Could I Have This Dance? (49 page)

She pushed him further. “Seriously, I want to know. What would you do if it was down to me and you?”

He squinted and sneered. “I’d have to kill you.” He stayed serious for a moment, before showing a hint of a smile.

“You’d never get past my butcher knife,” she sneered back, before giggling. She wiped the back of her mouth with her napkin and lifted her wine glass again. She looked at the empty glass and found it just a little hard to focus. The combination of sleep deprivation and her alcohol intolerance were showing. She giggled again.

“What are you laughing about?”

“About protecting myself with a kitchen utensil.” She shook her head. “What was I thinking?”

“Claire, you were scared and alone. It’s not really so silly.”

“I was s—cared,” she slurred.

Claire finished the meal and fought the urge to close her eyes. “I always hated my father for drinking too much,” she confessed, before laughing again. She lifted the empty bottle of wine. She tried hard to remember how it had gotten that way. “You must have hogged the last glass.”

She stood up and steadied herself against the counter, looking again at the phone. “My fiance didn’t call me. He knew I needed him, and he didn’t even call.” She frowned. “I was scared to be alone.” She paused. “What if that man calls again? Is he still watching?”

“Come here,” Brett coaxed, taking her by the hand. “You’ve had a little too much wine.”

He led her to the couch, where he took her in his arms. She laid her head against his chest and started to cry. She wasn’t sure exactly why. All her emotions seemed to want to come out in tears. She was mad at John for not responding. She was embarrassed at her own intoxication. She was afraid of men who called in the night to call her a baby killer, afraid of men who painted hateful messages upon the door of her house. She was mad at God for putting HD in her family.

But more than anything else right then and there, she hated herself for wanting so much more than just Brett’s arms around her.

He stroked her shoulders and her hair, and told her everything was going to be all right. He promised to stay with her, even when she insisted that he’d done enough and needed to leave.

Minutes passed and her sobs subsided, and in the comfort of Brett’s arms, she slept.

John drove on in a daze, not stopping until one in the morning at a Motel 6. He unlocked the door to his room and collapsed on the bed. Nothing seemed real. His excitement over seeing Claire had been exploded by an unseen land mine. He opened his suitcase and laid a stack of papers on the dresser, resources on Huntington’s disease that he’d downloaded from the Internet to give to Claire.

In his exhaustion, he began to question reality. Maybe this was all some bad dream. He’d been inseparable from Claire for years back in Brighton. He knew her. Maybe what he’d seen didn’t reflect reality. Maybe he’d misunderstood. Maybe this whole mess was a big misinterpretation.

He looked at the phone, and, in spite of the hour, he needed to hear her voice. He wanted to hear it from her. Who was this Brett, and just what did he mean to her?

The phone rang once, twice, six times before he heard an answer. “Hello.”

John’s heart dropped. The voice was male. He was spending the night.

The voice on the phone continued until John was sure he recognized it. “Hello? Hello?”

John returned the phone to its cradle without speaking. He wanted to tear it from the wall. Instead, he picked up the papers he’d just set on the dresser, slowly crumpled them into a large ball, and dropped them into the wastebasket.

Then he undressed, crawled into bed, and pulled the pillow over his head to shut out everything the world was dishing out.

Oh, God,
he prayed.
Let me wake up from this nightmare. What has happened to my Claire?

Chapter Thirty-Four

C
laire pried open her eyes at five, jolted into consciousness by her clock radio blaring the weather forecast for Lafayette, Boston, and Cape Cod.

She rose slowly with two sensations battling for prompt attention. Her bladder cried for relief, and her head pounded with every stroke of her pulse. As she looked around the room, a hazy memory of the night before stayed just beyond sharp focus. How had she gotten to her bed? She clutched her clothes.
John’s jersey.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to remember changing her clothes. Had Brett helped her undress? Did he see her naked?

