Practice Makes Perfect (Single Father) (15 page)

This morning, he’d met with the committee to plan a new doctors’ dining room. He’d asked what was wrong with the old doctors’ dining room before he realized that the hospital had never had a separate doctor’s dining room. Physicians ate with everyone else, an arrangement that had always suited him fine. It was just a matter of not having patient conversations during meals where they might be overheard.

On the plus side, three more physicians had been brought in from Seattle to provide temporary staffing until permanent replacements were found. And he no longer had to be on call over weekends and holidays.

Still, he couldn’t sit in a committee meeting and listen to the administrative team drone on about team spirit and team building, and who knows what else, without imagining Sarah’s reaction. Reading the newspaper, something he actually had time to do these days, he’d come to the full-page picture of himself and wondered if she’d seen it.

That night, he tried to call her. He was in the kitchen making risotto with braised lamb shanks. He and Lucy had started taking cooking classes together at the Y and, to his surprise, he found the chopping and sautéing and stirring a relaxing way to shake off the stress of the day. Lucy also enjoyed it, to the point that they’d quickly grown bored with the Y’s offerings and had started checking out books from the library, following increasingly complicated recipes.

But he missed Sarah and thought of her constantly. On a flight back from Seattle, he’d struck up a conversation with a woman in the next seat. An artist. She’d invited him to visit her when he was in the area. He’d briefly considered calling her, but it was Sarah’s face he saw as he fell asleep each night.

Since Pearl’s death, he could no longer see their relationship, or whatever it was, with any degree of clarity.

A relationship with Sarah would force Lucy to accept—or not—a new version of Lucy’s relationship with him. He’d had endless discussions in his head.
Love isn’t like a cake that you divide into pieces. It can be divided endlessly.
Ultimately though he’d decided that Lucy needed more time to adjust to the death of her grandma. Which didn’t stop him from missing Sarah.

And then, stirring the risotto, he decided he wanted to talk to her. He heard the phone ring on her end and then her answering machine picked it up. He had opened his mouth to speak just as Lucy appeared in the kitchen.

“Who are you calling?”

He shook his head. “No one.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re calling no one.”

“Right. But no one’s home.”

“Dad. You’re losing it.”

“I’ve lost it, Lulu.”

“You’re also supposed to be stirring the risotto. Constantly.”

He started stirring.

“Dad. I have something very important to ask you.”

“Ask ahead.”

“Could I come and live here with you?”

“Why?”

Her face darkened. “What kind of question is that?
Why?
You don’t want me to live with you?”

“That wasn’t what I said,” Matthew said. “I want to know why you’re asking right now.”

“Because I like living here better than living with Mom.”

Matthew kept stirring. “Well, let’s think about it, okay?”

“That means no.”

“I didn’t say that.” He turned the burner down. “Lucy, I’ve had a long day. Don’t give me a hard time, okay?”

“I don’t like George.”

“George?”

“Mom’s boyfriend. He’s weird.”

Alarm bells going off, Matthew turned to look at her. “Weird, how?”

“He just is.”

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
, before he saw his first patient, he called Elizabeth.

“This guy you’ve been seeing—”

“He has a name, Matt. It’s George. What about him?”

He plunged right in. “Lucy said he’s weird.”

Elizabeth laughed. “She said
you’re
weird.”

“He’s a musician, isn’t he?”

“So?”

“So…she asked if she could live here with me. The reason she gave was that she didn’t want to be around George. It raises some concerns in my mind…”

“Let’s talk about how Lucy gets along with Sarah,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not different. She’s jealous of Sarah and she’s jealous of George. She wants to be the center of our attention and anyone else is competition. You can let her dictate your personal life, Matt—that’s your business—but she’s not doing it to me.”

A talk with Lucy was clearly overdue, he decided, but then calls from former patients started trickling in.

The first was from the mother of a five-year-old daughter he’d operated on a year ago to correct problems with her esophagus. “I tried to make an appointment with your office,” she told him, “but I got switched to this eight-hundred number in Seattle. They told me that because Roberta has existing medical problems, we can’t enroll her in Compassionate Medical Systems. They said I’ll have to find another doctor.”

