by Harry Kraus
She shook her head. “No.”
The doctor lowered his voice and leaned toward her. “Could he be getting alcohol without your knowledge?”
“I’m not deaf. And I ain’t been drinking!” Wally stood. “Let’s go!” He stumbled to his feet from the edge of the stretcher.
“I can vouch for him, Doctor. He’s been dry for weeks.”
The young man shook his head. “I wasn’t born yesterday, ma’am. Look at his eyes. Listen to his speech.”
Wally pulled back the curtain and started across the emergency room.
“Wally, put some clothes on. You can’t leave like that!”
“Watch me!” He jerked his arms and legs forward in a motion that reminded Della of a marionette.
“Wally, stop!”
The doctor took Della’s arm. “Listen, ma’am, if he’s not drinking, this could be early alcohol withdrawal, delirium tremens. That can be quite serious, even fatal. He should be in the hospital.”
Her husband continued his labored trek toward the exit. Two nurses approached with their arms in the air, looking like bank tellers in a holdup. They backed toward the exit in front of him, speaking in soft, childlike voices. “There now, Mr. McCall, calm down. I’m sure we can find you some help.”
Wally’s hand flipped forward, striking the pudgy nurse in the nose.
The nurse screamed. The doctor yelled for security, and Della grabbed her husband’s clothes before running out the automatic doors behind Wally.
Della began to sob as she hurried across the lot to help her husband into the car.
As she passed the entrance to the ER, the young physician was standing beside a uniformed security guard, who had arrived two minutes too late. The doctor raised his hand and yelled, “That man ought to be committed! He could be in DTs!”
The voice behind her faded as she accelerated away from the hospital, turning right and heading back toward Stoney Creek. As she did, she cried. Cried because Wally wouldn’t get help. Cried because the doctor had been such a jerk. And cried because there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
Claire stopped for supper, a salad at Wendy’s, and sat in her car to eat. As she did, she couldn’t suppress the idea that her father might really have Huntington’s disease. The idea wasn’t rational, she told herself. You couldn’t have Huntington’s disease unless one of your parents had it. She thought about what Brett had said about her own situation, should it be true that she was at risk for HD. But that idea was preposterous! I can’t be at risk for HD if it’s not in my family. But the implications in her own life were so serious that she couldn’t seem to quiet the remote anxiety.
What if my father was adopted?
That’s ridiculous. Why would Grandma keep that a secret?
What if Grandpa McCall really wasn’t my father’s biological father?
A bite of lettuce stopped in midflight, on the way to Claire’s lips. This is crazy. I’m allowing my thoughts to spin out of control.
She became conscious of the lettuce hovering frozen in front of her face. She glanced each way, thankful no one seemed to be watching, before depositing the food in her mouth. Slowly she chewed, determined to manage her runaway thoughts. But what if?
She shook her head and sighed, finishing her salad with only limited success at keeping her mind from wondering over unlikely family secrets. She had modest victory at that when she turned her attention to her memories of Brett Daniels, his handsome appearance, and the emotions he aroused when he gently touched her arm. But she felt guilty and unfaithful dreaming about someone other than John, so she let her mind drift back to her father’s symptoms. Finally, in an effort to subdue her worries, she promised that she would call her mother. Surely she would know the information she needed to dispel the outlandish notion of family secrets.
Claire closed the plastic lid and took a long swig of the diet drink she’d ordered. Then, in a quick trip home, she saw the light flashing on her answering machine. John, perhaps? Her heart quickened, but only momentarily, as she recognized her mother’s recorded voice.
“Hi, Claire.” Her mother paused, the tension recognizable in her brief greeting. “I’m calling about your father.”
What else is new?
“I took him up to the hospital in Carlisle today. It was a disaster. The doctor thought he should stay. Accused him of being drunk, then thought he might be in alcohol withdrawal—DTs or something or other, he called it. Your father got offended and barged out of there wearing his hospital gown and everything. I …” Her voice caught. “I don’t know what to do. I have to work. But it’s getting so I’m afraid to leave him.” There was silence for a moment. “After today, I don’t think he’ll ever go to a doctor again. But he can’t go on like this. He can’t even get himself dressed without help.” Della sighed heavily. “Listen, I know you’ve got your own worries. I just didn’t know who else to call. Your sister is busy with her family, and Clay stays out of your father’s way. Not that I blame him.” Her voice trailed off. “Call me if you have any ideas. I’m running out of my own.”
Claire stared at the answering machine and shook her head. “The man is beyond help, Mom,” she muttered. She picked up the phone and dialed.
After three rings, her mother picked up. “Hello.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Claire. It’s so good to hear you again.”
“I got your message.”
Claire heard the screen door slam. She envisioned her mother retreating into the backyard so she could talk in private. “I don’t know what to do with him, Claire. I’m beginning to think I’m the crazy one around here. He says he’s not drinking. But he still looks drunk. I keep my eyes on him all I can. But I can’t watch him every second, and I can’t watch him while I’m at work.”
“Do you believe him, Ma?”
She heard Della exhale sharply into the phone. “Yes. Your father has been a lot of things, but he’s not a liar. He knows I wouldn’t tolerate that.”
