Fools Rush In
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I spent an entire sixty minutes showering, applying makeup and fixing my schizophrenic hair into a semblance of the style I’d paid a week’s wages for. Dressed in black gabardine pants, a loose-fitting pink sweater and pink flowery earrings, I bid Digger farewell, ignoring his imploring howls as I got into the Honda, hoping he wouldn’t soil the floor again.
The raw March wind tried to shove my little car off the twisting road to the OCSC as I mentally rehearsed what I would say when I “ran into” Joe. Something casual yet charming. Something that would stick in his brain. I had to remember to feign surprise that he was working here. “Oh, hey, Joe! What are you doing here? Me? Oh, I’m going to be covering for Dr. Whitaker here on Thursdays.” Hence, I would impress Joe with my credentials, inform him that I would be a regular visitor and get to see him without having to create a coincidence.
As I turned into the OCSC, my heart leaped. Joe’s truck, a worn, maroon Chevy Cheyenne with Joe Carpenter the Carpenter stenciled in white on both doors, was in the nearly empty parking lot. I girded my loins, if a woman could do that, and prepared to insert my funny, kind, generous and more attractive self into Joe’s radar. The minute I stepped out of the car, the wind began ravishing my hair, but having learned about the effects of salt air and my new cut, I clamped my hands over my head and ran to the front door.
The familiar, not unpleasant (to me) smell of a health-care institution greeted me…low-salt food, disinfectant and that indefinable medical odor. I peeked down the empty hallways that led off the foyer. No Joe. There was no one at the front desk, either, so I walked over to the large common room on the left, noting the automatic locking doors at the entrance that would prevent anyone from leaving without notice. Ah, here was life! Clustered around a huge TV that showed Judge Judy in alarming detail, a dozen or so seniors, some in wheelchairs, sat mesmerized by Her Honor’s shrill opinions.
One woman managed to tear herself away from the show. She wore scrubs, and I guessed her to be an aide of some kind, the type of person who does all the dirty work in a place like this. She approached and gave me a cool once-over.
“Yes?” she asked, hands on her hips, looking a little ticked that I had interrupted the good judge.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Barnes. I’m covering for Dr. Whitaker,” I answered with a smile.
“Millie Barnes?” asked the aide. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Yes.”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” asked the aide sourly. Thin, chin-length blond hair with an inch and a half of black roots framed a plain, worn-looking face. She had a truck driver’s build—beer belly, big, strong-looking arms and pink-rimmed eyes.
“Uh, no, sorry…you look familiar, but I can’t think of your name,” I said awkwardly.
“Stephanie Petrucelli,” she answered, irritated that I hadn’t placed her. “We went to Nauset High together.”
Oh, yes! One of the rougher girls in my class, tattooed, bullying, large-pored. An image of freshman Spanish class came to me, Stephanie snickering loudly as I tried gamely to imitate our teacher’s accent. Memories of her waiting ominously for me in the bus line. Mocking me at the tenth-grade dance. Laughing as I barfed on the bus. Though she had never actually made good on her threats to beat me up, she had terrorized me nonetheless. Stephanie had been one of those less-gifted students who had hated everyone smarter than she was. And that was a lot of people.
“I remember now,” I said, neutrally assessing her appearance. The years had not been kind.
“I heard you were a doctor,” she said, sneering.
“That’s right.”
“So what are you doing here? Dr. Whitaker’s our doc.”
“I think I’ve already told you,” I answered snippily—amazing how quickly old resentments flare up. “I’ll be covering for him on Thursdays.”
“Oh. So. What do you want?”
“How about the charts on his patients?” I asked.
“Fine. Go down that hall to the nurses’ station. The charts are all there.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Enjoy your show.” She scowled, and I hid a smile.
I walked down the hall, aware again that Joe Carpenter was somewhere in the building, and discreetly fluffed the chronically flat part of my hair. At the nurses’ station, I introduced myself to the other staffers, only one of whom was a nurse, and spent about an hour going over charts. Most of the patients suffered from fairly standard senior-citizen complaints: coronary or vascular disease, Alzheimer’s, stroke, diabetes.
Dr. Whitaker examined each patient at least twice a month, some as often as once a week. He was meticulous in his notes, his handwriting uncharacteristically neat. He’d left a list of patients to examine today and had given me some background information on each of them, which I appreciated immensely.
