Fools Rush In

Thank God for Digger. I appreciated his company more than ever. In the evenings, I taught him silly tricks, like collapsing to the floor if I pointed my finger at him and said, “Bang.” He learned to crawl, toss a cookie off his nose and catch it midair, and sneeze on command. “I’m sorry, Diggy,” I said the night that he failed to learn to dance on his hind legs. Still, I was grateful that he entertained me, even if it was at the cost of his personal dignity. For his reward, I started letting him sleep on my bed.

I tried to read. Medical journals were the only thing I could get through, which was lucky, since I wanted to be on top of things when I started with Dr. Whitaker in a few weeks. I thought about taking a quick vacation, going off-Cape for some of that time, but I didn’t think I could afford anything far enough to be worthwhile, and frankly, I didn’t have the energy.

I tried not to think about Sam.

ON COLUMBUS DAY WEEKEND, we had a party to say goodbye. Dr. Bala and his family came, as did Jill and her husband, and Juanita from the hospital. Sienna brought a boyfriend, a sinister-looking man in leather and metal who actually was quite sweet and friendly, Satan-worshipping garb aside. Jeff, our dear college student, couldn’t make it, as he was back at Tufts, but we generously forgave him. Pizza and soda were passed around, and we all felt a bit nostalgic.

“Do you remember the man who unfortunately put the nail through his hand? Goodness, that was a nasty one. It reminded me of a crucifixion,” Dr. Bala reminisced.

“And the lady who fell asleep na**d on her deck? Poor thing! I have never seen such bad sunburn!” Jill chuckled.

“What about the newlyweds with poison ivy?” Sienna hooted. (I had to fake-laugh on that one.)

“What are your plans, Dr. Balamassarhinarhajhi?” I asked, the now-familiar syllables rolling effortlessly from my lips.

“You can call me by my given name, you know, Millie,” he said in his lovely, lyrical accent.

“Well, actually, Dr. Balamassarhinarhajhi, I don’t know your given name.” Dr. B. had always signed his name in trademark doctor scrawl, and we had no nameplates around our seasonal clinic. I had only seen his first name listed as J.

“You do not? Oh, dear, dear. Well, it’s John.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking. It’s really John?”

He smiled. “Oh, you Americans are so funny. So culturally stifled.” His beautiful wife joined in his merry laughter.

“Your plans, John?” I repeated, grinning in spite of myself.

“I will be heading up another clinic in New Hampshire, a permanent position close to my son’s university, so I will not return to Cape Cod except for vacation,” he answered.

“I hope you’ll call me when you’re back,” I said, meaning it.

“I certainly will, Millie. It has been a pleasure working with a young doctor of your competence and good humor.”

“Well, thank you very much. I’ve learned a lot from you, sir.”

Because Dr. Bala was headed north, I offered to take up his last few shifts. With Jeff back in college, I also answered the infrequent phone calls after four and did the small amount of paperwork necessary. It meant working until ten at night, but I didn’t care. Jill came in for a few hours during the middle of the day, but we were pretty much finished. I only saw a few patients over the last week, spending most of the time reading or sending falsely cheerful e-mails to Danny and my off-Cape friends. Most days, I brought Digger with me so he (and I) wouldn’t have to spend the whole day alone.

I was waiting. Waiting for work to begin with Dr. Whitaker, waiting for the next chapter of my life, waiting for the ache over Sam to subside.

CHAPTER THIRTY

ON THE VERY LAST NIGHT that the clinic was open, I sat in my office, packing up a few papers and deleting some files from the computer. Jill was long gone, and the silence of the empty space echoed, the clock’s ticking very prominent in the quiet. Digger and I reviewed his repertoire, but it seemed like his doggy eyes were begging for reprieve, so I gave him a chew stick and rubbed his back with my foot as I let myself steep in melancholy.

I would miss the clinic. It had been a very pleasant place to work, and it had been safe, with the strength of Cape Cod Hospital behind us. While private practice would be more rewarding, no doubt, it would also be a lot scarier. I’d miss working with Jill and Sienna, miss the fun of our girl talk in the back room.

Tomorrow the hospital people would come to reclaim the cardiac monitor and X-ray equipment, pack up the medical supplies and drug samples, the computers and files. The clinic would sit empty until next April, when some other doctor would staff it. It wasn’t my place anymore.

