A Summer in Sonoma (24 page)

“Try not to think that way, honey. Get some more facts. At least wait till you know more.”

She looked up at him. “You came,” she said.

He ran a hand over her wound-up braid. “Of course I came. I got the impression you needed me.”

“Oh, I needed you so much! I can't call Jules or Marty yet. Beth will come around, but I promised. Until she says it's okay, I have to keep my word.”

He wiped a big thumb under her eye. “After you give her a little time, she'll start to make sense out of this and you can call your friends.”

“Walt, how did you know what to do?”

“What to do?” he asked. “Well, you just cover the essentials—food, drink, company. Anything else, you call the police. Right?”

“But how did you know that? For me? For a girlfriend problem?”

“Well, this is a little more serious than a girlfriend problem,” he said. “And, Cassie, you're pretty important to me.”

“You're such a good friend,” she said, leaning against his chest.

He sighed and said, “I'm trying to be, Cass. You're special. You know that, don't you?”

She ran a hand along his scruffy face. “I do. It means a lot, believe me.”

“Good.” He smiled. “That's exactly what I want it to mean.”

W
hen Beth looked up from her newspaper, she saw Jerod Paterson standing in the doorway of her hospital room. It was an unusual pose for a physician—he was leaning a shoulder into the frame, hands in his pockets, one leg crossed in front of the other, smiling. No charts, accompanying nurse or treatment tray. Just him, grinning.

“Look at you,” he said. “Sitting up in the chair, taking in the morning news, all accessories removed.” By accessories, he would mean the IV and catheter. “How do you feel?”

“I feel like shit,” she said. “How about you?”

“I'm feeling pretty good today, actually. Thank you for asking. What part feels the most like shit?”

“Truthfully, the place where there was once my last surviving breast. But my sore throat is running a close second.”

“The intubation,” he said, confirming what she already knew. “You're surrounded by flowers,” he observed. “Have you had many visitors?”

“Even though I specifically asked for
no
visitors? You're about the tenth, but then, you're here on official business, I suppose.”

“No,” he said, coming into the room. “I'm visiting.”

“You're a long way from home. Do you drive around the state and check on your post-surgical patients?”

“How do you know I didn't come by helicopter? I was in the neighborhood. I made it a point to be in the neighborhood. You're feeling very feisty, aren't you?”

“Is that what you'd call it? I thought it was more like bitchy.”

“What are your plans for aftercare?” he asked.

“My plans were to snuggle in with some movies, but one of my best friends found me out and is going to practically move in. She's a nurse here.”

“You probably won't need a nurse,” he said. “Can she cook?”

“She's a great cook. But the pain meds and chemo make my mouth taste like tin, so I might not be her best audience.”

“You'll be off the pain meds in no time. Now, don't laugh—you're very healthy. Everything looks good, from blood pressure to hemoglobin to white count. I ran into your surgeon and he said the incision looks great.”

“Now, that's a matter of opinion….”

Jerod sat on the bed, facing her chair. “They're going to kick you to the curb today. This afternoon. Now, if I
was a betting man, I'd wager you drove yourself here, have a car in the physicians' lot….” She smirked at him and he laughed. “That's what I thought. What about your nurse friend?”

“She visits every day while she's working E.R. downstairs but she plans to take care of me after I'm discharged, once I'm home.”

“I know you didn't admit to her that you're thinking of driving yourself home because a friend wouldn't allow it. Well, I have a meeting here in about an hour. I'll come back, drive you home, myself.”

“No. I want my car,” she said.

“I'll bet. Number one, you're on drugs. Number two, driving one-handed isn't recommended. Number three… There isn't a number three. Oh! Against doctor's orders.”

“You're not in charge of this part. I need my car at home!”

“I have connections—I can get the entire staff on my side on this one. You won't have any trouble getting your car home when you're better able to drive it. You have the nurse friend….” He looked at his watch. “I'll be done by two. Try to be ready.”

“You know, you're very pushy.”

“Yeah. And I bet that's what you like best about me. See you soon….” He got up and started walking out of the room.

“Hey!” He turned back to her. “Aren't you getting a little out of your job description here?”

“I'm a full-service doctor.”

“But what if I don't particularly want this service? I'll take a cab. I don't want you to see my messy house!”

