The Best Medicine (4 page)

My hand paused, my mind processed. I shouldn’t ask, but I did. “Why is it your job to keep them out of trouble?”

His chuckle sounded full of resignation rather than good humor. “It just finds us. And that guy in the bathrobe is our stepdad. You think he’s going to keep an eye on them?”

I wanted to hear more. I did. I wanted to know how my patient ended up being drunk on a Jet Ski on a Tuesday afternoon, and running into a boat dock, and what his brother Scotty had to do with it, and why his siblings were his responsibility, but I looked up at the clock on the wall, and it read 6:40 p.m. I was going to be incredibly late meeting my parents, and if left alone, they’d probably take to puncturing each other with steak knives.

This conversation with Tyler Connelly wouldn’t help me get his laceration sewn up, and that was my primary responsibility. Technically, it was my only responsibility. And besides, hearing more would only draw me in further, an emotional complication better left unexplored. I remained silent and continued suturing.

After a moment, he closed his eyes and sighed again. “How long have you been at this?”

I gave the stitch a little tug. “About forty minutes, but I’m almost finished.”

Now his chuckle was amused. “I meant how long have you been a doctor?”

“Oh.” I smiled, though he couldn’t see me. “A while.”

“It can’t be much of a while. You look awfully young. Which birthday is this today?”

I had no intention of answering that. But it was nice to hear I at least
looked
young. “Mr. Connelly, I need you to stop talking and keep your jaw still, please. I’m nearly finished.”

A voice penetrated through the general din of the department, deep and authoritative. A few seconds passed, the curtain slid aside, and an imposing mass of navy blue appeared in my field of vision. I looked up to see a behemoth of a police officer standing on the other side of the stretcher. Next to him stood a second burly cop, with thick forearms and mirrored sunglasses.

“Tyler Connelly?” The bigger policeman stared down at my symmetrically gifted patient.

Tyler opened his eyes again.

“Is there a problem, Officers?” I said. I had the most spontaneous compulsion to tell them Tyler Connelly had just run out the back door. But since he was lying on the stretcher between us, I didn’t think they’d be fooled. Besides, if the police wanted to talk to my patient, they probably had just cause, while I had no explicable reason to feel protective.

“I’m Tyler Connelly,” he answered without a hint of hesitation.

“Tyler Connelly, you’re under arrest for grand larceny of a stolen Jet Ski and destruction of property. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I’ve just told you?”

Grand larceny? I looked at my patient, ripples of surprise giving way to a shiver of unease as I waited for him to explain. Surely he hadn’t stolen that Jet Ski. Surely there was some mistake. Surely he’d defend himself and the police would go away satisfied no crime had occurred.

But Tyler Connelly looked up at me. No stain of embarrassment colored his cheeks this time. He was as cool as a jewel thief on the French Riviera, his icy-blue eyes clear of any doubt.

I couldn’t pull my gaze away.

Even as he said, “Yes, I understand. But before you cuff me, do you mind if the birthday girl here finishes with my stitches?”

Chapter 2

MY HEELS CLACKED A STACCATO
rhythm on the cobblestone sidewalk as I rushed to the restaurant. It had taken twenty more minutes to finish with my patient—the alleged felon. Although there didn’t seem to be much
alleging
to it. He’d as much as confessed just by virtue of saying nothing.

What a sad, sad tale. Tyler Connelly had seemed like a charming, if somewhat careless, guy, but harmless enough. Obviously his good looks had deceived me. A criminal lurked beneath that nice tan and all those muscles. And now I’d never even know what happened to him. He’d be carted off to jail, and all that beautiful facial symmetry would be wasted on a cell mate named Dutch.

I glanced at my watch as I reached the door of Arno’s. Seven fifteen. Good grief. I hoped my parents hadn’t caused a ruckus by getting into an argument. Visions of my eleventh birthday popped up like an evil clown. My parents had still been married that year, though the fighting had escalated, and the long hospital shifts had grown more frequent. I remembered staring at that store-bought birthday cake and making my wish with every ounce of naive hope strumming through my veins. I wished for a family vacation. Someplace with a beach and lots of sunshine. Someplace warm and relaxing. Someplace that would fix all the things that seemed broken in our lives. Then I’d blown out the candles and watched as my parents had a knock-down–drag-out over who would cut the cake.

Typical surgeons. All we care about is who gets to hold the knife.

Before the wisps of smoke had cleared the air, my mother had demanded a divorce and my father had left.

Birthdays soured for me after that. But I’d tucked away the memory and moved on. It’s not as if my situation was unique. Nearly all my friends had seen their parents go full honey badger on each other at one point or another. I grew up assuming divorce was just the final phase of marriage. That’s why I often contemplated skipping it altogether.

