Cheating to Survive (Fix It or Get Out) (7 page)

“You’re supposed to use your mouth, not your head. Here.” He placed his fingers under her chin. “Now inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.”

His fingertips, like anesthesia, paralyzed her. Was his tongue circling inside his parted lips or had she imagined it? She looked at her shoes avoiding his steady eye contact.

Every day he looked more gorgeous. Was she imagining it? Could someone grow hotter with each interaction? He was the only thing that enticed her to come to work anymore. She hadn’t seen him the past two days and left work disappointed. What was she thinking? This wasn’t happening.

He had brought her a brownie from the doctor’s lounge the other day and watched her as she ate it. Any man that brought her chocolate was worth entertaining.

“Dr. Silvatri,” Maddie, a cantankerous old nurse interrupted, “the patient in 609b wants to know when you’re doing her colonoscopy.

Heather giggled at the word.

He studied her expression. “You’re next.” He tapped her exposed collar bone with his finger.

“Never, are you kidding?”

“Why not, don’t trust me?”

“It’s not a question of trust, I’m…just…not having you look up there.”

He sent out a roar of laughter. “What do you mean? I do this all day long.”

“Not to me, you won’t.”

“You don’t want me getting all invasive like that?” His eyebrows climbed and descended, and he lifted his palm waiting for an answer. With his enormous bicep in her face, its blood vessel pulsing at her, she convulsed. He reeled back. “What was that?”

Heather wanted to crawl into the lounge and cry. “You did not just see that.”

“Uh, yeah, I did. The thought of me performing an invasive procedure on you gives you the chills? Hmmpf, interesting.”

“Dr. Silvatri, the patient is waiting to speak to you.” Maddie threw Heather a contemptuous glare.

He slanted in again. “I could be as gentle or as rough as you like my little Libra.” Silvatri strutted away never glancing back, his mystique left her pinned to the wall.

Maddie slithered by and gobbled her up.

Heather unlocked her feet, shuffled down the hall, then once she reached the far end of the corridor, dashed up the stairs to the top landing in a chemically altered state. Looks like she’d be late for their meeting.

Chapter 8
Catherine

Catherine squirmed in her chair and picked at her cuticles. At 9:59a.m., she sucked in her bottom lip and bit down until certain it would slice off. Victoria scribbled on a yellow, lined notepad but crossed off more words then she kept. Heather absent, and it was unlike her to be late since she usually secured the chair directly across from Jean, probably to intimidate her. It made Catherine more nervous.

The door flung open but this time it wedged securely into the sheetrock. Jean attempted to pry it loose but the image of an obese woman in a strawberry-milkshake colored smock grasping and pulling on a door handle was comical. Catherine’s breathing slowed and eased, her tension loosened.

Heather entered, not realizing Jean was to her left. She sauntered to the right to her usual seat, with an enormous grin on her face. “Where’s the ogre?” Heather began. “Eating herself to death?”

Catherine and Victoria cringed, neither spoke. Catherine’s heartbeat soared, thumping faster than previously. She pinched her eyes shut and clasped the middle of her yellow flowered skirt.

Heather pulled out her chair, still unaware. She flopped securely into her seat and met Jean’s gaze as well as the acid that poured from her eyes. A smirk appeared on one side of Heather’s face. It was slight, but Catherine picked it up immediately.

Jean let go of the door handle and stepped toward her podium, a new addition to the conference room after Jean snapped off an arm on the chair she tried to sit in. She positioned her loose papers on the podium. The now unresponsive room echoed the volume of Catherine’s heartbeat.

“Heather,” Jean shuffled her papers, “I have been asked by the hospital’s administrative staff to host a catering event for its board members to promote our new patient-centered care initiative.” She scowled at Heather, her enormous chest rose and fell like an accordion. “You,” Jean paused, “will be at my side for the entire event.”

Any remaining upturn of Heather’s mouth dove along with her forehead. Heather’s leg flinched under the table.

“Victoria, would you like to explain to them what patient-centered care is?”

Catherine knew as much as the rest of them what it was. Jean’s ignorance became more evident as Catherine grew to know her. This was Jean’s way of learning something without admitting she was oblivious.

