by Zoey Oliver
It’s hard to overstate how life-changing this surgery is. Aside from the medical benefits of closing the palate deformity, there are social benefits too. She’ll be able to find a partner, have a family like anyone else. She will be able to get a job and support her family or herself.
With the last bit of black silk, I close the incision, marveling at the tiny angel face in front of me. She couldn’t have known how her life would change. She is a very lucky little girl.
“Beautiful work, doctor,” the nurse says from behind her blue surgical mask.
Her dark eyes look up at me fondly. Anita is a local professional, and the surgeries affect her personally.
“I think we are done here,” I finally announce, dropping the suture scissors onto the stainless steel tray.
Nurses hover over the infant, wiping away the disinfectant and bits of blood from her skin before they will transport her to the recovery room.
It has been a long day. That was my fifth surgery today and my back is aching. When I exit the surgical suite, I can see that the sun is already going down.
“You finished up?” Arthur asks, bursting from the suite next to me and pulling his mask off with a tired smile.
“For now,” I shrug.
Arthur stretches his arms over his head, twisting his fingers together.
“Mary says she’s holding the table for us at the cantina,” he says. “Let’s go get some chow.”
“Right behind you,” I smile.
Luckily, this time Arthur set up his charity event near the beach and adjacent to some of the best seafood restaurants I’ve ever been to. Totally rustic, basically a roof with long picnic tables underneath it and a couple of open fires on one side, the freshness of the seafood and talent of the chefs make a world of difference. It really is like a tropical vacation, with just a little bit of medical magic interspersed.
Changing into my street clothes in the small locker room, I head out feeling better than I have in a while. I know that we are doing good work here, work that will have a lasting effect. Sometimes in Willowdale I get somewhat frustrated that I am only able to make small changes. Don’t get me wrong; it’s very gratifying to be responsible for the health of an entire town, but I rarely get to change a life like this.
“Are you getting something to eat?” Anita asks me, joining me in the hallway as we exit the medical building.
“Yeah, Arthur and Mary should already be there,” I answer, glancing at her only briefly.
She has that hopeful look in her eyes sometimes. I’ve seen it so many times in Willowdale, that spark of optimism. It’s natural, I know. Single people want to pair up. Human nature. But still, I can’t afford the complications, and neither could she.
Are you sure about that? I ask myself. She sure does seem capable of making decisions about what she wants.
As we stroll toward the beach, Anita pulls her hair out of the ponytail elastic, letting it blow freely behind her from the wind coming off the ocean. She is beautiful, no question about it. Educated and elegant, dedicated to her community just like I am.
The sun sets and the lights come up under the bohio. Mary smiles and gestures wildly to me from the table she and Arthur share. Already, it is loaded up with baskets of steaming food—grilled fish and plantains, roasted squash, and piles of freshly made flatbread.
“Oh my God, I’m starving,” Anita sighs, angling onto the bench.
Mary raises her eyebrows at me as I slide in next to Anita, helping myself to a generous portion of the delicious food in front of me. I hadn’t even realized how famished I was until now, and my stomach tightens in anticipation.
“Good day at the office, dear?” Mary quips as Arthur shovels plantains onto a paper plate.
Arthur plants a lingering, affectionate kiss on her hairline. She closes her eyes to savor the moment.
“Oh, you know, healing the sick. Like we do,” he chuckles with his cheeks filled with food.
“I’m so lucky to be married to a saint,” Mary rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, you are,” Arthur shrugs. “And I appreciate you appreciating me.”
“Oh, jeez, drink your beer, Saint Arthur. Replenish your strength.”
Mary and Arthur are always like this. Always flirting, joking with each other. They have been married for eight years, and yet they never seem to lose their spark. I watch them sneak delighted looks at each other when they think the other isn’t looking. It’s wonderful to see that kind of love and devotion lasting.
I saw it with my father and mother. They were happy their whole lives, as far as I could tell. He was absolutely declarative about his love for her. He told me once that the secret was never to let a woman worry.
Worry eats at the soul, he told me. Don’t let it get a hold on you.
“Have you enjoyed your stay this time?” Anita murmurs, smiling as we eat.
A few more nurses and doctors join us, filling the table with conversation. Two more buckets full of ice and bottles of beer hit the boards with a thud.
“I always enjoy this,” I answer honestly. “I’m sad that I haven’t been back in a few years.”
“Arthur mentioned that your father entered assisted living,” Anita murmurs confidentially. “I’m sorry to hear that. How is he doing?”
“Very well, thank you,” I answer automatically.
I know what she is doing. She knew my father, and she and I had a brief encounter some years ago. So brief, it’s barely worth mentioning.
Although it looks as though she would like to mention it again, or perhaps more.
She leans her elbow on the table and cups her cheek, smiling up at me. The lights sway in the gentle breeze and send dancing highlights over her tawny skin.
“You’re only here for another week? Then back to Florida?” she asks.
“That’s what I signed up for,” I answer, realizing that I’m being kind of rude.
I’m not sure if she doesn’t notice, or if she’s just that determined, but Anita slides an inch closer, still smiling. She is beautiful, talented, and an enthusiastic bed partner from what I can remember.