By the end of the day, he had a stack of similar messages, forwarded by his secretary. Parents complaining that CMS wouldn’t insure their children because of one thing or another and now, as a last resort, they were calling him. “It’s not even a question of money,” one mother had said. “I’m more than happy to pay the premiums, but Compassionate Medical Systems won’t touch us because my son has medical problems.”

Before he left for the day, Matthew walked up to the administrative suite, now renamed Compassionate Medical Systems, Port Hamilton branch. Heidenreich, demoted to general flunky, had been moved down the hall, his former office now occupied by a patient services representative who smiled regretfully when he told her about the calls.

“We can’t accept everyone, Dr. Cameron,” she said. “Compassionate Medical Systems’ goal is to extend affordable coverage to as many people as we can, but in order to keep costs under control, we simply have to exclude some conditions.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

N
O
ONE
AT
THE
C
URLY
Q H
OUSE
of Hair knew where Debbi Kennedy might be. “She quit, oh, about two weeks ago,” the receptionist said when Sarah stopped in to ask. “She said the drive was getting to be too much.”

“Does she have parents in town?” Sarah asked. “Anyone she might be staying with?”

“Not that I know of,” the receptionist said. “If you want to leave a message for her, I’ll give it to her if she stops by.”

On her way back to Rose’s house, where Elizabeth was painting the old consulting room, Sarah stopped in at the police station.

“The last time I saw her about ten days ago,” she told the officer at the front desk, “she had facial bruises that I gather were inflicted by her boyfriend.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No. She said she fell. But…maybe you know her boyfriend? Curt Hudelson? I think he spent some time in jail—”

“Assault?”

“No, he was protesting a development, but he’s a loose canon. When I went out to see Debbi, he said she’d moved and wouldn’t tell me where.”

The officer seemed unimpressed. There had been no calls, no domestic complaints. If they could, they’d send someone out. “But it’s a long way to go on a wild-goose chase.”

“There’s not much else you can do,” Elizabeth said when Sarah returned. Paintbrush in hand, she stood on the stepladder surveying the results. “What do you think?”

Sarah looked at the wall Elizabeth had just finished. They’d chosen a pale yellow and, with the late-afternoon sun coming through the windows, the place looked bright and cheerful. Exactly the effect she’d been after.

“It looks terrific,” she said, trying to shake her concerns about Debbi. For all she knew, Debbi and Curt fought constantly and Debbi routinely took off. She grabbed the bandanna she’d taken off earlier and tied it over her hair. Things were going better than she’d dared even hope. An article in the local newspaper had brought in a few new patients, but, better still, a couple of physicians who had decided not to go with CMS had offered their services. One was a surgeon with staff privileges at the hospital in the next town. She’d also applied for a business loan and, since the bank manager was a friend of her mother’s, felt pretty optimistic about getting approved. All in all, she was beginning to feel that coming home had been a good decision.

Except, of course, that it had hurt her friendship with Matthew. The usual solution for insoluble problems—just not thinking about them—didn’t work for this one, in part because of Elizabeth, whom she saw every day. Elizabeth’s conversation tended to revolve around George or Lucy, and Lucy was inextricably linked to Matthew. In fact, she realized now, Elizabeth had just said something about Lucy that required a response.

“Sorry?”

“I asked what you would do?” Elizabeth said. “If it was your daughter.”

On the top step of the ladder, Sarah reached to dab a spot she’d overlooked. “Do about what?”

“Lucy. She wants to live with Matthew so she’s hinting that it’s because of George and now Matthew is giving me the third degree about George.”

Sarah stared at her.
If it was your daughter.
The words slammed around in her brain.
If it was your daughter.
How would she know what she’d do? She didn’t have a daughter. She’d probably never have a daughter. Or a son, for that matter. She had causes. And she was ready to give up everything else for them. Including a man she truly loved.

“Sarah?” Elizabeth had set her paintbrush down. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She pulled off the bandanna. “I’ll see you later.”