Nine o’clock found me in my office, trying to finish an article on a new heart valve prosthesis. A half-eaten cup of yogurt sat abandoned on my desk, and Digger lay twitchily dreaming on the floor. I vaguely heard a siren, but it didn’t register at first, not until it became louder. Digger leaped up, startled. I got up, too. When I saw the blue light flashing and slowing in front of the clinic, I ran outside.

An Eastham police cruiser came screaming into the parking lot. Ethel jumped out from the driver’s side.

“It’s Sam! He’s hurt!” she called, adeptly sliding across the hood of the car like Starsky or Hutch. My heart stopped then surged at her words even as my feet carried me over to the car. Sam was sitting in the passenger’s seat.

Ethel yanked the door open and Sam got out. He was holding his right arm across his stomach and couldn’t seem to stand up straight.

“Calm down, Ethel,” he said. “I’m okay, Millie.”

“I am f**king calm. It’s just that my goddamn partner is f**king hurt!”

“What happened?” I asked. My voice was tight and high.

“I’m fine, all right? Stop panicking.” He was obviously in pain.

“Some butthole hit him with a tire iron, Millie,” Ethel said, running ahead to open the clinic door. “Jesus Christ, he almost got hit in the f**king head!”

I had never seen Ethel so emotional. Her leathery face was scrunched tight, and her hands were shaking slightly.

“Okay, let’s get you in here, buddy,” I said, taking his good arm. Ethel grabbed Digger, who was leaping ecstatically at the sight of Sam, and put him in the office as I led Sam to an exam room. “Can you get up there, Sam?” I asked. He awkwardly scootched onto the table, apparently unable to use his arm, and I felt my eyes grow wet.

“For God’s sake, don’t cry, Millie,” he growled.

“We were just doing a routine traffic stop down by the rotary,” Ethel rasped, coming in to join us. “One of these ass-wipe kids was stoned, and Sam asked him to open the trunk. And before we even knew it, the kid was swinging a goddamn tire iron, Millie! Fuck me! The little shit swung it right at Sam’s head, and Sam turned just in time, and bam! The goddamn fucker slammed him right in the f**king shoulder!”

“Ethel, for God’s sake, settle down.” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “Millie, I’m fine. Can you just x-ray this and be done with it? Eth, why don’t you go out to the cruiser and radio in, okay?”

Ethel looked at him. “Okay, Sam.” She took a rattling breath. “Take good care of him, Millie.”

“I will.” I closed the door after her and looked at Sam. His face was pale, and he was favoring his right side. His expression was grim. “Did she get it about right?” I asked him, writing something—I know not what—on a paper. My own hands were shaking.

“Yeah, yeah, that was it. Not a huge deal. Just a punky kid.”

“He hit you with a tire iron?”

“Yup.”

I swallowed loudly.

“Millie, if you start crying, I’m going to strangle you. Just get the damn exam over with. The union says I have to be cleared by a doctor before I can go home. Can you just do that for me?”

“Why so ornery, Officer?” I asked, hoping to get a smile.

“Because my shoulder is killing me, damn it!” he yelled.

“All right, all right. Settle down. Jeez, you sound like my dad.”

“Is this your bedside manner, Millie? Because it sucks.” A ghost of a grin slipped across his face. I smiled back, though the smile wobbled.

“Okay, Officer,” I said. “Let’s get that shirt off and have a look.” I sounded like a porno movie.

“You sound like a porno movie,” Sam said, fumbling with his uniform buttons.

“Here, you jerk, let me help you.”

“Now that’s my Millie.”

Those words caused my throat to close with a muffled click. Eyes stinging from tears, I undid the buttons and gently tugged the shirt tails out of his pants, hoping that Sam didn’t notice my flushed face.

“Please stop crying,” my patient sighed.

“Sorry.” I slipped the shirt off his hurt shoulder, wincing as I did. White scars crisscrossed his skin from the surgery he’d had in college.

“I forgot this was your bad shoulder,” I whispered, biting my lip.

“Millie! Snap out of it and get me out of here.”