The first patient was Mrs. Delmonico, who suffered from morbid obesity and insulin-dependent diabetes. I chatted with her for a few minutes before starting the exam, congratulating her on her newest great-grandchild. She had a shallow ulcer as a result of her poor circulation, and I changed the dressing and wrote orders for whirlpool therapy. Next came Mrs. Walker, a dementia patient who was nonverbal and thin but otherwise seemed to be in good health. I checked her Aricept dose and asked the nurse about art or pet therapy for her, something that seemed to work well with Alzheimer’s patients. Mr. Hughes, the father of one of my childhood friends, was ornery, itching to go home after a long recovery from peritonitis resulting from a ruptured appendix. I told him that I would talk with Dr. Whitaker about discharge and asked after Sandy, his daughter. He then apologized sheepishly for his bad temper and told me he couldn’t believe I was old enough to be a doctor.
It was wonderful. This was exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And then came Mr. Glover…
Stephanie helped him down the hall to the tiny exam room. Only slightly stooped, he looked pretty hale, actually. Rather dashing in a way, with a white mustache and nicely ironed cotton shirt under a blue cardigan.
“Hi, Mr. Glover,” I said with a smile.
“This is Dr. Barnes,” Stephanie said in a clear, precise voice. “She’s helping Dr. Whitaker. Is it okay if she checks you out?”
Mr. Glover looked at me, nodded and got onto the exam table without too much difficulty.
“Great!” Stephanie smiled as she left. I guess I’d been too harsh on her before. She clearly had a way with the old folks, and as for the work she did, well, you couldn’t pay her enough.
“I’m just going to listen to your heart, okay, Mr. Glover?” I asked. He didn’t answer, but smiled sweetly. I pressed the stethoscope against his chest and listened to the blood rushing through his ventricles. Faint but regular. Blood pressure excellent. I tapped on his back to auscultate his lungs, then checked his pupils for reactivity.
“Everything seems great,” I said. “How are you feeling, Mr. Glover? Any complaints?”
“I feel rather hard,” he said, gazing at me with a lovely smile.
“Pardon me?” I asked.
“I’m rather hard,” he repeated.
I glanced at his lap, not quite sure if that was the hardness he meant. It was.
“Um…” I stalled, not sure if he was giving me a real complaint. After all, involuntary tumescence was a legitimate medical—
“Care to take a look?” he asked pleasantly. His gaze dropped to my chest, and he casually reached for my breast, arthritic fingers outstretched.
“Hey! No! None of that, Mr. Glover!” I stepped back quickly, bumping into the scale. “Uh, I think you might want to talk to Dr. Whitaker if you think—” Sometimes dementia results in inappropriate sexual impulses, my brain recited. It would have been nice if Dr. Whitaker had mentioned this in his meticulous notes—
Suddenly, Mr. Glover grabbed me by the waist and yanked me closer, wrapping his skinny legs around mine, pinning my arms at my sides, and lay his head on my chest.
“No, Mr. Glover! Please let go!” I tried to sound authoritative. It had no effect. I wriggled a little, trying to free my arms. He gave a happy moan and rubbed against me.
“Hey! Stop it!” I said, more loudly. “Mr. Glover, please!” Though he weighed no more than one hundred and fifty pounds, he was wiry. And humming. “Mr. Glover, please let go. Right now. This is very inappropriate.” I tried to twist away, which only seemed to excite him more. He giggled. Shit! I was the doctor, which meant I couldn’t exactly knee him in the groin. “Mr. Glover!” My mind raced furiously, trying to think of how we’d been taught to handle this sort of thing in med school. Call Security was the best I could come up with.
My patient began to sing softly. “I saw her today at the recep-tion…”
“Mr. Glover, stop this right now! I mean it!” I managed to liberate my left arm, and gave him a tentative shove, trying to extricate myself without breaking his brittle bones. He didn’t notice. Wincing, I tentatively pulled on a wispy strand of his thin white hair. The Hippocratic oath echoed in my mind. First, do no harm. Mr. Glover didn’t notice, his song continuing, “At her feet was…a footloose ma-an…”
There was drool on my new sweater. Enough! “Excuse me!” I yelled. “I need some help in here!”
I heard footsteps squeaking down the corridor, and in came Stephanie, looking ever so pleased to see me in Mr. Glover’s python grip. And right behind her stood Joe Carpenter. Of course.