M
ATTHEW
HAD
CALLED
in sick that morning, one of the few times he could ever remember doing so. His throat was sore, his head felt full of cotton. Overriding it all was the feeling that if he slept around the clock, he still wouldn’t shake off an all-consuming fatigue, exacerbated by the fact that once he laid down to sleep, his mind immediately went into overdrive.

He forced himself to stay in bed till noon then, thirsty, he pulled on sweats and shuffled into the kitchen. As he stood at the sink, he heard footsteps outside and then a faint noise at the front door. Glass in hand, he went to investigate.

Sarah, about to slip a note under the door, was caught by surprise as he pulled it open, and she stumbled against him. She wore jeans with rips in the knees and a big white cotton shirt that might once have belonged to her father.

“Matthew.” Her expression changed to one of concern. “I thought you’d be at work, I was just leaving you a note. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“A cold, I think.” She had a smudge of paint on her forehead and one on her chin. “Come in. If you’re not scared of catching whatever it is.”

She followed him inside and they both sat on the couch. He set the water glass on the coffee table. Sneezed. Sarah jumped up. “What are you doing for that, Matthew? Have you eaten?”

He hadn’t thought he was hungry but suddenly realized he was ravenous. He sneezed again. “There’s stuff in the fridge. Some eggs, cold cuts. I just can’t face fixing something.”

“I can do that.” Sarah walked over and opened the fridge. “I’ve been painting,” she said as she pulled items out. “Rose is letting me use the old consulting room. Rent free.”

He smiled. Rose had apparently taken his pep talk to heart. “So we should be celebrating then.”

“When you’re up to it.” She opened a jar of mayonnaise, sniffed the contents, then spooned some into a bowl. “Things are going surprisingly well. A bunch of new patients. I’m not going to get rich, but—”

“That was never your intention,” he said.

“Exactly.” She found the chicken he had cooked the night before and began cutting the meat from the bone. “By the way, you haven’t seen Debbi Kennedy’s daughter lately, have you?”

“Not since she brought her into the E.R. about a month ago, maybe longer. Why?”

“I’m concerned about her. Elizabeth and I drove out to her place, and her boyfriend said she’d left with their child and claimed not to know where she was. He seemed… I thought he might be drunk. No one appears to know where she might be. I even went to the police.”

“You’ve done all you can then.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He didn’t feel like talking about Debbi Kennedy. A thump on the couch beside him signaled Sarah’s return.

“Chicken salad.” She set the bowl on his lap. “It probably should have been chicken soup, but I didn’t think of that until right now.” She stuck two forks in the bowl. “Eat.”

He took a mouthful, then set the fork down. “I’ve missed you, Sarah,” he said finally. “A lot.”

“Me, too.” Sarah picked at the salad.

They both looked at the bowl as though it contained the secrets to the universe.

“Can we pick up where we left off?”

“I don’t know.” She wouldn’t look at him. “I don’t know what happened when we left off. I’ve thought and thought about it and I still don’t know. It’s me. I’m like a turtle. I sense danger and go into my shell.”

From the couch where they sat, he could see through the French doors and out to the street where two boys were riding skateboards. One he recognized as a kid he’d operated on eight or nine months ago for a shattered foot. Sarah moved closer and dug her chin into his shoulder.

“What danger did you sense this time?”

“Maybe coming between you and Lucy. The feeling that I’m competing with her somehow.”

“It’ll take time, Sarah.”

“I know.”

“And nothing we say here, right now, is going to make any difference in the long run. I
know
Lucy manipulates me. Enough people have told me so. But knowing it and doing something about it are two different things.”

She nodded. “It’s easy for me to talk, I don’t have kids, but—”

“Lots of people who do have kids also manage to have successful relationships. I’m sorry I flaked out after Pearl died. So much was going on and I just opted out. I’m truly sorry, Sarah.”

“I want you in my life, Matthew.” She shifted to look at him, a faint smile on her face. “Not necessarily in my practice, but in my life. I mean, you always have been, but I want—”

“A more integrative approach?”