“Dr. Halsley,” he laughed. “I've only known you a short time and I'm convinced your house is in perfect order. I bet you even fold your undies in little squares. Have lunch—I'll be back.” Before disappearing, he turned back to her. “Messy house—nice try.”

She smiled after him. Of course it wasn't a disheveled house at all. It never was, but in this case it was even more organized. She'd gone through the house from top to bottom to be sure if she didn't make it home, nothing embarrassing or cluttered would be left behind. When you're raised by extremely slovenly parents, you either follow suit or train yourself to become the opposite—fussy and anal.

There were ways out of this, she thought. She could get in touch with Cassie, let her know if she wasn't here right at discharge time, she'd be left to the mercy of an overzealous oncologist. But there was something about him; Beth was curious. Why would he be so accommodating? He was putting the screws to her with his chemo orders and she would shortly be weak and ill and bald. Besides, as a rule, given their schedules, doctors weren't even able to do such favors. It had never occurred to Beth to provide taxi service for a patient.

Then it came to her—he thinks of us as colleagues. Maybe I'm not the first physician he's had for a patient, but I could be the youngest. Perhaps he had an overload of empathy, wondering how his life would be different if he'd been battling this disease since the age of twenty-
five, the very disease he'd been treating and had seen the ravages of. There wouldn't be children in his life in that case, she thought. Those teenage daughters who had him tearing his hair out—they might not exist at all, or they would be considerably younger. Chemo or the disease would have greatly delayed if not prevented them.

Children. Beth had wanted them with Mark. After the first episode, before he left her, she knew it would be at least five years before she got the sense she was really free to get on with her life. But at twenty-five, that had given her so much time; she could have achieved some security about her health at thirty, thirty-two—enough confidence to have a baby then. She didn't need a calculator to see it would now be thirty-six, thirty-seven—and even then, after two cancers, there was a huge chance she'd be having children she couldn't raise. Childbearing was moving rapidly out of her reach. She'd have to adjust to that, as well. For a woman whose personal career fulfillment came from bringing babies into the world, this would be a major adjustment. She wanted to be one of
those
women—the regular ones.

Two o'clock came and so did he. She let this happen, but by that time of day, after being up since morning, given recovery from everything—surgery, anesthesia, stress—she'd grown very tired. Then she'd taken advantage of a pain shot for the road. There was none of that feisty, bitchy stuff left in her.

“Good. You're ready to go,” he said.

“I don't know why you're doing this,” she said. “It's not doctorlike at all.”

“I'm a very nice guy,” he said, putting the locks on the wheelchair and grabbing her suitcase. “Besides, you're a fellow doctor. We have a strong reputation for both competing with each other and taking excellent care of each other.”

Ah, she thought. There it is. The colleague thing. She moved slowly to the chair. “You must be wondering what it would be like to be me—major surgery for cancer so young.”

“I do, indeed,” he said. “I don't feel I was even born at twenty-nine. I was still in residency.”

“You've made a very good name for yourself since then.”

“Have I?” he asked, wheeling her out of her room. “I've been lucky.”

“I don't even remember your age.”

“Forty-nine. Very soon to make the leap into fifty.”

“You're holding up well,” she said.

He laughed. “Thanks. You're being very nice to me. What's the matter? Has all the fight gone out of you?”

“It's just the surgery,” she said. “Basically, I'm not a nice person.”

“That's not true at all. We'll get you home where you can rest. Your friend—she'll make sure you can rest, won't she? She's not one of those overbearing nurses?”

“She's an outstanding nurse. I'd give anything to have her as my nurse. Although it's such a tenuous relationship at times, and I wouldn't want to lose her as a friend. Besides, she's a total E.R. junkie. She's been in E.R. since the beginning.”

He chuckled as he pushed her into the elevator. “I like those E.R. girls. They have what we used to call the high-speed wobbles. It's fast, it's concise, there are always incoming crises and they know how to move on to the next one in a blink. But they're usually a little nuts.”

“Your business is a lot slower,” she said somewhat wearily.

“Unfortunately, it's much slower. But we have some perks they don't have in E.R. When we're patient, smart and lucky, we see people cured. They just patch 'em up and float 'em out in E.R. It takes commitment to work in oncology.”