Her heart quickened and that made her head pound harder. She attempted to concentrate on what she did remember. A delicious meal, too much wine, conversation and tears, being cradled in Brett’s arms. She felt so confused. How did she get to her bed? How did she change her clothes? Was he with her? Was he longing for her like she yearned for him? Did they …?

She touched her undergarments, anxiously searching for evidence of her actions during a night which remained in the blackness beyond memory.

Brett wouldn’t have touched her without invitation … would he? But she’d had so much to drink … and she just couldn’t quite remember.

She crept down the stairs and looked at the couch. Brett was sleeping with a blanket pulled up under his chin. Dare she peek to see if he was clothed? But what would it mean if he wasn’t? She took a step toward him in the dim light and stepped on an article of clothing. As she reached to pick it up, she felt a stab of dread. It was her bra. Had she undressed in the living room?

Certainly, he would have stayed in my bed, if we had … She shook her head. The idea was unthinkable. She’d made a promise to God that she’d remain pure. She massaged her temples.
But alcohol can make you lose your head.
The thought struck as a stone of anxiety crystallized just below her chest.

Claire’s thoughts raced. Would Brett have taken a liberty uninvited? Or did she invite him in her intoxication? She was not on any birth control. A pregnancy would ruin her chances at being promoted. As if Dr. Rogers needed another reason to cut her from the program.

And of course family planning for someone at risk for HD was complicated by her children also being at risk. Any child of hers had a one-in-four chance of HD.

She rummaged through her on-call bag to find the ibuprofen. She swallowed four tablets and added two Tylenol for good measure.

She climbed the steps, pulled off John’s jersey, and stepped into the shower. A pregnancy would be so unlikely. She doubted that she’d shared a bed with Brett, but a nagging worry remained.
It’s not the right time of the month. I couldn’t be. Could I?
She held her face up to the water, hoping to wash away her fear, but soap and water didn’t have the power to bring back her memory, and no amount of reason could relieve her runaway anxiety.

She’d feel so foolish asking Brett.

And how could she ever share this with John?

A pregnancy would ruin her life. She couldn’t handle a baby now. And no one would want to adopt a baby who was at risk for a catastrophic genetic illness. She pushed the thought aside and tried in vain to concentrate on her preparations for work.

There’s another good reason to be tested to see if I’m carrying the HD gene. If I am, I should understand that my children may see a little hell on earth.

Claire plodded through the next two days on the Lafayette oncology service, pouring her efforts into patient care and trying not to concentrate on her complicated social and family problems. She felt like a circus juggler, tossing her worries into the air and focusing only on one thing in hand at a time. The balls of her worry were manifold: making it through the pyramid, her risk of HD, her guilt over Sierra Jones’s death, her relationship with John, her relationship with Brett, a threatening phone call, defending a malpractice suit, and a possible pregnancy. Anytime any one worry would surface, she would toss another in the air, unable to handle or deal with more than one at a time. It was an unhealthy practice, she realized, and she silently feared that all of the balls would come crashing to the floor at any moment.

On Friday, she met with a malpractice attorney for three hours, going over every possible angle of defense in the Sierra Jones’s case. Mr. Peters, the attorney assigned to her case, was a pleasant man in his fifties. He had snow-white hair andhis face was overly wrinkled from too many nighttime
vigils practicing law, and too many hours perfecting his golf swing in the sun. She liked him, but not what he told her. The judge assigned to her case also had to decide the vehicular homicide case against the drunk driver that struck Sierra Jones. The criminal defense for the drunk driver had convinced the judge of the need to try the malpractice case first. The judge, to their delight, pushed for a record-setting pace of evidence discovery in the malpractice case to urge their case forward because of its potential impact on the case of the
State v. Tony Broderick.

