Fools Rush in(92)

“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 f**ker 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.”