Victoria tilted her head toward Heather and rolled her eyes. “It’s when a patient’s culture, personal preferences and family situations are taken into account when making clinical decisions. Instead of the traditional ‘I know what’s best for you’ approach, we take patient’s lifestyles into consideration; abide by what patients are willing to do.”

Jean stared at Victoria. For a good fifteen seconds. The information processing and formulating inside her brain. “Yes, that is correct, Victoria.” Jean rolled her neckless head back to Heather. “We’ll meet in my office every Wednesday at eleven o’clock to discuss the particulars. We have a lot of work to do.”

Bile built up under Catherine’s tongue. She swallowed it, preventing herself from vomiting. Glad it wasn’t her. Heather deserved it.

****

Tuesday, on Catherine’s day off after working the weekend, Peter woke and took his shower. The sound of the water spray lulled her deeper into sleep. She felt his presence float in and out of the room, into the closet, back into the bathroom. She vaguely heard Peter mumble something but could not be sure. The pillow, soft and cuddly, she pulled the blanket closer to her ears and squished herself into a tight ball. “Catherine, can you pick up coleslaw and potato salad today? Catherine? Catherine!”

“What?” she mumbled. The words tried to form in her dry, sleepy mouth.

“I said can you please pick up coleslaw and potato salad today?”

“Mmm.” The other side of the pillow, cold and soothing, she coasted back into her dream. Birds chirped merrily outside the window and reminded her of weekend mornings when she was a child. Comforted, she fell back to sleep.

The last of her children hopped onto their school bus and her day off began. No husband, no children. Her standard plan for the day: cleaning. The house had to be spotless, she left nothing undone. She had a routine, and if accomplished, she would not have to clean like this again until the next time she worked the weekend, three weeks from now.

Catherine secured a handful of Q-tips and maneuvered them into the crevices of every piece of furniture, including the moldings and paneling on the walls and doors.

She vacuumed the entire house, lifting heavy furniture away from their familiar surroundings to find any hidden dust balls. There never was any, but today, a stray Cheerio hid behind the blue couch’s leg.

Catherine selected crisp sheets for their four beds, but had to flip the mattresses first to prevent an unnecessary sagging. She opened her spiral notebook to determine which direction she last turned them. This time she would only have to twist them around one hundred and eighty degrees.

With multiple loads of laundry churning, she cleaned windows, glass doors, mirrors and appliances. Had she dusted the chandeliers last month? She forgot to log it in her notebook. Once she folded the laundry, Catherine tossed the bathroom rugs into the washing machine and switched her attention to the three bathrooms.

She organized Emily’s clothes in her closet in the sequence of when she last wore them and lined them up to reflect the days she had gym. Pants and skirts followed blouses in a prefigured pattern. The boys refused to let her touch their clothes anymore. She snuck in anyway and repositioned them so that the hangers all faced the same direction.

Cushions overturned on couches, wood floors polished, the rest of the floors mopped. Blinds and curtains vacuumed. How could dust accumulate on blinds so quickly? With the dining room table polished, she saved the kitchen for last and climbed Peter’s metal ladder to scrub the white cabinets, the surrounding walls and the soffit. She untied the burgundy cushions from the kitchen chairs and decontaminated them in the washing machine as well.

The house smelled like a muddled air freshener infused with lemon, bleach and floor wax. Seven hours after her children left for school, they returned home and homework began.

Two hours later, Peter drove into the garage as the last of them took their showers. The door flung open and Emily ran to Peter’s arms. “Daddy!” she squealed.

He picked her up and swung her in a large circle. “Did you pick up the food?” Peter asked, putting Emily down on the carpeting.

“What?”

“The coleslaw and potato salad, did you get it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re joking right?” He slammed his hand down on the counter. “I asked you to pick it up this morning before I left.”

“When? I don’t remember even speaking to you this morning.”

“I asked you and you answered. Now I have to run out and get it.”

“What’s wrong, mommy?”

“Nothing Emily, why don’t you pick out a board game and I’ll play with you.” Emily scampered into the den and chose Mouse Trap of all games. Catherine scraped off the remains of her nail polish and examined the spotless floor.

