink and Mike laid him out on the floor with one punch.”
“No kidding? Good for him.”
“Dave! I could have lost the job.”
“Yeah, but if you marry the doctor, you won’t need to work.”
“Who said anything about marriage?”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
“No! We haven’t even had dinner without his daughter there.”
“If he’s punching out guys in restaurants, he wants to sleep with you, whether he’s done anything about it or not.”
“Dave!” She felt her face flame, but she couldn’t keep back a smile, either.
“We both know sleeping with someone doesn’t mean marriage and happily ever after,” she said. “You’ve been sleeping with Carrie for five years yet you won’t ask her to marry you.”
Dave scowled. “She pushes too hard. I don’t like to be pushed.”
“So you’d rather lose the woman who loves you than give in an inch?”
“If she loves me so much, why is she trying to change things between us? Why can’t we go on the way we have been?”
“Because sometimes,” she said, “we settle for the status quo because it’s easy, not because it’s right.”
He resumed sanding the piece. “Don’t quote self-help books to me. I like my life the way it is. If Carrie can’t accept that, I won’t make her stay.”
Darcy swallowed her disappointment. Dave certainly didn’t look heartbroken. Maybe she’d been wrong and he didn’t love Carrie after all. If he loved her, he’d do anything to keep her, wouldn’t he?
What did she know about love, anyway? She had loved Pete, but in the way some people love cigarettes or drugs or other things that bring them momentary pleasure but aren’t really good for them. And Pete had loved to drink more than he loved her. It wasn’t a conscious choice; it was just how he was wired. Knowing this hurt so much she hadn’t been able to acknowledge it until long after he died.
Along with the loss of her husband and child, she mourned the death of their chance to ever have a healthy relationship, to ever love each other fully, as a man and a woman should.
Or at least as she thought they should. Maybe it was all fairy-tale thinking. She put her hand on Dave’s shoulder. “I just want you to be happy,” she said. “If Carrie isn’t the woman you want to be with, then I hope you’ll find the right person.”
“I never said I didn’t want to be with her. I just don’t want her to try to shove me into some mold where I don’t fit.”
“So you want her, but only on your terms.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except relationships require compromise—on both sides.” When one person made all the sacrifices, as she had with Pete, the only thing that grew between them was resentment.
“There you go, talking like a self-help book again.” He tossed the used sandpaper toward a trashcan. He missed, and it bounced across the floor and came to rest beside a pile of similar wadded papers.
“You’re a lousy shot,” she said.
“Go home, Darcy. Worry about your own life for a change.”
Change was exactly what she needed. “Maybe I’ll call Mike and ask if he wants to sleep with me.”
“If that’s what makes you happy. Maybe if you get laid you’ll be too busy to stick your nose in my life.”
“I’m never too busy for that.” She started across the room, but paused to pick up one of the discarded wads of sandpaper and fire it at him.
It hit him in the back, and he waved at her without looking up. “Go.”
“I’m going.” Going to take his advice and live her life. She probably wouldn’t call Mike and openly proposition him, but she’d find a way to let him know she was interested—in sex or love or whatever he was offering.
She was tired of being afraid of the future, and ready to take a little risk, if Mike was willing to take the risk with her.
“SOUNDS LIKE you’re doing much better today.” Mike moved his stethoscope across Brent Jankowski’s narrow chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart, and the rush of breath in and out of almost clear lungs. “I think that bronchitis is on its way out.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” Sarah Jankowski said. She touched Brent’s head, a brief gesture of reassurance Mike recognized. In the weeks after Taylor’s transplant, he hadn’t been able to stop touching her, to verify that she was really here.
He removed the stethoscope and stepped back. “Continue the antibiotic for another ten days. Are you using a humidifier in his bedroom at night?”
“Always. If I don’t, he gets nosebleeds.”
Mike nodded. “Keep it up, at least through the winter.”
“Can I go outside during recess at school now?” Brent asked. “I’m tired of
sitting in the library while everyone else gets to play.”
“If you bundle up well and don’t overdo it,” Mike said. “And don’t hesitate to call if you have any problems.”