As they reviewed the hospital record, one thing seemed clear. The prosecution must have had personal testimony regarding Claire’s failure to watch Sierra Jones’s central venous line, as the hospital record did not incriminate her, except to record that she was observing Sierra when her death occurred. To be successful in winning a verdict against her, the prosecution would have to prove that Claire’s actions deviated from standard medical practice, and that the deviation from normal care resulted in the harm that the patient experienced. Mr. Peters’ first idea was that they could make the jury understand that the potential injury from the disconnection of the central venous line could not be proven to have made a difference in outcome. If need be, he explained, he could gently introduce the idea that Mr. Jones’s refusal to allow his daughter to have an autopsy prevented them from being sure of the exact cause of death, and that it was unfair to hold Claire responsible for a death which was inevitable. He would find expert witnesses who would explain the rarity of death due to venous air embolism, and expert witnesses who would explain how easily a patient can die from massive liver injury. He would find an expert radiologist who could carefully go over the CT scan findings to illustrate how severely injured Sierra was, and cast doubt in the jury’s mind that she could ever have survived. He would paint a picture of Claire McCall which revealed her to be a product of a superior medical education, an honor student picked because of her credentials to one of the most competitive training institutions in the country. He would offer testimony from her attendings about her competence and care.

The prosecution, Mr. Peters warned, would paint an entirely different picture of Claire. She would have to endure suggestions of her incompetence. She would likely be portrayed as a fresh intern without sufficient experience to handle the situation in front of her. They would call her dangerous, overconfident, and negligent, caring more about staying in the program than treating the ill. The whole process promised to be humiliating and agonizing.

Mr. Peters promised to be with her through it all. During the trial, if the case went that far, he would see to it that Claire could rest in the fact
that there should be no surprises. She would be told how to walk, how to speak, what to wear, and where to look. Claire took comfort in knowing Mr. Peters had been in many legal skirmishes through the years, and he would put his experience to work to help her through.

They had six weeks to prepare for the first deposition. There, the opposing teams would have an opportunity to see each other’s witnesses, and examine the expert testimony that the opposition had gathered. The depositions gave the prosecution and the defense a chance to see what they were up against, and gave ample opportunity for the case to be settled before it got to court.

When Claire ran into Brett in the hospital cafeteria, he acted toward her as he always did. There was no indication in his behavior to provide a clue to a significant change in their relationship. She sat opposite him at a small oval table and picked at the salad she’d selected.

It was time to put her fears to rest. She decided to broach the subject.

“Thanks for the wonderful dinner the other night.” She looked down. “I’m afraid I didn’t behave myself the way a proper hostess should.”

He shook his head and smiled. “Ridiculous.”

“I don’t tolerate alcohol very well.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Stop being coy. You know what I’m talking about. I’m embarrassed by the way I acted. I want to apologize.”

“You don’t need to do that. I had a wonderful evening.”

Claire tapped her fork. He wasn’t offering any helpful information.

“Did you enjoy your time after we ate?” She studied his face for a reaction.

He was unflinching. “Of course.” He leaned forward. “What’s this all about, Claire? Are you upset about something?”

“I’m upset that I woke up in the morning and I don’t have a clue how I got to bed. I went to sleep in your arms and …”

He smiled mischievously. “You don’t remember what came next?” He laughed, then played hurt. “My ego is crushed. You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?” She spoke with urgency, but quietly so the other lunchtime diners couldn’t overhear.

He shrugged. “Don’t worry, Claire, you were the best.”

“Don’t play games with me. I want to know what happened. I changed clothes somehow. Did you help me? Did you put me to bed?”

He chuckled. “You honestly don’t remember?”

Claire could see that Brett was having entirely too much fun with this conversation. In fact, it made her very uncomfortable that he was having such fun at her expense. “I don’t remember a thing. Brett,” she pleaded, “tell me the truth.”

He put his arms behind his head and stretched. “You told me I was wonderful, too.” He paused, leaning forward. “The only problem is that you kept calling me John.”

“I did not!”

He laughed heartily.

“This isn’t funny, Brett. You’re lying.”

“You’ll never know.”

If her eyes had been scalpels, Brett would have been dissected. She pushed back her chair, still boring in on his face with her eyes. “Why, you—