The Blue Cotton Gown (19 page)

Dream of the Dance

All night I’ve felt sad for Penny, felt like sending her flowers. As if
that
would do any good, would give her back her mother, take away her pain.

“Breathe in . . . breathe out. Let your mind be at peace. Breathe in . . .” I peer at the clock. It’s 3:00 a.m. My mind is clacking away like Donna’s keyboard. I get up and slug down my sleep medicine. There’s no sipping. Then I snuggle up to my husband, who didn’t notice I was gone, and try once again. “Breathe in . . . breathe out.” I try counting backward from one thousand and then I’m . . . I’m in an open meadow . . .

I hear music. It’s a waltz, gentle and easy in the slanting green light. One-two-three, one-two-three . . . The melody is floating up from a golden dome. Curious, I run down the long grassy slope and open the door. The piano gets louder, the golden light brighter.

This is a ballroom, but there are only women here, women I know. Candles flicker from candelabra set into the walls. The music swells. There’s Holly, wearing blue satin, dancing with Nora, who’s dressed in rose silk. There’s Shiana in green chiffon. Then Aran, Trish, and Nila move in.

A bleached blonde walks up to me. It’s Penny, who picks until she bleeds. She holds out her arms, and we begin to waltz, awkward at first. One-two-three, one-two-three. I’m getting the hang of it now. Everyone’s dancing, all the girls, all the women, in their beautiful rainbow dresses. Feet flash in golden slippers as we spin faster and faster, laughing, holding on to each other.

When Penny, my partner, throws back her head, all the scars on her face are gone.

Serpent

At 5:05 p.m. Linda sticks her curly red head in my office door. “I’m about to leave. There’s a call on hold for you. Do you have a minute to talk to Blake Rogers, or should I take a message for tomorrow?”

“Sure, put him on.”

She transfers the call, and I answer. “This is Patsy Harman, nurse-midwife, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Patsy,” says a warm baritone. “Hey, thanks for taking my call. I know you’re busy. I’m Blake Rogers; I represent the family of Mrs. Rae Blandon.” Now I know the name, Blake Rogers of McKenzie, Rogers and Clager, PLLC. I go very still and my hand grips the phone.

“We’ve been examining some discrepancies in Mrs. Blandon’s chart. There seems to be a few pages missing. I wonder if you could send us another copy? We could reimburse you.”

Instant hot flash, but I don’t say a word. I’d checked the copy of the records myself. Nothing was missing.

“Mrs. Harman?”

The snake.
What was he up to? Why would he want another copy of Rae’s gyn chart? Does he think he can catch us at something?

“Mrs. Harman?” “Yes?” I say coldly.

“Would that be any trouble?”

“I’m not sure why you’re calling me
personally,
Mr. Rogers. Don’t you usually just send a written request? Is there something in particular you’re interested in?”

“No, we just want to make sure we have a complete account of what went on with Mrs. Blandon.”

I can’t think what to say. How about
Are you going to sue me, you

shit?
That comes to mind. I shouldn’t be talking to this guy anyway. He isn’t
my
lawyer. He doesn’t have
my
interests at heart. I can feel my pulse pounding. Breathe in . . . breathe out.

“Well, you know, Mr. Rogers, I
am
awfully busy. Why don’t you have your assistant return what we’ve sent and I’ll have someone go through the chart to see if anything’s missing. I rather doubt it. As I remember, Rae was not a patient here for very long.”

There’s a pause on the line. “Very well, if that’s the way you want things.” The voice has gone reptilian. “We’ll get that request in the mail tomorrow.” He hangs up.

When I finally stop shaking, I grab my coat and leave the empty office running. Driving up the hill into Blue Rock Estates, I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard I can’t swerve in time and crunch a baby rabbit under the right front tire and I start to cry again. When I open the front door, Roscoe tries to squeeze out and I hear that I’ve left the stereo on.

I miss Tom. What optimistic thing will he now say about the ser-pent Blake Roger’s call? Tom’s cup is perpetually half full. Mine is half empty, not even that. Sometimes I think that without him, I would spin into darkness.

Stripping off my tailored slacks and striped blue shirt, I notice a streak of red in my underpants. It’s the second time this month I’ve had bleeding. I’d thought I was through with all that. It must be the stress. Then I flop on the bed in my sweats. A Grateful Dead song fills the room. How many times has it played today?