She laughed. “Yeah, you could say that.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to get going.”

“I’ll walk you out. Sick as I am.” He slung his arm around her shoulder, nudged his hip against hers as they walked down the narrow hallway to the front door. Outside, they stood on the sidewalk, neither of them making a move to leave. Over the rooftops of the houses on the other side of the street, the Olympics were purple against the pale blue sky. Still, neither of them moved, and then suddenly they both moved and he put his hands on her shoulders and pressed his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes.

“Sarah.”

“That’s me.”

He sighed. “I’m feeling better already.”

“Well enough to go dancing?”

He pulled away to look at her.

“I’m serious. There’s a fiddle band playing at the Grange tomorrow night. I was planning to drop in anyway. Can’t let the grass grow under these feet.” She stuck out one of her sneakers. “Want to go?”

T
HE
WOODEN
G
RANGE
BUILDING
had been built back in her grandfather’s days for potluck suppers and community meetings about this and that. As a child, she’d practically drool as she checked out the covered dishes of hamburger casserole and chicken stew and the endless array of pies and cakes lined up on the trestle tables along one side of the room.

Matthew—looking incredibly handsome in jeans and a red flannel shirt—had been delayed at the hospital and by the time he picked her up and they’d driven to the west end, the music had already started and the dance floor was filled. Sarah stood with Matthew’s arm around her, eyeing the flouncy skirts and elaborately tooled boots and wished she’d done better than what was essentially a version of Matthew’s outfit, except her shirt was yellow. Then she decided that the only thing she really cared about was the man standing right at her side and who cared about her costume.

“Want to dance?” she asked.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said as he took her hand.

Afterward, in the cranky elevator of her apartment building, he kissed her. When the elevator groaned and creaked to a stop, he took her hand and they walked to her apartment.

“I don’t want dates with you, Sarah. I’ve known you too long for that. I want to come home to you.”

“Or maybe
I’ll
come home to
you.
”

“You’re accusing me of being a chauvinist?”

“No.” A strand of her hair had fallen down across his face and he pushed it away. “I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying,” Sarah said. “It’s what I was thinking about in Victoria. Trying to imagine a future together. It’s not as if we need time to get to know each other. But, well, there’s Lucy.”

He nodded. “I’m working on that.”

“I think we need to take it very slowly. She needs to feel confident I’m not going to steal you away. And I need to work out some things too…”

“Such as?”

“I felt shut out, Matthew, after the funeral. I wasn’t prepared for that. I didn’t think that was your way of handling things.”

“It isn’t,” he said. “Usually.”

“That’s what I mean. We both have things to work out.”

“Come over for dinner tomorrow,” he said. “Lucy and I have been taking cooking lessons. I want to wow you.”

W
HEN
THE
PHONE
RANG
the next morning, Sarah thought Matthew was calling about his billfold. She’d found it on the floor by the couch and immediately called his cell phone but the call went through to voice mail. She’d been unable to resist flipping it open with one finger. A plastic insert contained about a dozen pictures.

Every one an image of Lucy. She’d closed it again.

The call was from Elizabeth, who wanted to know whether she’d seen Matthew. Lucy had been trying to call him for hours the night before and, Elizabeth said, was now completely stressed and refusing to go to school until she spoke to him.

“Sorry,” Elizabeth had finally said. “I didn’t mean to burden you with our problems.”

“You didn’t,” Sarah said. A future with Matthew meant Lucy was her problem, too. “If I hear from him, I’ll tell him to call Lucy.”

She showered and dried her hair, pulled on a pair of sweats, made coffee and drank it at the kitchen table. No house calls today, just a couple of hours of paperwork then, to reward herself, a run.

The phone rang again.

“Dr. Benedict, this is Debbi—”

“Debbi. Where are you? I’ve been worried about you.”

“I’m staying with a friend in Edwardsville. It’s kind of far away, but—” she lowered her voice “—I had to go somewhere Curt wouldn’t find me. Alli’s been throwing up all night and she’s running a fever. This isn’t like the other times. Her tummy is hard and—”