Love Finds You in Romeo, Colorado

by Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

  “That’s true, sir. What is your name?” Claire asked him.

  “Henry Banks. I’m semiretired, but I work in the wound clinic here a few days a week.”

  “Okay. Well, what can you tell us?”

  Dr. Banks sat up straight in his chair. “You are an escaped convict with a mental condition. We are all in grave danger and need to call the police!”

  Claire smiled at him and Stephen colored.

  “Excellent! I think we’ve just illustrated the point of how important clear communication can be—and that pertains especially to the medical profession, where many of you deal with life and death situations.”

  During the break, Stephen walked up to the table where Claire was getting a cup of coffee. Her red suit buttoned down the front and the skirt ended just above her knee. Her nails were short with square edges. She wore neutral polish. With a glance, Stephen confirmed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “Thanks for embarrassing me,” he joked.

  “Oh, that. Well, I’d have to say you accomplished that all by yourself,” she answered teasingly. She looked at him with her emerald eyes and then cast them down to her cup. He noticed that her lashes were long and full.

  “I didn’t know you were leading this seminar. You’re doing a great job. Usually Continuing Ed is so boring.”

  “Thanks.” She didn’t look up.

  “You’re right, you know, about communication being important. I was trying to explain something the other day to one of my Hispanic patients, and I felt like an idiot. She had a cyst on her ovary, and I think I described it to her as a balloon full of blood. It was so embarrassing. I had to get Carlos in there to help me.”

  Claire laughed. “Well, at least you tried. Have you had much Spanish?” She took a sip of coffee and studied him from over her cup.

  “No. I mean, well, my dad is Puerto Rican, so I heard some Spanish from him growing up, but not a whole lot. My mother is Irish and we lived in Oklahoma. There just wasn’t a lot of opportunity.”

  “Did you visit relatives in Puerto Rico or take any Spanish in high school?” Claire smoothed her skirt, and Stephen was secretly jealous of her hand.

  “We only went there once to see my grandparents. I’ve had a few classes, but—as you can tell—I’m not too good at it. I get by around here, but not as well as I should.” Stephen shifted his feet.

  “Well, you could take a few classes at Adams,” she offered.

  “Do you teach them?” He looked up, maybe too eagerly.

  “Uh, no. I don’t teach Spanish. I teach Comparative Literature though, for bilingual students.”

  Stephen looked disappointed.

  “Probably the best thing you could do is go to Spain or even Mexico for a few months, to immerse yourself. We offer immersion courses here.”

  “Actually, my brother-in-law is doing that right now. It’s a sort of mission trip, but he’s getting immersed in the culture as a bonus.”

  “Really?” Claire said, and Stephen thought he saw a shadow pass across her face. “Interesting.” She looked at her watch.

  “Hey, listen, I know the break’s almost over, and I’ve taken most of your time. But, if you don’t mind, um, can I see that mole on your leg?” Stephen bent down for a closer look.

  “What?” Claire backed away from him.

  “It’s just that—well, I noticed you have an irregular mole on your shin. I’d like to see you get that removed.”

  Claire looked like she didn’t know whether to thank him or slap him.

  He stood up and laughed softly. “I’m sorry. I just—”

  “It’s okay—thanks. I’ll think about it.” She turned away from him to throw away her cup and returned to the podium.

  Stephen thought she seemed a little stressed as she gathered her notes, and he hoped he hadn’t caused it.

  “An irregular mole? How lame is that?” Maria was laughing so hard that she almost fell out of her chair. They were sitting on the patio of their favorite local restaurant beside the Arkansas River.

  Stephen stared at her.

  Maria laughed even harder. She was wiping her eyes with a napkin now. “Definitely original, Steve. Not your usual pick-up line.” She cackled some more.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Maria opened her menu and held it up to her face, concealing a grin. “Let’s see, what am I going to order?” She pretended to be engrossed in the dinner offerings at Rumors.

  “Is it that bad? I mean, yeah, I was staring at her legs. That’s true. But she does have a bad mole. Was it wrong to tell her about it?”

