The Blue Cotton Gown (30 page)

When he opens the front door he doesn’t yell out, “Where are you?” or “That soup smells good.” I hear his briefcase drop in the hall.

“Hey,” I call from my office where I’m answering e-mails. “What’s up?” He ambles into the room. His color is off. Something’s wrong. “How was your day?” I ask casually. He hates it when I in-terrogate him.

“Fine,” he says. That’s all he says.

It isn’t until dinner that he comes out and tells me. The office has received another request from a law firm for medical records. I lose my appetite and there’s no sound but the scraping of silverware. When he doesn’t say anything else, I ask, “What patient? Have I seen her?”

“Elaine Wright. I don’t think so. She was that laparoscopy I did a few months back, the one with the nick in her bladder.”

“I thought you noticed right away and had it repaired by the urologist.”

“I did.”

“So why are they suing?”

“We don’t know for sure they will. It’s just a request for records. I never met her husband but when I made post-op rounds the nurses said he was a pill, a real troublemaker. Elaine seemed fine. I was more worried about a ding on my record for the peer-review committee than a lawsuit. But she never came back for her follow-up appointment.”

“You think I should call her?”

“Nah, forget it. It’s probably gone too far for that.”

I watch the candle flicker on the dining room table, the way it throws shadows on the white walls and high ceilings. Tom’s hands lie flat on the tablecloth, his wide hands with the sensitive fingers, his competent surgeon’s hands. I don’t look in his eyes, afraid of the sadness.

“So who’s the lawyer? Is it that same group, McKenzie, Rogers, and whoever?”

“No, some guys from Pittsburgh. Aren’t you going to eat your soup?”

“I’m full.” Not true. I’m really just sick. “Did you talk to the urologist? Did the patient have any bad outcome afterward? Did Elaine say anything to him about suing?”

“Patsy, can you stop? This is the reason I don’t like telling you things. I don’t want to talk about it all the time. I considered not saying anything because you get so wound up. There’s nothing to do but wait.” He pushes up from the table, throws his napkin in my direction, and heads for his study. Alone, I gaze out at the budding peach trees and beehives below the garden. What other lines of work carry this risk, this kind of threat?

Patients have to sign consents for a reason, and the surgeon has to write down the known complications of the procedures they’re consenting to: bleeding, injury, infection. No one is perfect, but apparently some patients think we should be. Whenever the office gets a letter from a law firm, I feel betrayed.

I’ve never actually been in the courtroom, never actually been sued. It’s the
fear
of litigation that gets me. Every day I see twenty patients. Tom sees thirty. No matter how conscientious I am, I could miss something. Every week Tom does eight or ten surgeries. Over 75 percent of ob-gyns have been sued, and soon nurse-midwives and nurse-practitioners will catch up with them. I stare at the darkening sky, almost purple now.

No matter how hard we try, Tom and I will face a lawsuit sooner or later; if not this time, the next.

trish

Trish sits eating lunch with me in my office. It’s her first day back after two weeks’ bereavement leave. Dr. Wilson would have given her more, but she says if she stays home, she feels worse.

“You’ve lost weight,” I say, appraising my friend. Her wine-colored scrub top looks two sizes too big. “Did you get your hair cut?” The soft sandy feathers frame Trish’s face.

“Yeah, I went to the mall, to that cheap place. I had to do something before I came back. I’m down fifteen pounds.” She fades off. “I’m sick all the time.” She puts her cup of yogurt aside. “I can’t sleep and my bowels are upset.” She reaches for the tissues on the window ledge to wipe away tears. “I just can’t believe she’s
gone.
I keep waking up and wanting it all to be a bad dream.”

“I know what you mean . . .”
How can I?

“Here’s what’s really upsetting me today.” Trish reaches for an envelope that sticks out of her flowered satchel. “It’s the autopsy report. They say the cause of death was intentional,
suicide.
Oh, I feel so bad for her, Patsy, that she was
that sad, that hopeless,
and I wasn’t there for her. Did I tell you she called me the night before she died and asked to borrow money? You know what I told her? I said, ‘No. Get a job!’ And then Dan took the phone and yelled at her too. Told her she should come home and take care of her baby, that she and her so-called friends should get off their asses and quit asking for handouts . . . Now they say she killed herself. That very night, she killed herself.”