We will survive,
the song says.
Things are bad and getting worse, but

we will survive.
The music is infectious, and I smile in spite of myself. I take a deep breath. “Yeah? No matter what?
We will survive
?”

Outside, the last of the sunset shows blood red over the mountains under dark clouds.

If I weren’t so wiped out, I’d get up and dance. I lie there on my back and dance with my arms. I can’t help it. It’s that kind of tune.
We will survive. We will get by.

The song says so.

chapter 10

Falling Stars

It’s a clear evening with the bare black branches silhouetted against a lavender sky. I sit waiting at the window with my Stress Relief tea. Tom and I were going to go riding, but he had a call from Dr. Leonard Noble, medical staff director and chairman of the peer-review committee at Community Hospital. All day, Tom’s been tense, worrying that Dottie Teresi’s case will be brought up and some kind of restrictions will be put on his privileges. Leonard Noble is a legend in the Torrington medical community. The for-mer thoracic surgeon, who has Parkinson’s disease, is now the hospital’s chief of staff. I met him once and have never forgotten his intimidating, narrow dark eyes, the way he has of looking right through you. I don’t trust him, and I’m worried about Tom.

The front door opens, and Roscoe runs wiggling to her master. I hear Tom’s briefcase hit the tile floor. “In here,” I say. “How’d it go? Want some tea?”

“Yeah. I gotta use the john first.” I go to the kitchen and pour another mug from the still steaming red kettle. I’m biting my tongue, trying not to ask everything at once, as I usually do.

Tom comes up behind me loosening his tie and hugs me. “So . . . ? How was it?”

“Not so bad. We didn’t talk about Teresi at all.”

“No? What was it, then? What was the meeting for?”

“It turned out it was about that new guy who’s interviewing for the CEO position. Noble wanted my perspective.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s pretty much it. I was the one that brought up clinical is-sues.”

“Like what?”

“I told him I planned to work with another surgeon as my assistant instead of an OR tech from now on. Most of the group practices already do. It will make it harder to get patients scheduled for surgery if I have to ask Dr. Hazleton or Parsons, but it’s better to do it voluntarily than to have limits put on my surgery. And I’m not going to take medical students or residents from the university into the Community Hospital OR with me anymore either. I was really worried after Dottie’s long hospitalization. The hospital lost money on that one. Want some wine?”

“Sure,” I say, giving up on the tea. I’ve been trying not to drink alcohol other than my sleep medicine except on special occasions, but I guess this qualifies.

After dinner, sitting close on the porch in our pajamas and robes with a thick down quilt over us, we finish the bottle of chardonnay. It’s a clear dark night, no moon yet. I slip my hand between Tom’s legs under the cover. He’s staring straight down into the woods at the reflection of the lights across the cove. “What are you thinking?” I ask.

“Oh, just how much I like the quiet. You know. Just fantasizing about what it would be like not to have to worry about this stuff, just imagining another life.” He grins.

I’m feeling a little light-headed and move my hand up his thigh. Not much reaction. I fool around a little. “Remember, I suggested before that we could quit. I’m still willing. Maybe you could get a job teaching anatomy at the medical school.”

Tom raises his eyebrows. “Spend all day in the lab cutting up ca-davers with the smell of formaldehyde?”

“Well, there wouldn’t be any complications! No peer-review committee watching over your shoulder. No lawyers ready to sue you!” This cracks me up.

Tom smirks at me sideways into the dark. “Right.” He finally notices my hand. “Let’s not talk about work now, okay?”

We kiss in the dark. He’s been so low lately. I’ve been looking forward to doing something nice for him. It turns me on. Laughing, we spread the quilt on the porch floor and throw the other half over us, squirming around to get comfortable.

Then I hold on while we soar through the night. Afterward, lying on our backs, looking up, we see three falling stars.

heather

I’m sitting at my desk reading, with relief, a long overdue e-mail from our accountant, Rebecca.
I returned from France last week,
she says,
but now have the flu. Don’t be concerned about the quarterly taxes. I applied for an extension before I left. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll work on them next week.