And she’s right, I’m only here for a week. It certainly would be a way to fill up my nights, which have been spent sweating under mosquito netting, trying to conserve energy. I have an air-conditioner, but every kilowatt that I use is one that other people in this small city cannot. I don’t want to be a greedy American, coming down here to selfishly take the best for myself like people sometimes do.
Strands of her dark hair cascade over her forearm, gently undulating in the breeze. She pauses, watching me intently, giving me space to decide.
“Is there someone else? Someone you left back home?”
My jaw tightens reflexively.
“Anita, it’s getting very late.”
She smiles. “Finally, you’re making sense,” she remarks. “My apartment is just around the corner, you know. Same place.”
I take a deep breath. I do know. I remember it well. It’s very nice, with stunning ocean views and modest furnishings.
“Sturgill?” she leans forward. “We’re just people. Just ships in the night.”
“I think it’s time I need to be heading back to the dock,” I joke, but my voice sounds flat.
Pouting, she raises her eyebrows sarcastically and sits up straight, stretching for a moment.
“Okay, your loss,” she sighs. “Whoever she is, I hope she knows how lucky she is. I hope she tells you every day.”
Mary catches my eye with a meaningful accusation as Anita rises from the table and sashays away. With her gone, I feel like I can take a full breath.
“What the heck is wrong with you?” Mary accuses. “Is your radar broken? Did you not understand the signals she was blasting at you?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I shrug, taking another draft of lukewarm beer.
“I’ll say!” she snarks. “You’re just gonna let Anita slip through your fingers, again? You must be insa
ne.”
“Naw, he’s in love,” Arthur drawls.
I scowl and Mary gasps. Her eyes go wide as she glares at me accusingly.
“You’re in love?” she barks. “With Anita? Then why are you being such a jerk?”
“I’m not in love.”
Twisting on the bench, Arthur turns back around to face me with a maddening smirk on his face.
“Yeah you are, you big dummy,” Arthur continues. “Distracted, dedicated, and turning down a no-strings offer of female companionship of the hottest variety. My diagnosis: acute love sickness.”
Mary pinches the back of his arm when he says the hottest variety but she doesn’t take her eyes off me.
“Is this true?”
“It’s probably terminal,” Arthur nods sagely.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not in anything,” I sigh dramatically, rolling my eyes. “You don’t know anything about my life, Arthur. I think you’re just projecting your own symptoms of puppy infatuation for Mary. You see love around every corner.”
“That may be true,” he smiles, wrapping his arm around Mary’s shoulder and drawing her closer so he can nuzzle her hairline again. “But that doesn’t change the facts.”
Despite myself, I’m curious. I should probably head back to my apartment, but suddenly that seems quite lonely. I might as well play along with Arthur’s little game.
“What facts would those be?”
Arthur holds up a finger. “Number one, you are a strong, healthy male in his early thirties who hasn’t gotten laid in years.”
“Wait, what?” Mary gasps.
Another finger. “Number two, your father’s relocation to assisted living has probably left you with a giant, sprawling estate in which you can hear the echoes of a happy family life quickly fading.”
“Dramatic much?” I sneer, hoisting my beer bottle again.
Another finger. “Number three, after years of brushing me off, you suddenly changed your mind and decided to come down to Costa Rica, abandoning your town of Mayberry on the spur of the moment. Nursing a broken heart, perhaps?”
“Wow, Arthur, I really hope these are not the diagnostic skills that you are using on your poor patients.”
Smugly, Arthur reaches into his back pocket and produces his cell phone. After tapping on the face of it for a moment, he turns it around to show me a bright picture on the screen. Squinting, I realize it is from the local newspaper in Willowdale. It’s a photograph of the gallery opening, with a dozen or so art lovers standing in front of paintings.
“What are we looking at?” Mary asks, reaching for the phone.
Arthur crosses his arms triumphantly in front of his chest.
“Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I shrug.
“Mary? Find our friend Sturgill in the picture, would you?”
Mary squints, her eyebrows knitted together. With her fingertips, she moves the picture around on the screen, then her eyebrows go up. She glances up at me, blinking.
“Is this for real? Did this happen? In public?”
Arthur nods smugly.
“Okay, give me that,” I huff, holding out my hand.
Expanding the screen, I find myself. Mrs. Cassidy is off to the side, looking extremely put out. Joanna arches against my body, her eyes closed, her palm pressed against my chest. My head is tips forward as I kiss the top of her head.
That’s it. One innocent head kiss.
Yet, looking at it, my thoughts begin to swirl. I remember it vividly. The smell of her hair, the lights in her eyes. The nervous but excited way that she fluttered around the gallery, fussing over details, proud of what she had accomplished. I was proud of her too, happy to share it with her.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I grumble unconvincingly. “She’s just a friend. A patient.”
“Your bedside manner has really gotten intense,” Arthur quips.
“What’s her name? What is she like?”
“What is she like?” I repeat, incredulous and annoyed. I push myself up from the table and straighten my shirt. “She’s not like anything. She’s gone. That’s it.”