Now here we were, together again on my birthday, having dinner at the only elegant restaurant in Bell Harbor. I walked through the door and looked around for signs of their scuffle but found none. Gentle music played, blending with the soft murmur of relaxed diners. There were no broken glasses or overturned chairs. No hastily thrown knives dangling from the woodwork. Not even any raised voices.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except . . .

Except for the sight of my parents sitting together. Harmoniously. Like normal people. It was like catching Batman and Bruce Wayne at the same party. My mother and father were on two sides of a square table, laughing.

Laughing?

My mother’s head tipped toward my father, her cheeks flushed as if she’d already polished off a glass or two of chardonnay. My father was telling some story and gesturing with his hands. I looked back at the door behind me. Maybe I’d tripped through a wormhole into an alternate universe.

“There she is. There’s the birthday girl,” my mother said when she spotted me. She reached up her arms and I leaned over to give her an awkward hug. Personal space was very clearly defined in my family, and you did not invade someone else’s bubble, but she seemed to be inviting me.

My father stood up and hugged me too, for a second longer than essential. Oh my God. One of them
was
dying from monkey pox.

I stared at my dad’s face. He looked fit, if a little older. It struck me then that he would do that—age while I wasn’t paying attention. But he sure didn’t look like he was dying.

He pulled out my chair, and I sat down with a thunk.

“Happy birthday, Evie,” he said, settling back into his own chair.

I was named after his mother, so he always called me Evelyn. This breach of protocol was as unnerving to me as if he’d pointed in my direction and said, “Pull my finger.” None of this was making me remotely comfortable.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, hooking my purse over the back of my chair. If they were going to pretend like everything was nicey-nice, I should play along. “I had to finish suturing a laceration so they could formally arrest my patient.”

My mother laughed, a kind of titter that I hadn’t heard in ages. “Arrested in Bell Harbor? What on earth did he do? Skateboard on the sidewalk?”

My mother had made a joke, and my alternate universe theory started feeling more plausible.

“Practically,” I answered. “He stole a Jet Ski.”

She laughed again and took a tiny sip of wine. Her expensive white suit gleamed against the bronzy glow of her skin. She looked tan, but since she never left the operating room for more than two hours at a time, someone must have installed a tanning bed in the doctors’ lounge. She’d colored her hair too. A rich caramel color. When did she start doing that? Oh, no! Maybe it was her who was dying?

The waiter came and gave me a glass of water. I took a sip and wished it was vodka. I wasn’t much of a drinker, plus I was on call, but certainly a good stiff martini was in order. It was my birthday, after all, and they were about to ruin it with news of someone’s imminent demise. It was the only explanation for their aberrant behavior.

“Stole a Jet Ski?” my father said gruffly. “Hard to make an efficient getaway on that, I’d imagine.”

My mother nodded and laughed again.

What the hell? She was not a laugher. She was hardly even a smiler.

The waiter came back and handed me a menu, which I accepted with trembling hands. Not a good sign in a surgeon, but these were unique circumstances.

“Have you dined with us at Arno’s before?” he asked. He was short with a goatee and reminded me a little of an elf.

I smiled. At least I hoped it looked like a smile. It may have been more of a grimace, because my parents were freaking me out. “Yes, I have. Thank you. I’ll just need a minute to look this over.”

“Of course.” He nodded politely. “I’ll check back in just a few moments.”

“Thanks.” I looked at my dad. “Did you guys order?”

“No, of course not, sweetheart. We waited for you. After all, it’s not every day we get to have dinner with our best birthday girl.”

My father usually displayed a level of sentimentality one might expect from a prison warden, so this hint at nostalgia only added to my disequilibrium. Everything was out of balance. Come to think of it, he looked tan too. That was odd. My suspicions began multiplying like mutant cancer cells.

“So, tell me, Evie, how goes the house hunting? Any luck?” My mother wiped a fingerprint off the wineglass with her napkin.

I pulled a piece of bread from the basket on the table. That cake had turned to pure crack in my system, and I needed to counteract it with something besides water.

“It’s going OK. I haven’t had much time to look, but my real estate agent and I are going to see some houses next week. Unfortunately, the places on the water are either huge and expensive or run-down little shacks. And expensive. There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground.”

“Sounds as if you’re planning to stay here long-term then.” My father picked up his glass of Glenfiddich and swirled the ice around.

“Yes, I’m planning to stay. That’s why I took the job.” I straightened in my chair as if titanium had suddenly surged through my spine, Wolverine-style.

My parents had always encouraged me to make my own decisions and pursue my own dreams—as long as that meant becoming a doctor, like them, and working at a prestigious university hospital, like them. Not only had I let them down by refusing to become a cardiothoracic surgeon, but I’d chosen a practice not affiliated with any major medical school, where my vast potential would surely erode faster than the dunes sinking into the lake.