“I'm seeing that…right down to chauffeur service….”

He wheeled her to his car, put her suitcase in the backseat and watched her get in very nimbly, if slowly. But then she leaned her head back against the headrest tiredly. He returned the wheelchair to the E.R. entrance and when he got in beside her, he asked if she was comfortable. Then he said, “Before you start to nod off, tell me where I'm going. Then you can relax.”

She gave him an address and he fed it into a GPS system to get directions. She was incredibly glad she hadn't chosen another hospital; nothing sounded as good as getting home quickly, getting into her bed. Then she said, “The pharmacy—I'll need my medication….”

He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small vial of pills. “These?”

“Oh man, you're just too good to be true.” When
he started to drive, she leaned back and closed her eyes. “You're not flirting with me, are you? I mean, a ride, my pills…”

He laughed at her. “I would, if I thought it would do me any good. I'm pretty sure you're not in a flirty frame of mind, Beth.”

She yawned. “Your sense of timing is way off if you're flirting.” She turned her head and looked at him. “I had a pain shot just minutes before you got to my room,” she said, slurring just slightly.

“Smart.”

“I might not be good company.”

“Just let yourself fall asleep. I'm a good driver.”

A moment later, she woke herself with a small snore. “God,” she muttered, wiping a little drool from the corner of her mouth. But then she was back asleep, completely unaware of the time or space she was in until he gently woke her. She leaned against him, sleepwalking, as he took her into the house and straight to her room. She lay gently, carefully, on her bed, never opening her eyes, and he pulled off her shoes. He propped a pillow under her left arm to give her support on her surgical side. Her lips formed the words
thank you
but she was gone, sleeping the sleep of the drugged post-surgical.

He looked down at her for a moment, just watching her give in to total exhausted, depleted sleep. Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead very lightly.

“I felt that,” she said.

And he laughed.

 

Billy survived his vasectomy, though fretfully. Julie waited patiently outside the small surgical room while he underwent the procedure, then the doctor came out, told her Billy needed to lie down for a while longer before he could be released—just twenty to forty minutes—and she could go in and talk to him if she wanted to. She found him flushed and a little hyper, but victorious. He'd done it. He'd let them cut right into his sack and stop the babies from coming and coming and coming.

“Jules,” he said a little excitedly, “wait till you see what they took out of me!”

He pulled the Mayo stand closer to the table on which he lay and lifted the green cloth. There, in the curved emesis basin, lay two inch-long pieces of what could pass as angel hair pasta. “Billy,” she said somberly. “Did you see what they took out of me? Three times? Men. Jeez.”

He took a couple of sick days—a pure rarity for him—and tried to keep ice on his testicles and small children off his lap. Then he went back to work.

The financial counselor was in touch a couple of times, though he didn't have a lot to report—just that he thought he might be making some progress. What was unsurprising to him but flat-ass amazing to Billy, was that the credit-card companies got right on board and they were negotiating, but the bank, who'd helped him into this mess, was holding a hard line. It made no sense; the mortgage holder was the one who stood to lose the most, since the house would be safe under bankruptcy law.

He had a lot on his mind—his testicles, for one thing, which still had the occasional
tug
from the surgery. His finances. His family. A lot of soul searching that included feelings of inadequacy for not figuring this out sooner, and regret that he'd been so chipper with poor Jules while she was just dying under the weight of their family's needs. And of course the end result of all that was a baby who could've been their fourth and was lost. They'd never planned on four; they hadn't actually planned on three. But they both loved kids, loved the size of their plentiful family. If they didn't have so many money problems, four wouldn't throw them at all.

This was too distracting for Billy to take much notice of other things going on, but it wasn't long before Joe's short fuse and sulk was apparent to him, as it had already become to everyone else. Joe was usually a funny guy. He wasn't exactly even tempered; in fact, he was a little on the scrappy side. But he had a good sense of humor; he was playful and energetic, talkative and always helpful. Not lately.

They had a lot of calls throughout the day, but just before dinner, Billy caught Joe alone out by the rig. Joe was running a rag over headlights and chrome—and he wasn't whistling. Billy leaned up against the truck. “You're not keeping it much of a secret, you're pissed about something.”