Fools Rush in(17)

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.

“Why don’t we just get these plants in the ground first, Dan, and give Millie a chance to, uh, shower,” Sam suggested.

“Great,” I said, grabbing Digger. “You want to stay for lunch?”

“Sure!” Danny replied, ever hungry.

Happily warmed by their presence, I went inside, wondering what, if any, food I had to offer them.

I showered quickly, throwing a hair band in my wet hair and pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt. In the kitchen, I watched out the kitchen window as they hauled the lilac trees and hydrangea bushes around my small yard, their voices muffled as they talked and laughed. Sam let Danny do the digging, leaning on his own shovel while his energetic son did the hard part. They looked so much alike—same hair color (aside from Sam’s gray), same rangy build, same smile, same down-turning eyes, though my nephew’s were Trish’s chocolaty-brown. Danny was nearly as tall as Sam now, and the realization brought tears to my eyes. Danny was growing up. In just a few short months, he’d be a senior, and then go off to college somewhere. I wondered what Sam would do without him.