  “No.” Maria suppressed more laughter. “Certainly not! It was your Hippocratic duty. What a dedicated professional you are. I am very proud of you!”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Seriously, knowing you, she probably found it very charming. Plenty of women would love to show you their legs.”

  “I don’t think she’s that type.”

  “No, me neither.” Maria agreed.

  “But do you think I offended her? By how I handled it, I mean?”

  Stephen wished he could take the words back as soon as he said them, but she was already reared back, guffawing.

  “Handled it? Let’s see, how exactly did you handle it?”

  “Honestly, Maria, I’m going to pitch you into that water. Let’s just change the subject.” Stephen smiled in spite of himself and then asked, “Have you talked to Mom or Dad lately?”

  Chapter Nine

  When Claire got to work on Monday morning, she looked up the number for Stephen Reyes, MD., in La Jara.

  “Well, ma’am, it looks like he’s booked up all this week with regular appointments. Was it something urgent?”

  “Uh, no,” Claire said. “He just suggested I come in to have a mole removed.”

  “The doctor suggested it?” asked the receptionist.

  “Yes. I saw him recently at a seminar and he noticed it.”

  “Oh—I see.”

  Claire could hear the clicking of keys on a computer keyboard.

  “Well, ma’am, since the doctor suggested it, why don’t we get you in today? I can work you in after eleven o’clock.”

  “I’d have to be back in Alamosa for a class I teach at one o’clock. Do you think that’s possible? Otherwise, I’ll just take the next regular appointment.”

  “I’ll make a note of it. I think it can work if you’re here right at eleven thirty.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  The towns of Alamosa, Estrella, La Jara, Romeo, and Antonito are dots on the map of southern Colorado. When they officially sprang up in 1880, it was the railroad that connected them, because trains had to stop for water every seven miles. Today, one connects the dots by driving Highway 285.

  Claire was not nearly as frantic this day as she’d been the last time she’d driven from Alamosa to the hospital in La Jara. That was the day of Graeme’s asthma attack and the first time she ever laid eyes on Stephen Reyes. He’d been a certain, albeit small, presence in their lives ever since. And now here she was, meeting him again. She didn’t even know for sure where his office was, though she assumed it was near the hospital.

  Just a block before she reached the hospital, on the same street, Claire noticed a clinic she’d totally ignored the other day. A sign read, REGIONAL FAMILY CARE and among the three doctors listed was Stephen Reyes, MD. She parked her car and went in. It was exactly eleven twenty.

  The receptionist looked much like Claire might have imagined her. She was in her late fifties, with dyed black hair, penciled eyebrows, and reading glasses on the end of her nose. They were attached to a silver chain that hung around her neck.

  “May I help you?” She looked up at Claire over her glasses, which featured multicolored rims. Her nametag read IRENE.

  “Yes. I’m Claire Caspian. I’m here to see Dr. Reyes.”

  Irene, studying Claire’s cream satin blouse, black palazzo pants, and pearls, smiled. “Of course.” She hande
d her a clipboard. “Fill this out for me, honey, and I’ll need your insurance card.”

  After exchanging the needed information with Irene, Claire plopped down in one of the chairs in the waiting room. Unlike Maria Marquez’s office, Stephen’s was as plain as they come. There were a few nice Ansel Adams prints on the walls—Claire recognized the Grand Tetons and the Snake River—but other than that it was bare. The furniture was standard, and the only distractions provided were an assortment of magazines scattered about the place. Claire thought the selections testified of a varied clientele: the current Time, Newsweek, and National Geographic shared table space with various editions of People; Fur, Fish and Game; and Better Homes and Gardens. Claire pulled On Chesil Beach, the novella by Ian McEwan, out of her purse and opened to her place.

  Her cheeks burned a few moments later when her name was called, as if the nurse could sense what she’d just read about a tortured couple on their honeymoon. She shoved the book into her purse and stood, smoothing her pants.