“But how can they know that, that she killed herself
intentionally?
Does it say it in the report?”

“No, not in the report. That’s what the detective told me, what’s his name, Lieutenant Saxton, the one that’s been handling her case.” “Let me see it.” I grab the envelope off Trish’s lap, then, realizing I’ve been abrupt, ask, “I mean, if it’s okay? Do you mind if I read

it?”

Trish sighs. “No, of course not. See what you think. They say the cause of death was a methadone overdose. The blood level doesn’t look that high to me, but she wasn’t big. She usually weighed a hundred and twenty-five pounds. They say she weighed a hundred and nineteen pounds afterward . . .”

Tears come to Trish’s eyes and to mine. I know that she’s seeing the same thing I am. The thin, young dead body of Snow White on a stainless-steel autopsy table in a cold morgue. I touch her hand. It’s as cold as a metal slab. Then I skim the report until I get to the sum-mary:
Cause of death: Methadone overdose.
Trish is right. The blood levels weren’t that high.

“I don’t know,” I say. “This could still be accidental. They can’t tell from the clinical exam or toxicology report that she did it on purpose. Methadone is a slow-acting narcotic without much euphoria. I don’t think it has much of a rush. Maybe Aran took a few pills and didn’t feel anything, so she took a few more . . . then more. Maybe she wasn’t used to them. After a while she might have just felt drunk and forgot how many she took. Don’t you think? Can’t you see that?”

Trish wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her scrub top.

“And what about this?” I roll my desk chair closer until our knees touch, wanting to convince her. “If she
meant
to commit suicide, wouldn’t she have left a note? See what I mean, Trish?”

Trish nods and takes a big breath, letting her head fall back against the wall. “Maybe you’re right. What do
they
know? That Lieutenant Saxton is such a big jerk. ‘We got the autopsy report back,’ he said over the phone.” She imitates him with a nasal twang and a mountain accent. “‘You’ll probably get one in the mail today. It looks like she killed herself.’ That’s what he said. Just cold! I believed him, but it doesn’t actually
say
suicide in the report.
Aran was a writer.
She left me notes about everything!”

“Yeah, and remember that old guy Pappy,” I put in, “at the trailer court. He kept talking about the little green pills.” Trish stares at me, puzzled. “You don’t remember that?”

“No, I guess I missed it.”

I shift in my seat, sure of myself now. “Yeah, he kept telling me, even after you left, that there were little green ‘rectangled pills’ all over the table and the cops took them. He even drew me a picture.” I shake my head, remembering. At the time I didn’t get the significance. “The point is, why would Aran stop at just a few pills if she wanted to end her life? She’d take them all, right? Aran’s not dumb, she would know that.”

Trish puts the lid on her unfinished yogurt and tosses it into the wastebasket under my desk. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have listened to that cop. What does he know? She would have written us a note. I
know
she would.” The small woman stands, stronger now, de-fending her daughter. Before she opens the door, I catch her by the sleeve and pull her back. We stand like we’re slow-dancing and I remember the dream of the waltz. We are resting our battered mother-hearts together.

Another Day on Earth

When someone you love dies, your life starts over. Right then, that moment, nothing is ever the same again. A blue sky, a snowstorm, the taste of cake, the feel of your own skin. Nothing.

I’m thinking about this as I’m coming out of the hardware store, where I’ve just purchased a cast-iron park bench for Aran’s grave site. The clerk, a friend of Zen’s from high school, helps me wran-gle it into the back of the Toyota. I’m not sure how I’ll get it out by myself, but I’ve been thinking of doing this for weeks.

Trish is now on an antidepressant that I prescribed for her. She’s never taken one before, but there’s a time and place for everything. It seems to be helping. Dan still can’t talk about what happened and sometimes has uncontrollable rages. Their other children are settled back in school, Melody stays with a neighbor during the day,

and Trish says she’s changed as a mother. I ask her how. I want the secret. Be strict? Be permissive? Give them money when they ask? Never give them money? Keep them at home under lock and key forever? I want to know.

“Tell them you love them. Tell them you love them every day.” That’s what Trish says.