I jumped. “Right. Okay. It’s just that…you know, Sam. It’s you. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“Well, fix me up and get me home, then. For God’s sake.”

I was grateful for his irritation because if he hadn’t said that, I’d probably have sobbed out my love for him. I did snap out of it, gently examining his shoulder, moving it carefully to test for range of motion, extending his arm.

“Did you get hurt anywhere else?” I asked as I took his blood pressure on his good arm.

“No,” he said, looking steadily at me. We were only an inch or two apart, and suddenly the air seemed very thick.

I stepped back fast. “Okay. I don’t think it’s broken, but let’s x-ray you to be sure.”

I helped him off the table and over to the X-ray area, had him lie down in the appropriate positions. I didn’t usually do this part of an exam, but I knew how. I went through the steps and tapped a few keys at the computer. Sam sat up on the table and waited for the verdict as the images came up on the monitor.

“Nothing broken. Got a nasty bone bruise, though. And your old fractures are stable. See the screws there? You got lucky.”

“So what do you do for a bone bruise?” he asked.

“Motrin, a sling, no work for a week. I’m going to write you a scrip for Vicodin in case the Motrin isn’t enough.” I scrounged around the desk, looking for the prescription pad.

“Okay.” He groped at his shirt, trying to get it around him and onto his right side.

“Here, let me help you with that.” I reached around, slipping the sleeve gently onto Sam’s hurt arm, then buttoned him up carefully. My fingers seemed to be having trouble getting the job done. I eased the sling onto his arm and tightened the strap so it would be comfortable. Sam had grown very still. I glanced up at his face.

He was looking at me. Not over my shoulder, not at his shirt. At me. Then his eyes dropped down to my mouth. And then, very slowly, Sam leaned forward and kissed me, a gentle, soft kiss as if I were the most precious thing in the world. And when I didn’t pull back, he kissed me for real.

His good arm slipped around my waist, under my white doctor’s coat. His mouth was so warm and soft and fit against mine so perfectly that my knees softened in a rush. My brain stopped registering everything but Sam, his kiss, his warmth and his lean solidness, his arm pressing me closer against him.

“Holy motheragod!”

I leaped away as if I’d been electrocuted, jostling Sam’s bruised shoulder in the process. He winced, I winced, Ethel winced.

“Oh, shit on salad, I am so sorry! Fuck me! I’m leaving. Sam, don’t worry about anything, not that it looks like you are. Everything’s called in. Wellfleet PD caught the kids up near Moby’s. Lieutenant says just go home and he’ll call you tomorrow. Crap! I guess you don’t need a ride. Shit. Sorry.” Ethel gave a meaty cough and left. We listened to the cruiser squeal out of the parking lot at about thirty miles an hour.

Which left just Sam and me. His face said it all. He looked like a baby harp seal, freshly clubbed.

“Millie—”

I drew a shaking breath and pressed my fingers to my mouth. I tried to say something, but I couldn’t.

“Oh, Millie, I’m so sorry.” He, too, was breathing rather heavily. “Mil, say something. Please.”

What could I say? I was speechless, maybe for the first time in my life.

“I didn’t plan that, Millie. I’m sorry. I never should have—I’m really sorry.” He got up from the table and started to come over to me.

“We—we—we—we should go. Right? Let’s go,” I babbled. “Just sit here and let me finish up. Because it’s the clinic’s last night, and I have to just make sure everything’s done and turned off and all that.”

“Millie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry. Please say something.” He looked miserable.

“Um, let’s just, let’s, let’s just pack it in here. Okay? Okay. Great.”

I ran, literally ran, into my office and closed the door. Digger snuffled my hands, but I barely noticed.

He’d kissed me.

And he was sorry. So sorry. Sorry, Millie. Please. Really sorry.

My legs shook almost uncontrollably. I took a few deep, heaving breaths, and looked around. Do what you have to do to get out of here, I commanded. Like a robot, I shut down the computer, scratched the words Police officer assaulted, bone bruise, right shoulder, full range of motion, no fracture on the chart and grabbed my bag. Going out to the X-ray area, I breezed past Sam and made sure his file was in the queue to be read by the radiologist on call at Cape Cod Hospital. Then I ripped off the prescription and handed it to Sam, who looked as if his dog had just died.