“You took him to the doctor, Ma. The doctor thought he was drunk, too. Did he draw any labs? An alcohol level would be good evidence that he’s not being truthful.”
“They didn’t draw his blood. He didn’t stay that long. After waiting for two and a half hours to talk to the doctor, your father was mad enough. Then the doctor focused on his drinking history like there were no other possibilities. That went over real well with Wally.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Claire, if he’s not drinking, why can’t he walk straight? His arms and legs jerk around like he’s out of control.”
“Ma, you’ve hit on the crux of the issue. If he’s not drinking. Could it be you’re in denial? Maybe you’re too close to be objective.”
Claire could hear her mother tapping her fingernails on the phone. She didn’t reply right away. “Maybe. Maybe I am. How would I know? By definition, if I am too close, then I wouldn’t know.” She paused again. More clicking. “No. No, I think there is something else going on. Maybe the liquor has just pickled his brain beyond repair, but I don’t think he’s still drinking. Something else is going on. Something mysterious.”
“It’s the curse, right?” Claire responded with sarcasm. “Don’t tell me you’ve started listening to Grandma.”
“Claire!”
She softened. “I’m sorry.” She picked up a watering can and began watering her African violets while she talked. “There is another unlikely possibility I wanted to ask you about. In fact, even before I got your message, I intended to call you.”
“Okay. I’m listening. What?”
Claire gave an abbreviated version of her encounter with the patient with Huntington’s disease.
“I don’t see how that could apply to Wally. You said yourself that the only way to get the disease is if one of your parents had it.”
“Right.” Claire hesitated. “But what if Grandpa McCall wasn’t Daddy’s biological father? Could Daddy have been adopted? Or …”
“Or
what?” More clicking.
“Figure it out, Mom. I’m asking if someone else could have been Daddy’s biological father. Someone with Huntington’s disease.”
Della gasped. “Listen here, Claire. I’ve known your father’s mother all my life. She’s as close to sainthood as they come, always quoting the Bible, always attending church. She puts me to shame, I’d be the first to admit. And what you’re suggesting here is that Elizabeth had an affair?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I just—”
“Well, put that notion out of your head. Someday, you stand to inherit a substantial amount of money from that dear old woman, and the surest way for you to screw up that possibility is to suggest something like that.”
“Could he have been adopted?”
“No.”
“So the only way that—”
“Claire! Don’t persist in this. I can vouch for her character. Nothing like what you’re proposing could possibly be true.”
Claire shrugged. “Okay, okay, I hear you. I didn’t think it was possible either, but I just thought I’d make sure. The idea that Daddy could have such a horrible disease has serious implications for me, too. So I obsessed over it, and I had to ask.”
“So that’s it!” Della snapped. “All along you deny the possibility that something else could be wrong with your father. You never believed it could be anything but alcohol. But now suddenly when you think your future might be at stake, you start to worry.”
“Mom, I never said it couldn’t be anything else, I just denied the possibility of Grandma’s crazy theory about a town curse.”
“Well, I think you should forget your theory. Your grandmother has always been a good Christian woman.” Della sighed. “Why don’t you try supporting your family, instead of coming up with these accusations?”
“I was only asking a question. And how can I be more supportive? I can only do so much from up here.”
“Do what your grandmother would do, okay? Pray for us, Claire. Pray that your father’s brain will be restored, that whatever this crazy thing is, call it a curse or addiction, will pass and give us a little peace.”
Claire nodded. “Sure, Ma. I’ll pray.” She didn’t know what else to say. She hadn’t heard such desperation from her mother before. Della had always seemed so strong.
“Keep in touch, honey. I’d better go check on your father.”
“Bye.” Claire looked at her phone. The line had already gone dead.
Her mother’s reaction to Claire’s question had been a surprise. Claire hadn’t even considered the possibility that her question might be considered offensive—mainly because Claire hadn’t questioned her grandmother’s faithfulness. Instead, she had been thinking of something like a secret adoption. But Grandma having an affair? Her mother was right. Nothing should be further from her mind.
She continued watering her houseplants, encouraging each one and complimenting them on how strong they looked. Eventually, she tired of that and started telling them about the nagging similarities between her HD patient and her father. It felt silly to talk out her problems to her plants—but then, no one else would listen as long without interrupting.
What harm could it do to just explain the dilemma to Grandma? I’ll make it clear to her that I’m not suggesting that she had an affair, just that maybe Daddy was adopted or something. I know the idea may be far-fetched, but I just have to know so I can put it out of my mind forever.
Grandma would never write me out of the will just for asking a stupid question.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
Her grandmother’s voice was strong, and always a little loud because of her hearing loss. “McCall’s residence.”
“Grandma? It’s Claire.”
“Claire! So nice of you to call.”
“I’m calling about Daddy. I’m concerned about him.”
“We all are, Claire. He’s going to be the ruin of your mother.”
Claire launched into her story, stepping as lightly as she could into the question about Huntington’s disease in the family, and whether it was possible that her father could have been adopted.