“Is there a problem, Doctor?” Stephanie asked innocently.
“You can’t always get what you wa-ant,” Mr. Glover crooned.
“Give me a hand here,” I ground out.
“Oh, Mr. Glover, you know you shouldn’t be doing that,” Stephanie said calmly. She pried his hands off me and calmly unwound him from my waist. I took a step back and tried not to shudder. Straightening my sweater, knowing my face was beet-red, I retrieved my stethoscope, which had fallen during the unorthodox exam. Joe looked on in amusement.
“Hey, Millie. You okay?” he said, not unkindly.
“Oh, sure, you know, just getting to know the clients here,” I babbled. “Quite intimately, in fact.” Not too bad for a woman with an octogenarian’s saliva on her chest. Joe smiled.
“So sorry, Dr. Barnes,” Stephanie said smirking as she helped Mr. Glover off the table. “Are you all finished here?”
“Um, yes. Thanks, Stephanie.” She gave me an evil smile and led Mr. Glover from the room.
“Goodbye, my dear,” he said, waving. “Thank you!”
“Uh, bye, Mr. Glover,” I answered. To Joe I said, “To think, I get to do this every week.”
“Oh, yeah? Are you working here?” Joe asked with his accident-causing smile. Finally, the reality of his presence rocketed into my nervous system, and warmth filled my body. God, his golden lashes were so long.
“Filling in for Dr. Whitaker,” I answered, sounding a little breathy. “Today was my first day. What a wacky thing to happen. Old coot.” We walked down the hall together, and I remembered to feign astonishment at his presence at OCSC. “But what are you doing here, Joe?” I peeked up at his glorious cheekbones.
“I’m doing some work here, didn’t you know?” He gave me a sideways grin, and my loins fired up.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Didn’t you see my truck in the parking lot? I thought I saw you park behind me.” He pointed out the window to the parking lot, where my car was practically mounting his truck.
“Oh, of course!” I said, blushing. “Stupid of me,” I muttered.
“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around, huh, Millie?” He smiled again, and I forgot my stupidity.
“You bet, Joe. Take care. And thanks!”
I watched him walk away. The view was magnificent. And the plan was working.
CHAPTER SIX
ON APRIL FOOL’S DAY, I began work at the Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic. It was a small facility in Wellfleet, located right on Route 6, in a little strip mall with ample parking. Our neighbors were a T-shirt-and-gift shop, a video/liquor store and a take-out fried-seafood place. I would have to be wary of that last one.
I would be working at the clinic full-time, though my hours would vary. It was up to the other doctor and me to split the time as we liked; we would each cover a shift. The clinic was open from eight in the morning to ten at night, so even the late shift wasn’t too bad. We’d have a nurse and an administrative assistant for the day shift; after six, it would just be the doc and a temp to fill out paperwork and deal with the phones. A nurse would be on call if things got really busy. With any real emergencies or critically ill cases, we’d ship the patients down to Hyannis. Aside from basic X-ray and ultrasound equipment and an electrocardiograph, we were pretty much bare bones.
I hadn’t met the other doc yet but was looking forward to it. I had made some really good friends during my residency, but the closest one was in Dorchester, where she worked at an inner-city hospital. Hopefully my fellow clinic doctor would become a buddy, too.
The Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic was furnished in the same generic, soulless design of thousands of doctors’ offices. The waiting room featured bland blue chairs, six in all, covered in nubby, uncomfortable fabric. Sand-colored carpeting. Blurry floral prints on the walls to soothe our patients’ strained nerves. Punishing fluorescent lights to agitate said nerves. Coffee table with fake plant on it. Children’s corner, with cardboard box of cast-off toys. Counter where patient must stand and be ignored by receptionist for at least three minutes before being acknowledged. (That actually isn’t protocol…it’s just something I’ve noticed.) And beyond the counter, two exam rooms, the X-ray area and an office. Could have been on the Cape, could have been in Arizona.
We weren’t actually open for business today; it was more of an orientation. As Cape Cod Hospital officially ran the clinic, a representative was there to fill us in on paperwork, procedure and protocol. The three Ps, as she’d said brightly on the phone. The other employees were already seated.