When I look up, I find Linda from the front desk standing at my office door. “Yesssss?” I draw this out in a comical way like the evil boss on a TV sitcom. I’m in a good mood.

“Did you see my note?” she asks, not clowning around. There’s something stiff about the way she stands there.

“What note?” I turn back to my keyboard. I’m finishing my reply to the accountant, asking for a meeting to discuss the practice’s finances. My desk is a mess, covered with unopened mail and little yellow stickies to remind me of all I should do.

“I left you a note this morning. It’s about Heather Moffett. I was looking at a week-old
Torrington Tribune
and there’s an article in the obituaries. I think it’s Heather’s boyfriend.”

Linda leans across me in her pink gingham-checked scrubs, her red ringlets falling, and rummages around on my desk. “Here.” She pokes a piece of white paper at me. The sheet has an obituary neatly cut out and taped to it. A question mark is scrawled on the side and

Heather Moffett
printed on top. I carefully read the short notice.
Thomas Joseph Morris, nineteen, died at Torrington State University Medical Center. He is survived by . . .
It was ten lines.

“Shit!” I shake my head. “I just can’t believe it. First Heather loses the twins and now this . . . And she’s still pregnant with his new baby. Have you guys heard anything?” Linda and Donna grew up in Torrington and are acquainted with or related to half the people in town.

“Nope, not really. I knew he was into drugs though. Big time. It was probably an overdose. The paper doesn’t say, but I bet it was an overdose. I’ll get you the chart.”

“Yeah, I’ll have to call Heather.”
Shit.

After lunch I find Linda has clipped Heather’s phone number to the young woman’s yellow chart and placed it in the middle of my desk. I try five times to reach her but can’t. There’s a fast beeping sound, like the phone’s off the hook. Later my receptionist leaves a different number and note on my desk:
Call Heather Moffett.
I notice there’s an unfamiliar area code, and I remember that the girl’s parents live out of state.

This time it’s answered on the first ring. A woman’s crisp voice. “Moffett residence.”

“Yes. Hi. This is Patsy Harman in Torrington. Is Heather Moffett there?”

“You are . . . ?” Said suspiciously.

“Patsy Harman, nurse-midwife, in Torrington, West Virginia. I used to be Heather Moffett’s OB provider, her midwife. I was given this number to reach her.” I’m cleaning up my desk with the phone tucked under my ear.

The woman’s voice brightens as she recognizes the name. “Oh yes, one moment please . . .
Heather!
” she calls.

An extension’s picked up in another part of the house and a soft, low female voice comes on cautiously. “Hello?”

“Hi, Heather. It’s Patsy, Patsy Harman at the women’s clinic in Torrington. How are you doing?”

“Oh, hi.” Even lower, giving up all pretense of cheerfulness. “I heard what happened to T.J. I’m sorry . . .”

“Yeah, T.J. is dead.”

Heather’s voice is so faint, I have to strain to hear it. My hands grow still and my heart very quiet. “I just read about it this week. Linda found the notice in the newspaper. I’ve been trying to get hold of you but there was no answer at your old place. Where are you, anyway?”

“I’m with my folks in Georgia.”

“Are you okay? I mean, I know you aren’t
okay.
But are you hanging in there? How’s the pregnancy going?”

“Fine, I guess. Everything’s fine
that
way.”

“And the baby is growing? Kicking and everything?”

“Yeah, it’s good. It’s moving a lot.” There’s still no enthusiasm. “I just feel so
bad.
It’s
his
baby and he’ll never get to see it.” There are tears in her voice, and for a moment the silence hangs on the phone lines. “T.J. overdosed. I never even got to say good-bye.” You can tell that she’s crying. They say it’s therapeutic to cry but sometimes there’s a limit to how many tears you can shed.

“You told me you were afraid something would happen to him.” I picture the lean, graceful T.J. “He’d been in the hospital before.” “I
knew
it would happen
.
When I left Torrington, I just
knew,
but

I couldn’t stay with him. I was working my butt off, remember? I worked at the Discount Supply Depot, the warehouse down on the river. I liked my job, but I was six months pregnant and sometimes I was so tired I would almost faint. He told me he couldn’t get work, so I was supporting us. No matter how tired or sick I was, I showed up. We needed the money.

“Then I found out he
had
a job. Can you believe it? All this time