Nobody pays attention to me as I walk out of the enclosure, though I can feel Mary and Arthur watching me exit. But it doesn’t matter, because I’ll be gone in a week regardless.
They’re wrong, anyway. I don’t see them often enough, and they don’t know my life. They don’t understand that I don’t have room for that kind of complication. And that thing about my parents’ house being huge and lonely was just a lucky guess.
Chapter Eighteen
Joe
I never really noticed how dirty my apartment building was until I got back from Willowdale. It must be all the traffic, all that pollution turning into a grime that covers every surface in a film.
Every floor, every wall, every outdoor surface has this dusty, sooty feeling to it. It’s not like back home—
I mean, of course New York is my home. But it’s not like in Florida where the ocean breezes seem to scour our little town clean.
I mean, their little town. Not mine. Manhattan is my little town now.
My grandmother’s clothes arrived in crates, but I seem to be kind of running out. I’m afraid to take these to my normal dry cleaner, worried I’ll never get them back again. Maybe I should try handwashing? I am not sure. But I’ve used every outfit at least once now, and summer is in full swing. It’s hot. This mint green wrap is not quite right for the season.
And it’s not quite right for my body, I notice as I try to make the snap parts meet at my waist. Scowling, I suck in my breath and try to make the fabric obey. If I can’t wear this, I’m going to have to go back to my regular clothes. I will have run out of Grandma Ann’s fantastic vintage finds.
Weirdly, that makes me want to cry. Like, actually cry.
That is the problem with being late with my pills. I screwed up this entire cycle and now, even though I’m done with the pills, my period didn’t start yet. The last three days I have felt bloated and overstuffed. My swelling bust line is just the latest symptom of PMS.
“Jeez, forget it,” I huff, slipping back out of the dress and picking out a colorful swing dress in swirls of rose.
This one has absolutely no waistline and goes on without a problem. Yes, I wore it a couple of weeks ago, but hopefully that will just seem like normal rotation. It doesn’t smell weird or anything.
Since I am the first one at the gallery, I take a few minutes to walk around. It’s so nice and peaceful here. Since it’s still early in the week, there shouldn’t be too much to do, just catching up on paperwork. Shipping as usual. Packing and communicating with some of our more high-maintenance artists.
I should be able to design a cooperative show, I realize as I stare at a painting by a artist from Nashville. Maureen Schindler has been getting a lot of attention. She tends to work in shades of blue and green, swirling abstracts that mimic natural shapes. I know for a fact that these colors are extremely popular in Florida right now. If we did a two-gallery show, that could generate some interesting buzz in the trade magazines, bring Dusty some attention.
I know that artists get prickly about the idea of color trends, but they exist. There’s nothing wrong with bringing beauty into a room, I think. And if a person happens to think that lavender is the beauty of the moment they want to live with, who am I to judge? Everything doesn’t have to be a giant, dark spectacle of medieval torture, does it? Sometimes what you really want to live with is a slice of clear sky.
Continuing my solo walk, I read through the cards we place on the wall, small autobiographical notes for the individual artists. The card for Schindler catches my eye, and I take a closer look.
This is strange… Actually, I’m fairly certain this is wrong. This is Julie Mack’s biography. It even mentions her hometown of Davenport, Iowa.
Oh no, Didi, I plead silently. What did you do? This opening was just last week.
“You’re here early,” comes a voice.
I spin around, reflexively trying to hide the card with my body. Martha strides toward me, resplendent in a red and pink polka dot shirt dress.
“I guess the subway gods were looking down on me,” I smile. “I caught the express.”
“Always the humble one,” Martha smirks.
We smile uncomfortably at each other for a few moments before Martha’s features turn stony again.
“I need you to call Dusty,” she informs me with a dismissive shrug. “I got an interesting message from Holly… Please take care of it.”
“Take care of it?” I repeat. “What is there to take care of?”
“Counting on you, thanks!” Martha sings out as she pivots and strides back toward her office. “Oh, and send Didi to me when she comes in, would you? We were supposed to meet yesterday and she was a no-show.”
Martha disappears, closing her office door behind her. I guess our manager-employee development time is over.
Confused, I dial Dusty’s personal cell number. She picks up after four rings, almost letting it go to voicemail.
“Don’t be mad!” she squeaks.
I let my hand open in the air and then drop it against my thigh.
“Dusty? What are you talking about?”
“Well what would you do if you were me?” she answers, clearly panicked.
“What are you talking about?” I repeat.
“If you’re going to yell at me, I’m going to hang up,” Dusty informs me.
Obviously, I am approaching this all wrong. Dusty is my responsibility, so I need to find a way to communicate with her. I try another angle.
“Okay, calm down,” I begin again. “Just take a breath, Dusty. I don’t know what’s going on, okay? Start at the beginning and explain it to me like I’m stupid.”
“I quit,” Dusty says quickly.
My breath catches my throat.
“You quit? How on earth… Did something happen?”
“No! Well, yeah… Remember the gallery opening?”
“Of course I do,” I answer, keeping my voice as even as possible. I do not want to scare her off by letting her hear how annoyed I am.