“Thank you, Doctor. We will,” Sarah Jankowski promised.
Mike was washing his hands when Peggy bustled into the room. “The school is on line one.”
Telling himself there was no need to be too concerned, but heart racing all the same, he walked around the corner and picked up the phone there and punched the glowing button of line one. “This is Dr. Carter.”
“This is the school nurse. I’m afraid you need to come get Taylor.”
“What’s wrong? Is she sick?”
“She’s not sick, but she is hurt—though not badly. She’s been in a fight.”
“A fight?” His little girl? “Someone hit her?”
“From what I understand, she hit the boy first. Why don’t you come on down here and we’ll discuss it.”
He hung up and headed for his office, feet moving automatically, his mind spinning. “I have to go get Taylor from school,” he said as he passed the front desk, peeling off his lab coat as he walked. “Reschedule anyone you can. Apologize to everyone else.”
“What’s wrong?” Peggy called, but he was already out the back door to the parking lot.
At the school, the nurse, Mrs. Jenkins and the principal, Mr. Rouse, met Mike at the door to the office. “Taylor is fine,” Mr. Rouse reassured him. “Just a black eye and a few bruises.”
“What happened?” he asked. “What’s this about her hitting a boy?”
“They exchanged…words on the playground,” Mr. Rouse said. “And she hit him. Things escalated from there until two teachers pulled them apart.”
“How do you know she hit him first?” Mike asked, trying to wrap his mind around the picture of his daughter brawling in the schoolyard.
“We have several witnesses, including the two teachers.”
“They saw what was happening and didn’t stop it?”
“The last thing they expected was for your daughter to punch the boy.”
“It was a good, solid hit,” Mrs. Jenkins volunteered. “She split his lip.”
“Where is she?”
Taylor sat on the exam table in the nurse’s office, head down, feet dangling. One kneesock sagged, and there was a rip in the sleeve of her blouse. She looked up when they walked in, revealing a swollen left eye that was beginning to blacken. “Daddy!” she cried, and burst into noisy sobs.
He rushed over to her, cradling her head against his shoulder, handing her his handkerchief. “Calm down,” he said. “It’s all right.”
One soggy handkerchief and a glass of water later, she had calmed somewhat, though Mike was feeling more agitated by the minute. He examined the eye, which was swollen but not damaged. It probably hurt, though, and would turn all kinds of ugly colors before it healed. “Tell me what happened,” he said.
Still clinging to him, she looked at Mr. Rouse and Mrs. Jenkins, who stood with arms crossed, waiting. “You have to tell us,” Mike prompted.
“I was on the playground with Kira and Hannah, from my dance class. Some of the other girls wanted to see some moves, so we were showing them and Nathan walked by and said the others were pretty good, but I was too ugly to be a belly dancer. He made me so mad!”
Mike clenched his fists but forced himself to remain calm. They were talking about a boy here. “That’s why you hit him?”
She nodded. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think about it or anything. I just wanted to stop his ugly grin.”
“Taylor, you can’t hit every person who says mean things to you.”
“I know.” She began to cry again, more quietly this time. “But he was wrong. He shouldn’t have said something so mean.”
Shaky with anger and frustration and helplessness, Mike looked at Mr. Rouse. “How’s the boy?”
“He’ll be fine. Though other boys will give him a hard time about getting beat up by a girl.” The principal’s expression sobered. “They’re both suspended for three days. It’s the automatic punishment for fighting.”
Mike nodded. “I’ll take Taylor home now.”
On the ride to his office, Taylor was sullen. “I’ll put something on that eye, then you’ll have to stay at the office until I finish seeing my patients for the day,” he said.
“Can’t I stay with Darcy?”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. If it weren’t for Darcy and her belly dancing class, none of this would have happened. “Darcy has to work. We can’t impose on her because you did something wrong.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“I know you are. But what you did was absolutely unacceptable. People are going to say hurtful things to you. That’s life. You can’t solve your problems with violence.” He might have expected such behavior from a boy, but from a girl who still played with dolls and liked makeup and fancy shoes and all those feminine things? He shook his head.
