Could I Have This Dance? (24 page)

“I’ll be careful.”

“You do that.” Dot released her hand, but not before lifting Claire’s left hand and admiring her ring. “Oh, my, you’re engaged.”

Claire smiled.

“Have you told your fiancé that you’re worried about Huntington’s disease in your family?”

Boy, this lady doesn’t miss a trick, does she?

She grimaced. “Not exactly. I told him about a patient I had with HD, and told him that the patient reminded me of my father.” She shrugged. “I haven’t talked to him since my grandmother told me about the rape.”

“You should talk with him, Claire. If it turns out that HD is actually confirmed in your family, and I emphasize
if,
then I’d be glad to talk with your fiancé with you. We have a wonderful video library of families discussing their struggles with HD. It can be a real benefit to see how others have managed.”

“Hopefully, I’ve been too hasty. I could have just jumped to the wrong conclusion about everything.”

“I’ll bet that’s true.”

Claire turned to leave. “Thanks.”

Hopefully, the counselor is right. I made a hasty decision based on circumstantial evidence.

But if I’m correct … Ugh! I can’t think about that right now. I’ve got rounds to make.

Chapter Fifteen

C
laire recognized the beeping noise without looking, the repetitive, obnoxious warning sound telling her the large truck in front of her Toyota was in reverse gear. The garbage truck backed toward her little Toyota, emitting a shrill warning.
Doesn’t he see me? He’s going to hit my car!

The beeping continued, rhythmic, foreboding. Claire checked the rearview mirror. She couldn’t back up. There was another car right behind her. She was trapped, and the ignoramus in the garbage truck was oblivious. She laid on the horn, but the beeping persisted. The truck edged closer and closer. Her Toyota would be a pancake.

Time to bail out! I’ve got to escape!
Claire clawed for the button to release her seat belt. Where was it? Her fingers found the button and the belt popped free, but it was too late. She closed her eyes and braced for the impact …

Claire’s feet hit the floor with a thud. She opened her eyes, expecting the horrifying crunch of metal against metal. Instead, the emergency room trauma bay came into focus in the dim light. She rubbed her eyes. The beeping sound continued, the unrelenting noise, coming from the pager clipped to her scrub pants. Within moments, her orientation returned. There was no garbage truck. And the button to release her seat belt was on the side of her beeper.

She looked at her pager. The extension was a familiar one. The ER wanted her. Again. “I’m already here,” she muttered to herself, plodding toward the central workstation. It was four A.M. and she’d been asleep on an empty stretcher for fifteen minutes. Brett’s predictions about Friday nights on the trauma service had been only too accurate, and Claire had logged six new hits since midnight.

She addressed Cliff, the ward secretary. “What’s up now?”

He handed her a chart. “Room eleven. College kid on a drinking binge. He has a beer-bottle cap in his throat.”

Claire nodded. “And I thought I was having a bad night.”

She entered the exam room to find a nineteen-year-old male sitting on the edge of a stretcher with a towel held up to his chin. He dabbed at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed.

“I’m Dr. McCall.” She looked at the X ray hanging on the viewbox beside his bed. Sure enough, a metal bottle cap seemed to rest in the middle of his neck. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The boy tilted his head back, trying to keep his saliva from running out. As he talked, he seemed to be fighting a rising tide of spit. “We were just playing around. We were unscrewing the caps with our teeth.” He dabbed his chin again. “I can’t swallow. Can you get it out?”

Claire nodded. “How much did you drink?”

He shrugged. “A few beers. That’s all. Do you have to tell my parents?”

She looked at the chart. “You’re not a minor. We don’t have to tell your parents. But I think you should. They’re almost certain to see the insurance papers.”

The boy cursed.

“We’ll have to let you wait a few more hours until your stomach has a chance to empty. Then we’ll use a scope to remove the bottle cap.”

“Doc, I can’t wait! I can’t swallow.”

She didn’t feel like arguing with him. “If we try to remove it before your stomach is empty, you could vomit into your lungs and die.” She handed him a small basin. “Here, you can spit in here.” With that, she left in search for the O-man.