“The one thing I ask you to do and you can’t even do it. I work all day and now I have to go back out. Sorry to ruin your day off.”

“My day off? I spent the last seven hours cleaning what you demolished over the weekend.”

“So this is my fault? Don’t blame this on me, you messed up.”

“I scrubbed the entire house, didn’t you even notice?”

“How can I? All you do is clean. What’s the difference between one piece of dust and three?” He plucked a Heineken out of the fridge and cracked it open with his bottle opener. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll go back out and drive to the deli and buy it myself. I wouldn’t want you to spend your money on anything but another fuckin’ pocket book.” Peter slammed the door behind him.

Catherine shuddered, then trudged over to Emily who tried to attach the Mouse Trap slide to the stairs but it refused to connect. Emily ripped it apart and chucked it across the room. The slide slammed into the back door. Her crooked smile let Catherine know she heard the entire argument. Again.

Chapter 9
Victoria

Victoria slumped in her chair and listened to Jean drone on about how the Director of Communications complimented her on the Family Practice Physicians luncheon on Saturday. Jean obviously chose Monday morning for meetings to personify the “I hate Mondays” mantra.

“I’m quite brilliant, you know. It must be hard for the three of you to work under me. I can’t help it if I’m an A+ employee while you linger around the C mark. If you stopped coming up with your useless, lame ideas and paid attention more, maybe you’d be successful like me.”

Victoria hid her yellow note pad, the blank one that only contained five more pages. The rest disposed in various garbage pails. The pages ran out along with her ideas.

The conversation redirected to Catherine and Victoria cringed.

“Can you explain yourself? This entire report is incorrect.” Jean threw the mass of stapled papers at Catherine hitting her in the mouth. Catherine wiped her lip and then glanced at her fingers.

Heather snapped up and glared first at Jean but longer at Catherine. Victoria knew why. Say something, will you?

Nothing.

Catherine leafed through the papers, her puzzled mien surfaced. “I’ve never seen these before.”

“Of course you haven’t. Lydia typed them up.” Saliva sprayed from her lips with each breath.

“Then how could I—”

“You gave me this information.”

“On refrigerator temperatures?” Baffled and trembling, the words barely materialized.

“I looked like a fool in the Infectious Disease meeting! How dare you!” Jean held up a fist and crushed her chunky fingers into a tight ball. Her face furrowed until she looked like she sucked a dozen sour lemons.

Heather straightened and clasped her hands in front of her. “When have the dietitians ever recorded fridge temps?” Her strong nature worked against the group at times. Better to take Jean’s abuse than add more momentum to an already doomed situation.

Jean’s Grand Canyon forehead relaxed, but only for a second. She wheezed, as if asthma consumed her, then smiled in a chilling manner. “On another note, I submitted the proposal for the cardiac rehab center to hire its own dietitian. They loved my ideas and appreciated my honesty.”

Victoria’s head jerked back, but unable to speak she clutched her throat. Her oatmeal curdled in her stomach. Jean’s snub melted what little self-worth she retained.

“I proposed that idea,” Victoria mumbled.

“They’re looking into it and if they hire their own, well then you’ll have me to thank for it.” Jean propped her chest out like a proud rooster and grinned.

“I recommended that and you said it was ridiculous, that they’d never hire another dietitian. You said– ”

“Of course, your work load will be lessened which means you will have to take on more responsibilities.”

Heather shook her head and scoffed at her delusion. “The whole point was that we had too much work to do because we were constantly helping them.”

Victoria abandoned her dispute, pointless. Jean was a performer in an empty theater, only needing her own accolades.

Why did Victoria subject herself to this discourtesy? She built her name up within the hospital after fifteen years of service. Over the years, she initiated Weight Loss Management sessions for employees and taught Cardiac Rehab’s nutrition classes. She instituted the monthly oncology meetings and assembled a great team to support it.

Her responsibilities on the Board of Directors for the cancer center taught her more than she imagined. Her master’s degree in Public Health, obtained while working full time, proved she could juggle several undertakings at once. Then why did she allow Jean to steal her ideas and present them as her own? She should inform someone, but whom?