  The nurse’s nametag said DESIRAE, and Claire inwardly cringed at the corrupted spelling of the French word. Desirae was a friendly girl in her midtwenties, however, who had graduated from Adams State.

  “Let’s get your weight real quick,” she said, ushering Claire down the hall toward the scales.

  “Ooh, that’s no fun,” Claire told her. “Is it totally necessary?” She removed her black slingback pumps.

  “I’m afraid so.” The nurse laughed. “But what are you worried about?”

  She recorded Claire’s 135 pounds and measured her height at five feet six inches.

  “We’ll put you in exam room one.”

  The exam room featured a print of a red poppy by Georgia O’Keefe. After answering a few questions, Claire settled into another chair—this one a bit more comfortable than the one in the waiting room—and opened up On Chesil Beach again.

  Dr. Reyes came in quickly, looking somewhat flushed.

  “Claire. Dr. Caspian. How are you?” He smiled at her, showing the slight chip in his front tooth. Then he sat down across from her.

  “Fine, thank you, except for my mole.”

  “Of course. I’m glad you came in.” He looked towards her purse. “What’s that you were reading?”

  “Oh, that. It’s a book by Ian McEwan. He’s a British author, most famous for—”

  He finished her sentence. “Atonement. I love that book.”

  “You do?” Claire felt oddly surprised and pleased.

  “Yes. Not crazy about Saturday, though.”

  “Me neither.” Claire paused. “Though I think he was using that novel to continue the conversation he opened up in Atonement—you know, concerning modernism.”

  Stephen looked at her quizzically.

  Claire went on, scraping polish off her thumbnail as she spoke. “Well, in the way he addresses the question of a writer’s responsibility in literature.”

  Claire realized she was talking to Dr. Reyes as if he were one of her students.

  Stephen smiled at her admiringly. “I don’t think I quite got all of that from Atonement. But I did think it was a great story. I was actually very touched by it.” He looked down.

  “Me, too.” Claire looked down at the book in her hand. “And this one—well, I’m not far enough along to know yet whether I love it. It feels a little bit like another experiment. But it’s better, so far, than Saturday.”

  Desirae came back in with a tray that held supplies.

  “Oh, thanks, Desirae. But I’m not quite ready to begin. Could you give us a couple more minutes?” Stephen stood to take the tray.

  “Uh, sure.” Desirae looked a little confused, but she exited.

  Claire felt a little self-conscious when the door closed again. “I’m sorry—I got into my English teacher mode.”

  “No—don’t be. I mean, I like talking to you.” Stephen looked right into her eyes. Then he looked at her chart for the first time. “I guess I do need to get you out of here on time, though; it says here you need to get back to Alamosa for a class at one o’clock.” He held up Irene’s yellow sticky note.

  Claire relaxed her shoulders. “Well, if it’s possible.”

  He explained the procedure, which amounted to placing a miniature cookie cutter around her mole and pressing it out. “I have to do it that way to get enough tissue for the lab to test it—for melanoma.”

  “Melanoma?” Claire’s eyes glistened like a deer’s in front of headlights.

  “I don’t think it’s anything, but we want to be sure.” He opened the door and motioned to Desirae, who came in to assist.

  With Claire seated on the exam table, they pulled out an extension in the front so she could fully straighten her legs. She rolled back her wide pants leg on the right side, to just above her knee, and rolled down her fishnet stocking. The imprint of the stocking carved little diamonds into her skin, and one diamond perfectly framed the mole, which was midcalf and almost directly on top of her shinbone.

  Desirae handed Stephen a syringe.

  “This is the only thing that will hurt,” he told her, gently administering the Lidocaine to the tissue surrounding the mole. It felt like a wasp’s sting but subsided much sooner.

  Desirae took the empty syringe and handed Stephen the punch biopsy. He placed it precisely over the mole, taking in about two millimeters of the tissue around it so that the total circumference was similar to that of a pencil eraser. His hands were steady and assured.

  Claire was intrigued to watch, to see herself being cut while feeling no pain.