She found him in the middle of a group of medical students, sitting on a stretcher expounding on his personal philosophies of medicine and life. It mattered little that it was time for normal people to sleep. This bay-windowed resident expected his students to hang on his every word. And what amazed Claire was that they actually did.

She smiled and listened for a moment as he carried them through an imaginary patient scenario, asking them questions and critiquing their responses.

“Okay,” he summarized. “The patient has abdominal pain, tenderness in the lower right quadrant, and leukocytosis. What’s your next move?”

The students called out their answers. “Ultrasound.”

The O-man shook his head. “Two hundred dollars. And it won’t change what you do.”

CT scan.

“Eight hundred dollars. And you still haven’t helped.”

“Barium enema.”

Dr. Overby looked at Claire and muttered, “Wedges.” It was his endearing term for medical students. The name was a physics word used
to describe the simplest form of a tool. If you needed to get something done in the hospital, you used a tool. And the simplest tool, according to the O-man, was a third-year medical student, a wedge.

He looked back at the group and sighed. “I guess it’s time for you to learn Overby’s first rule of diagnosis.”

The students groaned. Evidently they’d heard other such lists in the past.

The O-man raised his index finger. “Never let the skin stand between you and a diagnosis.” He paused. “There is nothing wrong with proceeding straight to surgery with this patient. It’s diagnostic as well as therapeutic. It’s direct and efficient.”

That’s why I love this stuff so much,
Claire mused.
If only all problems could be solved with a surgical approach.
She cleared her throat and caught the resident’s eye. “I’ve got a case for us.”

He nodded at her, then directed the students like a symphony conductor. “Remember, my little wedges, a chance to cut is—” He lifted his meaty hands.

The rest of the phrase was echoed in unison. “A chance to cure.”

He waved his hands to dismiss the students from their teaching session, and turned his attention to Claire.

By noon on Saturday, Claire sat writing her last daily progress note, fighting back the fatigue that had become a normal part of her short intern life. She took a sip of lukewarm coffee and closed the chart. She felt physically and emotionally spent. In spite of her efforts to concentrate solely on her clinical work, the anxieties about her family seemed to lurk in the recesses of her mind, ready to pounce at any moment her attention wasn’t demanded elsewhere.

She rested her forehead in her hands and had just closed her eyes when she felt hands touch her shoulders.

“Morning, Claire.” The voice was Brett’s. His hands remained.

Claire lifted her head. “Hi.”

His fingers kneaded the tension from her neck. She allowed herself to relax.

He moved around and sat on the counter facing her. “Rough night?”

“Friday night on the trauma service. You warned me.”

He chuckled.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “I didn’t think researchers came in on the weekend.”

“I came in to enroll a patient in one of Dr. Rogers’ clinical studies. I have to go over all the consent forms with eligible candidates.”

“Hmmm.” She sighed and laid her head in her hands again.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“I’m—” She halted. “Okay.” She kept staring at the counter. She felt transparent, as if he would read her thoughts if she looked him in the eyes.

“You’re quiet.”

She yawned and looked up. “Sleep deprivation. I need to crash.”

“I know about that.”

She watched as he fiddled with a stack of papers on the counter. Her hands were under the counter now and she instinctively checked her ring finger. Her ring was in her locker, where she’d left it before the last case of the morning, a rigid esophagoscopy to remove the wayward beer-bottle cap.

Claire knew Brett would see the ring eventually. But why did she care? And why did her heart quicken at his gentle touch? She nibbled on her lower lip.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Did the O-man make up a new tern rule just for you?”

She smiled at his teasing. “No.” She pushed away from the counter. “I’ve just had some things on my mind.”

“Want to talk to someone who’s been there?”

She hesitated.

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go crash for a few hours? Then head for the beach. My offer for dinner is good anytime. The sunset from my deck will do wonders for your mind.”

She looked down.
It sounds wonderful. And I could use a friend to talk to.