At the clinic office, he was happy to turn her over to Peggy and Nicole, who clucked over her injured eye and commiserated about mean boys. Mike retreated to his office, where he donned his lab coat and stethoscope, but hesitated before returning to his patients. He picked up the phone and punched in Darcy’s number.
“Hello?” She answered on the fifth ring, out of breath. He pictured her in one of her skimpy outfits, cheeks flushed, hair mussed. The image was entirely too alluring.
“It’s Mike,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay. What’s up?”
“I’m calling to let you know Taylor won’t be in class this week.”
“Is she all right? She’s not sick, is she?”
“No, she’s not sick. But she’s grounded. She got into a fight at school and was suspended for three days.”
“A fight? Was she hurt?”
“She has a black eye. I think her feelings are hurt more than anything, though.”
“What happened?”
He told her about the boy, and his remark that Taylor wasn’t pretty enough to be a belly dancer.
“That’s horrible! What was this boy’s name?”
“Nate or Nathan something or other. I don’t re member.”
“Nathan Orosco.”
“Maybe. How did you know?”
“That’s the boy in her class she said she liked. She told us at dinner the other night. Don’t you remember?”
No. He had put the information right out of his mind because she was too young. “I don’t think she likes him anymore,” he said. “After he said that to her, she hauled off and hit him. Split his lip.” If Mike was lucky, the boy’s parents wouldn’t sue.
“Good for her for standing up for herself.”
“Darcy! She hit the boy. That’s no way to act.”
“No. And I don’t approve of fighting, but some times when we have strong feelings about something we act without thinking.”
He thought of the man he’d hit in the restaurant.
He certainly hadn’t been thinking that night. Was that kind of behavior hereditary? “You didn’t tell Taylor about that night at the restaurant, did you?” he asked.
“Of course not. But it is a good example of how emotions can sometimes carry us away.”
He’d let himself get carried away all right, his at traction to Darcy overriding common sense. “I’m not sure if Taylor should come back to your class.”
“Why not? She loves dancing and she’s doing so well.”
“If it weren’t for belly dancing, this never would have happened.”
“That’s ridiculous. Don’t you remember how boys are?”
“We’re not talking about the boy. We’re talking about Taylor.”
“This is about Taylor. That boy likes her, so he said the first thing he could think of to get her attention.
It’s classic male thinking.”
“How do you know so much about it? You weren’t a boy.”
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“No, but I did give birth to one. And he acted the same way. He once told a girl he liked that she looked like a frog.”
“I still think it’s not a good idea to encourage Taylor by letting her continue to take dance.”
“And I think if it weren’t for dance class she wouldn’t have had the guts to stand up for herself. Yes, it was wrong for her to hit the boy. But do you remember how self-conscious she was about her looks when she first came to me? She still has a ways to go, but I’ll bet a few weeks ago if a boy she liked had said something to her like that it would have crushed her. At least now some part of her is telling her he’s wrong.”
“I don’t understand why she’s so hung up on her looks,” he said. “She’s a beautiful girl—and I’m not just saying that because I’m her father.”
“She is beautiful, but society puts a lot of pressure on girls—even Taylor’s age—to look and act a certain way. Girls are always comparing themselves, seeing where they don’t measure up.”
“Melissa and I have been careful not to raise Taylor to think like that.”
“That’s great, but unless you hide her in a cave she’s going to be exposed to it through television and movies and even at school. The best you can hope for is that other things—like my class—will offset that.”
“I think your class makes her think about it even more. I mean look at you. You’re gorgeous. Any girl is liable to feel intimidated by your looks.”
He hadn’t meant to say that, but then again, she must know how he felt about her, how most men probably felt about her.
“Thank you, but I don’t think I’m the problem here. If you take this away from Taylor she’ll hate you for it.”
“Part of being a parent is having your children hate you for looking after their best interests.”
“Mike, you’re upset right now. I’m upset, too. Keep Taylor home this week if you think that’s best, but please don’t pull her out of class altogether.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Can I talk to Taylor?”
“Not right now. She’s beginning to calm down and going through the story again would only upset her.”
“Why don’t you tell her to call me later, if she wants.”
“All right.”