Elizabeth McCall laughed—another response Claire hadn’t expected.
“Adopted?” She chuckled again. “I wish he was—then I wouldn’t feel so responsible for the way he’s turned out.” She laughed again. “It took twenty-four hours of labor for me to have that child. I think an adoption would have been more fun.”
“Well, I feel silly for asking, but adoption is the only way I could see Daddy having a parent with Huntington’s disease.” She paused. “It’s funny, Grandma. I just accused my mother of being in denial. Maybe I’m the one who’s looking for another explanation for my father’s behavior. It’s not easy knowing your father is the town drunk.”
“He’s not the town drunk, Claire. We’ve all had our problems. Your father’s has just been a bit more visible than some.”
“I guess.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments before her grandmother spoke again. “Say, Claire—is it possible for Huntington’s disease to skip a generation?”
“No. Everyone with the gene for Huntington’s gets it from an affected parent.”
“Hmm.” There was a pause. “Well, Claire, I’ll let you go. I know you’ve got a lot of studying to do. Nice of you to call. Bye.”
Click. “Yes, well—” Claire looked at her phone, realizing her grandmother had already gone. Boy, what is it with everyone today? Finished talking? Just hang up on me, Grandma.
Claire set the phone in its cradle and mumbled, “At least she didn’t talk to me about the curse.”
She walked to the bathroom and pulled off John’s jersey, then frowned as she pulled down her bikini top to check her tan line. I think my surgical training is definitely going to affect my tan. Oh, well, a healthy tan is really a misnomer anyway.
She showered, her mind drifting lazily as she washed away the suntan oils. She thought of Brett, and how easy she found it to talk to him. It’s strange, I’ve only just met him, but I felt so open to share my thoughts. There’s something to be said for shared experiences. Like soldiers in the trenches together, I guess. There’s nothing like another surgical resident to understand your stresses.
And what a build. He doesn’t seem arrogant like most surgeons. He’s probably got the nurses eating out of his hand. I’ll bet they’d do just about anything for a chance to be with—
Thump thump thump.
Claire stuck her head out from behind the shower curtain and listened. Someone was pounding on her front door. Alarm rushed through her as the pounding continued, accompanied now by the doorbell. She wasn’t expecting guests, and no one, as far as she knew, knew where to find her. Who could be knocking?
She shut off the water and grabbed a towel. She yelled at the front door, “Be right there!” She hurried into her bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans, and threw on the jersey she’d just removed. She crept to the door and peered through the peephole.
She gasped with relief and joy. John Cerelli had come to Lafayette!
Chapter Nine
Claire yanked open the door and launched herself into John’s arms like a reckless child. “John!” she squealed, loud enough to alert the neighborhood of his arrival.
John pulled free of her grasp and planted a kiss on her lips. “Surprise.”
“What are you doing here?”
He smiled sheepishly. “I knew you had to be under a ton of stress starting your internship. I just wanted to be around for support.”
She led him into her brownstone. “How did you find me?”
“I had your address. I can read a map.”
“How did you know I’d be home? I could have been at the hospital.”
“I called the paging operator. She told me you weren’t on call.” He shrugged. “So I just thought I’d try here.”
She hugged him tightly before remembering how quickly she’d dressed to come to the d
oor. The only thing between her and John’s thin shirt was the jersey. She enjoyed the sensation for a moment before pushing him away. “I’ll be right back.” She took a step back, before feeling the restraint of his grip on her wrist.
“Wait a minute.” He stared at her and smiled.
“What are you staring at?” She lifted her hand to her uncombed wet hair. “You interrupted my shower.”
“You cut your hair.”
“You knew that. I told you about it.”
“But I hadn’t seen it.” He paused. “You look great.”
She wasn’t convinced. “I look like a wet poodle. Just give me a minute, Cerelli.” She retreated to the bathroom.
There, she started to blow-dry her hair, stopping long enough to call out to John to make himself at home and help himself to whatever he could find in the kitchen.
After fixing her hair, she put on some clothes and lipstick. She found John in the kitchen, frowning at the refrigerator. “What do you live on? Campbell’s soup? Cheerios?”
“Hey, I wasn’t exactly expecting guests.” She looked at the clock. Seven-thirty. “Have you eaten? We could go out.”
John stretched his back with his hands extended high above his head. “I’ve been driving for ten hours. I stopped once—at a McDonald’s for lunch. Other than that, I had a bag of Combos and some malt balls.”
Claire wrinkled her nose. “I’ll take you out for some vegetables.”
“Okay, Mom.”
He moved past her toward the bathroom, stealing a kiss as he squeezed between Claire and the kitchen sink.
Her heart soared. She had told John to stay away, but it was so romantic that he hadn’t obeyed.
She took him to a seafood restaurant overlooking the Danberry River. As they feasted on shrimp, fresh fish, and scallops, she unloaded the stories of her first days as a surgical intern. She told him about Dan-the-man and his silly rules, about Beatrice and her cutthroat antics, Claire’s struggle with giving her first orders, the thrill of putting in a chest tube, the first-blood award, and about the unfortunate man with Huntington’s disease who reminded her of her father.