But I had fallen in love with this town the first time I’d come to visit with Hilary and her family. Something about the beach and the dunes and smell of the water. It was all so peaceful and serene. Bell Harbor had a tranquility to it so unlike my crazy, hectic day-to-day life as a resident. I’d thought living here would be like a vacation. Of course, I hadn’t fully comprehended the impact of moving to such a small community. I was still getting used to the well-intentioned busybodies and their fascination with my personal life.

“The hospital is a level-one trauma center,” I added tersely.

In spite of my steely resolve, and the fact that one of them must be dying, I felt the need to defend my choice, which irked me. I was thirty-five years old, after all. Just barely. But still, too old to have to explain my actions to my parents.

My father nodded. “Well, it’s your choice, if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, it’s what I want.” And it was. I was happy here. Very happy. I’d prove that to them even if it killed me.

My mother cleared her throat. “And how are things with your practice? Is everyone pleasant?”

Pleasant? Pleasant was a word for a Sunday afternoon drive or a midwinter’s nap, neither of which were things our family indulged in. It wasn’t a word I associated with my mother in any way. Skilled. Determined. Competitive. Even brilliant. Those were words that suited her. But not
pleasant
.

“Yes, they’re very pleasant.”

“I’m glad to hear that, darling.” She toyed with the edge of the paper napkin resting under her wineglass and wiped at another smudge. “Are all of your partners married?”

“Married?” Was my chair tippy? Because I felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. “Um, most of them are married. One has a partner.”

At least I think Chloe had a partner. There wasn’t a lot of time for chitchat while we were seeing patients in the office or spending time in the operating room. All I really knew of her was that she was a good surgeon, loved to travel, hated golf, and tolerated staff meetings by playing video poker on her iPhone.

“Are they men or women?” my mother asked.

I crossed my arms and wondered if Tyler Connelly was having a better time right now than I was. It seemed we were both up for interrogation.

“Three men and three women. Why?” This awkward banter was making me twitchy, like when you think sandwich meat has gone bad but you smell it just to make sure. The truth was, the Rhoades family was not prone to tiptoeing around an issue. And even though my parents probably loved me in their own restrained, dysfunctional ways, we were not a nurturing, chitchatty bunch. We didn’t mind sticking our fists into someone’s open gut, but exploring another person’s emotional state was far too risky. And this line of questioning was bordering on personal.

My mother pressed her lips together for a moment, then finally blurted out, “Here’s the thing, Evelyn. Your father and I are a little worried you might get . . . bored. Bell Harbor is so small, and you’ve always been so driven and competitive. Things around here might get monotonous for you.”

That’s what this was about? The lack of professional challenges available in this town? My spinal titanium swelled again. When would they start giving me some credit?

“I’ll find plenty of variety here, Mom. Aside from having lots of patients to see, there are other aspects of the practice that are incredibly rewarding. In fact, we’ve just partnered with an organization that arranges clinics in third world countries, doing cleft palate surgery, and one of my partners invited me to help with his research on melanoma in the local geriatric community. I won’t be bored. Far from it.”

She nodded, but a crease had formed along her forehead. She plucked at the napkin some more. “That’s good. Of course. That all sounds wonderful. But I wasn’t just thinking of your work, necessarily. I was thinking of, you know . . . the social aspect.”

My mother leaned closer, her gaze intense.

I leaned back. I imagine my gaze was equally intense. I had no idea where this conversation was going. “The social aspect?”

She glanced at my father.

He looked down at his menu.

Mother gave a little huff, as if frustrated I couldn’t intuit her meaning.

“Yes, Evie. You’re thirty-five now. There can’t be many men for you to date in a town this size.”

“Men?” She may as well have said hippopotamuses. Or ostriches. Or aliens.

It was bad enough talking about this kind of thing with Hilary, but my mother and I hadn’t discussed men since I was fifteen and we’d had The Talk, which basically consisted of her warning me to avoid penises at all costs. Then she’d handed me a box of condoms, patted me on the shoulder, and said, “Good luck.” It was as close to a bonding moment as we’d ever had.

For the most part, I had heeded her advice. I’d had a few boyfriends over the years. I’d enjoyed the benefits of a well-utilized penis now and again, and even the occasional
foda pena
. But I’d learned from her that love and professional achievement didn’t blend well. That for the most part, men were self-absorbed, maturity challenged, and not worth the trouble. Like Tyler Connelly, most of them were just one Jim Beam and Coke away from stealing a Jet Ski.

“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Mom.”

She looked at my father again, and for the first time in twenty years, I felt as if they were united, and I was the one on the outside. He cleared his throat and lifted his menu so I couldn’t see his face. I found myself wishing I had a case of monkey pox.