Today I’m taking the bench up to the cemetery near Faith Chapel. The grave is beautifully situated under a huge spreading maple tree on top of the ridge. It’s the kind of spot where a person could sit and contemplate life, could think about God, or hope, which, when you consider it, is the same thing.

At Aran’s grave site, I stand for a minute. New blades of grass grow wispy and thin from the fresh mound of earth. Quart jars of white irises sit near a temporary headstone. There’s a wind chime, a ceramic butterfly, and a few photographs left by Snow White’s teenage girlfriends.

Twenty minutes later, the bench is situated under the maple. The whole operation was harder than I’d imagined, but I’d maneuvered the heavy piece into the spot I wanted and leveled it up by digging holes in the hard dirt with a tire iron. I settle myself on the bench, leaning back to test it. The sturdiness appeals to me, and the graceful feminine scrollwork; a nice tribute to a beautiful girl. Then I slide down onto the grass and rest right next to Aran.

Since my days at the farm, lying on the ground when I’m lost has been healing for me, a way to find my calm center, and I see that to be buried under the soil is not such a bad thing either. If the energy from the earth is healing me, it’s healing Aran.

From this angle I stare at the irises on the grave, almost translucent in the slanting afternoon light, and a prayer comes with a breath of wind. “God protect my boys,” I whisper.

I know there’s nothing in this world that can keep them safe; not me or Tom or God. If it’s not drugs, it could be cancer. If not can-cer, a car wreck. If not a car wreck, a fall off the porch—and these are the causes of death that take no imagination.

“And God, help me too. Place your hand on me. Settle me for what comes, the joy and the heartache.”

A high whistle interrupts my thoughts. It’s the cry of a red-tailed hawk circling over the maple. There are churches I could go to. The First Presbyterian downtown in Torrington. The university Lutheran near the hospital. The little Quaker meeting in Delmont. But this is my church, the West Virginia countryside. This is my chapel.

chapter 16

nila

“He left,” Nila starts out.

I don’t know what to think. “Who, Doug?” The woman nods. “What do you mean
left
? Left forever or just for a while?”

“Forever. He just couldn’t take it. Gibby wouldn’t let up. He would call at all hours and threaten, send flowers, beg me to come back. Then Gib started following Doug and calling him at work. The kids were upset, asking me why I didn’t go back to Daddy. Tina started throwing temper tantrums. Buddy’s teacher called and said he’d gotten into a fight. Tanya’s grades were bottoming out.

“Doug wanted me to leave with him, go back to South Dakota or anywhere, but I just couldn’t. I had the kids to think about.” Nila is crying. Her thin shoulders shake as she sits on the end of the exam table.

I watch from my stool. The bruise and the black eye are gone, but so is her lover. Gibby had gotten his way. “So what’s going on? Doug was supporting you. Can you and seven kids make it without him?” The small woman looks away and shrugs. “Now that Doug’s gone, Gibby is starting to mellow out. He gave me some cash and he’s coming over to fix things around the house, picking the kids up after school. And he’s stopped bringing flowers, thank God.” She forces a grin, tight at the corners, the kind of smile that makes a person seem brave. “The house was feeling like a goddamn funeral

parlor.” We stare at each other.

“Oh, Patsy, I’m so screwed up . . . I don’t even know where Doug

went. He just packed up and left. It’s been almost three weeks. No phone call, no letter. I assume he’s gone back to South Dakota, but I checked Information for a new listing and there’s no number in Liberty, where we last lived. Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore.” She wipes a few tears. Nila’s not a big crier. “Of course, Marnie, my sister, is thrilled. Now she wants me to go to church with her. Gibby says he’s born again and I should be too. He just wants me to be
happy in the Lord,
he says.” She raises one eyebrow. Nila is so slim, now only ninety-five pounds, and her face so unlined, it’s hard to believe she’s had seven children.

“So how are your periods? Are you regular again?”

“Not yet. Those birth control patches really messed me up. I finally had two days of spotting a few weeks ago. That’s it, but they’ll come back monthly now. You know me. My reproductive system works like a clock. Well, most of the time.” Nila shrugs one bony shoulder. I know she refers to her recent miscarriage, her first complication in eight pregnancies, the baby she’d made with Doug and then lost.

“So what can I do for you today, Nila?”