“You must be Dr. Barnes,” an attractive woman in her forties greeted me, extending her hand. “I’m Juanita Ortiz from the hospital. We spoke on the phone.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I answered. She wore a light gray suit, the skirt short and slim, showing off her long, toned legs. A pink-and-gray scarf circled her neck, and I made a mental note to try that. I myself wore a generic pair of tan slacks and a cream-colored blouse, which I had pulled out of the waistband a bit to camouflage my lack of waist.
“This is Dr. Balamassarhinarhajhi,” she said, the endless syllables rolling effortlessly off her tongue as she indicated a very short, bald Indian man of indeterminate age. Bala…Bala…Balasin…
“Doctor,” I said, extending my hand automatically. He took my hand and shook it gingerly, giving me a nod.
“I’ve heard you and Mrs. Doyle know each other,” Juanita continued, indicating the plump, smiling woman next to Dr. B. I grinned and leaned over, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Jill Doyle was one of my mom’s oldest pals, and I had been thrilled when I’d heard that Jill would be working here. She was chatty and comforting, organized and energetic…a perfect nurse, I would wager.
“And this is Sienna,” Juanita finished, pointing to a young woman who looked no more than fifteen years old. Ah, I thought. Some flavor. Sienna had pink streaks in her brown hair, liquid black eyeliner and bloodred lipstick the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my makeover. Her ears were studded with punishing-looking hoops and chunky metal fragments, none of which could really be called an earring. She smiled and idly kicked her Doc Martens against the chair.
“So!” Juanita said. “Let’s get started.”
For the next two hours, Juanita told us how to handle the three Ps. This was the most excruciatingly boring part of any job, and medicine was no exception. Insurance forms, test orders, referrals, transfers, treatment documentation, confidentiality regulations, malpractice…unfortunately, these things took up much more time than you might expect. In truth, Dr. B. and I would rely on our staff to handle a lot of these while we did the actual treating. Apparently, Sienna had a degree in health information processing.
After a few hours, Juanita and Sienna went out to pick up our lunch, leaving Dr. B., Jill and me alone. “I think I’ll take a look around,” Jill said, wandering off into the exam rooms. I trailed along, daydreaming.
I am working at the clinic, wearing much better, more sophisticated clothes than I have on currently. I have a waist. My hairstyle is symmetric. Suddenly, a battered maroonpickup screeches into the parking lot. Out staggers Joe, one hand bloody from the foreign body protruding so rudely from the soft tissues of his palm.
“Millie…Millie, are you in there?” he calls. Adorably, he is woozy from the sight of his own blood. (This is an actual Joe C. fact, filed away from the time he got cut during metal shop in eleventh grade.) I come out, placing a friendly and firm arm around his waist, and he leans against me.
“I had an accident with the nail gun,” he murmurs. I guide him inside, competently reassuring him, numbing and sterilizing his hand. He gazes at me with clear green eyes, suddenly seeing me in a new light….
“Where did you do your residency, Dr. Barnes?”
It was the first time I’d heard Dr. B. speak. I turned to him, smiling. “Brigham and Women’s in Boston,” I replied. “And you, Dr.—I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve got your name down just yet.” I smiled with what I hoped was charming self-effacement.
“Balamassarhinarhajhi,” he answered in a lyrical, singsong accent. “I was a resident at St. Vincent’s in New York City, though that seems a very long time ago.”
“This must be a big change, then. Much quieter.” Clearly, I was going to have to write his name down and study it before tomorrow.
“Indeed. A pleasant change.”
“Have you lived on the Cape long?” I asked.
“No, not long,” he answered.
“Do you like it here?”
“Of course.” He stared at me expectantly, so I forged on.
“Are you married? Any kids?”
“Yes,” he replied, his black eyes staring at me, no doubt wondering why I was grilling him. Okay. Not the chattiest guy. New friend would take some work.
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WENT WELL. Although work was pretty slow, it was fun to be with Jill, mostly shooting the breeze while we waited for people to walk in. My parents’ friends were by and large wonderful people, and Jill was a particular favorite. She had several grandchildren she doted on, and I listened happily as she reported on their amazing talents and clearly much higher-than-average intellects. Sienna was a hoot, filling us older folk in on her youthful exploits…actually, she was only five years younger than I was, but I didn’t do things like go into Boston at eleven o’clock at night to hear a band or sleep over at strangers’ houses or date multiple men. Sienna did these things and seemed happy to burble on about them to us.