  Stephen pressed the end of the punch biopsy, and there was a tiny pop as it extracted the mole. He set it on the tray and then immediately applied pressure to the incision site with a piece of gauze doused in aluminum chloride. As Claire watched in fascination, he pulled the skin together with two perfect stitches.

  “I’ll take these out for you in ten days, if you’ll come by,” he said.

  “I think I can do it myself.” Claire smiled at him.

  “Have it your way.” He placed the bandage over her stitches as if he were handling a piece of fine china. “But don’t pull that stocking back up.”

  “Okay.”

  He helped her down as Desirae left the room with the tray.

  “We will call you with the results from the lab,” said Stephen. “It can take up to two weeks, but it’ll probably be sooner than that.”

  Claire held out her hand bravely. “Gracias,” she told him.

  “De nada,” he took it, smiling, and then he added, “Take care.”

  On the drive back to Adams, Claire found herself going over the details of her doctor visit and smiling. Then she remembered Maria.

  Chapter Ten

  Desirae, who was filling out papers at her work station, looked up and eyed Stephen with suspicion when he came out of exam room one.

  “What?” He tried to suppress a grin, but she could see the crinkles around the edges of his eyes.

  “‘Oh, thanks, Desirae, but we’re not ready yet. Could you give us a couple more minutes to chat?’” she crooned, flapping her arms like a chicken.

  “Did I look that ridiculous?”

  Desirae arched her eyebrows in response.

  “I didn’t say that, did I? I surely didn’t say ‘to chat’?”

  “Well, maybe not; I don’t remember. But that is what you were doing, isn’t it?” Her eyes bored holes through him.

  “What’s wrong with it if I was? I try to talk to all of my patients, you know, to get to know them. It’s called good bedside manner. You should try it sometime!” He poked her in the side with a tongue suppressor.

  “You won’t suppress my tongue that easily,” she said and then whirled back around in her chair to face her desk.

  Stephen worked through lunch, and he was peering into little Suzy Phillips’s left ear with an otoscope when the emergency room called.

  “They need you over there now,” Desirae’s eyes said “urgent” when she popped he
r head through the door.

  “Call Suzy in a prescription for Augmentin—ten days. Bobby at Medi-Quik will know the dosage.” He scribbled something on the chart.

  Desirae nodded and turned to follow his instructions.

  Stephen paused in the doorway to address Suzy’s mother.

  “I’m sorry; I have to go to the ER, but I saw infection in that one ear. Desirae will call something in right now so you won’t have to wait around for me.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Reyes,” said a grateful Libby Phillips to his back.

  Like a mother hen, she gathered up Suzy, the twins, their suckers and shoes, and their bag full of books, toys, crackers, and diapers. She followed him out of the exam room and then stopped at the front desk to pay.

  “There’s no charge,” Irene said through pursed lips.

  “Oh, no, there must be some mistake,” Libby opened her checkbook. “He was in a hurry. Remind me—what’s the usual office visit? I should remember.” She smiled pleasantly at Irene and shifted Jake to her other hip while Johnny pulled on her leg.

  “I said it’s no—”

  Suzy knocked over a container of pens on Irene’s desk, spilling them all over the floor.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! Here, let me get those.” Libby bent down, trying to pick up the pens, while Jake wailed at the inconvenience and Johnny joined him. Suzy stared at Irene, who stared back at her over her glasses. “Help me pick these up!” Libby told Suzy.

  When the pens were settled safely back onto the desk, Libby brushed back several stray hairs, shifted Johnny, and asked Irene again, “What’s the charge?”

  Irene showed her the chart, pointing with a pen to Stephen’s distinctive scribble. No charge.

  “I have to follow the doctor’s orders,” Irene told Libby, sounding like she regretted it.

  Stephen ran on foot to the emergency room and got a briefing from Carlos before the ambulance arrived. Matt, the EMT who had called ahead, said the prognosis was not good. There was no pulse and the chest compressions weren’t working. But nothing could have prepared Stephen for what he would see.