“Claire,” he prodded. “I told you all about my dysfunctional family.” He held up his hands. “You were a great listener. I can be too.”

“I shouldn’t.”
I should tell him I’m engaged.
“I should catch up on—”

“I make wonderful shrimp kabobs.”

She sighed. “How do I find your place?”

She could see his eyes light up. “Across from the beach parking lot. It’s in the row of gray-stained cedar-siding town houses. Number 208.”

Claire nodded her understanding as Beatrice Hayes walked up and lifted a chart from the rack near Brett. Claire watched as Beatrice made no attempt to hide her inspection, starting with Brett’s tanned face and slowly gazing south.

I shouldn’t be saying yes. But I love his persistence.
Claire turned and walked toward the elevators. “I’ll be there at seven.”

Claire pried herself from her bed at five and studied herself in the bathroom mirror. She was wearing John’s football jersey.
I need to talk to him.

She dialed and waited.

He picked up after the first ring. “Hello.”

“John.” She could hear TV in the background and John asking someone to turn it down.

“Hey, Claire.”

“Am I interrupting?”

“Nahh. Just some of the gang from work. We’ve got a softball game tonight.”

She could hear a woman’s voice. “A coed team?”

“What? Oh, yeah.”

“I haven’t heard about your trip to Boston.”

“It was great. I think we’ll be able to get our software into a large clinic on the south side of town. And if they like it, we’ll have an inroad to some of the area hospitals.”

“Great.” She paused. “I’m sorry we couldn’t spend more time together in Lafayette. I felt bad about our visit in the hospital. You were hurt.”

The noise in the background disappeared. Claire imagined that John had walked into his bedroom. “I was just jealous of your time. I was disappointed, that’s all.”

She smiled. “I liked the porcupine kisses.”

He laughed. “Me too.”

“Do you have a few minutes? There’s something we need to talk about.”

She heard him sigh. “Sure. What’s up?”

She launched into the story of her grandmother’s surprise visit, and her confession that she wasn’t sure who Wally’s father was. She told him of Steve Hudson and his grandfather, Harold Morris, and how Harold, Steve, and now her father all seem to have the same malady.

The TV in the background became louder for a few moments, as if John was walking in and out of the TV room.

“Remember what I told you about the patient I had with Huntington’s disease?”

“Uh, Huntington’s?”

“Right. I told you the night we went out. About the patient who reminded me so much of my father.”

“Uh, I guess I don’t, Claire. I had my mind on the engagement, I guess.”

She rolled her eyes and backed up to explain about her concerns that her father had symptoms of Huntington’s, and now her fear that her father
may actually have the disease, based on the new information her grandmother had shared with her.

“I’m not so sure why you’re upset. It sounds to me as if you may have solved this whole town-curse mystery.”

“John, you’re not getting it. If my father actually has Huntington’s disease, then I could get it too.”

“Claire, you don’t have a disease like your father. You don’t act anything like him.”

“Not now I don’t, but Huntington’s disease doesn’t usually strike until midlife. It could be mid-thirties, maybe forties until I’d know.”

“Oh.” John paused. “Then you’d start acting like your father?”

“Not in every way, but most people with HD suffer a decline in mental capacity, in addition to a loss of ability to control their muscles. Their arms and legs move spontaneously to the point of having to be bedridden.”

“You’re nothing like your father, Claire. You don’t seem to have inherited anything from him.”

“I may have inherited more than I wanted.” She felt like crying. “John, I might be beyond childbearing age before I know if I have it. And if I have it, I may have already passed it to our children by the time we know.”

“Whoa, Claire. You don’t even know for sure that your father has this, and already you’re worried about our children?”

“John, this affects my future. Everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

“Okay, I understand this is important to you. Why don’t you have your dad tested? You’re probably just overreacting.”

“Maybe so, but this whole thing is very frightening. I keep praying that I’m wrong, that Daddy is just a drunk, and not manifesting some horrible genetic disease.” She collapsed on the bed. “It’s weird, John. The thing I used to hate the most is now what I pray for the most.”