Dr. Balamassarhinarhajhi (it only took me twenty or so tries) agreed to be called Dr. Bala when Sienna told him outright she thought saying his entire name simply took too much time. We met briefly during the half hour that our shifts overlapped to fill each other in on the happenings of the day. Otherwise, he remained polite and distant. Sienna had managed to discover that his was an arranged marriage. How she learned this was a mystery, but it didn’t stop us three females from talking about it a good deal.
And yes, there was an occasional patient. A Provincetown chef sliced open his finger and needed three stitches. A child slammed his finger in a car door and needed an X-ray and a splint. Your everyday emergencies…We had no bomb scares, no poisonous gas leaking into our air supply, no gang members, no feral dogs, no helicopters crashing through our roof, so it was nothing like TV.
The night shift was even quieter. Dr. Bala usually covered this for mysterious reasons that I certainly didn’t want to question. Our temp was a college student, a very pleasant young man named Jeff, who opened his books and studied diligently in the complete silence that often characterized the hours between five and ten o’clock. When I did work the night shift, I quickly learned to bring the New England Journal of Medicine or my laptop and spent quiet hours reading the latest medical news.
Here at the clinic, it was easy to help the patients who came in. I got to spend a lot of time with the few I saw, chatting them up and paying lots of attention to them, and it was this that I loved the most. My dream of being a family doctor seemed closer when I chatted with Mrs. Kowalski, who suffered from a rash after eating Chinese food, or gave Barbie stickers out to Kylie McIntyre, who’d gotten poked in the eye by her older brother. And I enjoyed being the doc in charge, because as a resident, I had always been supervised. I called Dr. Whitaker each week and filled him in, on both the clinic and the nursing home, and he seemed pleased with what I was doing.
When I wasn’t at work, I toiled diligently away at my other life’s mission, stalking Joe. Each Thursday during my hours at the senior center, I carefully staged an innocent crossing of paths between the golden one and myself, a casual hello, a friendly wave. Once Tripod, who accompanied Joe on all his jobs, hopped over to me, and I was able to stroke his head and tell Joe what a sweet dog he had.
I continued to run, and after a few weeks, my little jog didn’t cause quite so much pain, though I still gasped like the largemouth bass my dad regularly pulled from Higgins Pond. I lost a few more pounds and tried to cook at least one decent meal a week, learning the hard way that most recipes call for the meat to be thawed before cooking.
On another front, the house was becoming more and more mine. I painted the cellar floor and cleaned energetically. Occasionally I would pick up a picture frame or vase or some other little object and happily agonize over where to put it. Digger and I were quite content.
ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON in late April, as my dog and I huffed toward the house, I saw Sam’s truck in my driveway. He and Danny were getting something out of the back of the pickup.
“Hi, Mil!” Sam called.
“Hi, Aunt Mil!” Danny echoed.
“Hello, boys,” I gasped, letting Digger off the leash. The silly dog forgot he was supposed to protect me from strange men and instead leaped over to Sam and Danny, collapsing with joy as they reached down to pet him. I took advantage of this moment to regain my breath and steady my trembling knees.
“How’s the running going?” Sam asked with the annoying smirk of a natural athlete.
Ass, I thought. “Great!” I answered with feigned enthusiasm.
“You up to two miles yet?”
“Bite me,” I whispered cheerfully so my nephew wouldn’t hear. Sam laughed.
“You’re looking good, Aunt Mil,” Danny said, extricating himself from Digger’s maniacal licking. He glanced at my T-shirt. “‘Mean people suck.’ So true.”
I grinned up at my tall nephew. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Thought you could use a few plants,” Sam said. “I’ve got some lilacs and hydrangeas for you.” As a part-time employee of Seascapes Landscaping, Sam got stuff at a great discount.
“Oh, thanks, Sam!” I exclaimed. How touching, that he would think of me and my bare little yard. He was the sweetest guy. Digger seemed to share my esteem and attached himself vigorously to Sam’s leg.
“Off. Off, boy,” Sam said, prying the dog’s front legs from his knee.
“The same thing happened to me at the nursing home,” I laughed. “Except it wasn’t a dog.” Sam grinned and threw a stick for Digger, effectively ending their romance. I’d have to try that with Mr. Glover.
“Can we see the house?” Danny asked.
“Of course, of course!” I answered. I had forgotten that these guys hadn’t been over since my renovations and immediately felt remiss. After all, it had been Danny’s Great Gran’s house.