Could I Have This Dance? (47 page)

She thought Drew was acting sexist until he repeated the same phrase to a male medical student who stood on the other side of the table. Then she just thought he was boring.

After the tumor conference, she assisted with the remaining scut, plodded through attending rounds, left Pepper the on-call pager, and fled from the hospital. She was weary of the hospital, sick people, and bloody socks. She was weary of medicine. Even baseball players destined for the Hall of Fame needed a break from the game once in a while.

Mechanically, she guided her Toyota to her rented brownstone. The sun had set on another day of internship, and she was glad to be a survivor. She was too tired to worry about HD, too tired to worry about making it up the pyramid, and too tired to care about the lawsuit. She opened her front door with two things on her mind: food and a bed.

She tossed her white coat on a chair and headed for the kitchen. She stared blankly into her refrigerator. The middle shelf was empty. The top shelf housed a quart of milk and a head of lettuce. She sniffed the milk and scowled. As she dumped it into the sink, the phone rang. Her heart lifted. One voice could satisfy her more than sleep or food: John Cerelli.

Be John. Be John. Be John.

“Hello.”

The voice was distant, almost like it was coming from the inside of a box. It was male and gravelly. “I’m going to make sure you pay for what you did.”

A shiver passed over her back and arms. “Who is this?”

“Doesn’t matter. I hear you killed a baby.”

“What? Who is this?”

“You’re going to pay. Might as well admit what you did. It’s gonna come out. You know it will.”

“Wh–what?”

“Don’t call the police, Doctor. I’m watching. And don’t run away. I can follow you.” She heard a low laugh. “I can see your pretty face now.”

Instinctively, she looked up to the window over the kitchen sink. Seeing only her reflection, she quickly backed away and pawed frantically at
the light switch next to the refrigerator. Darkness greeted her. Was someone really watching? Or just playing a cruel game?

She squinted toward the window and the side yard beyond. From where she stood, she could just see a short section of the street. She could see her neighbor’s van parked against the curb. Was there a vehicle on the other side, in the shadow of the van? She pressed her face against the window for a better look. It was no use. The van obscured her view. She realized she still held the phone and could hear an insidious laugh. “Yeah, baby, I think I’ll watch you all night.”

Claire slammed the phone onto the counter as the screech of tires peeling against the pavement outside echoed through the neighborhood. A vehicle was speeding into the night with the headlights off.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she ran from the kitchen to the front door, and then to the back. The locks were secure. She selected the largest butcher knife from the utensil drawer and retreated to her bedroom with the phone. As she did so, she imagined how silly she looked. Just what protection would a kitchen knife offer? And did she really think that the man on the phone was about to attack? Still, the phone call had unnerved her, and no amount of reasoning made her feel better than the feel of her firm grip on the butcher knife. She slowly opened her closet door and checked under her bed. Then, satisfied that she was alone, she locked her bedroom door and called John Cerelli.

After two rings, his answering machine picked up, and her heart sank. After a beep, she left a frantic message. “John, this is Claire. I need you to answer.” Her voice cracked with a sob. “We need to talk.” She didn’t exactly feel like explaining her predicament to an answering machine. She prayed he was home and would pick up when he heard it was her. After a moment’s silence, she quietly put down the phone and cried, “Oh, God, what should I do?”

She walked from her bedroom to the stairs, acutely aware of the quiet of the old house around her. She paused and listened. Then, hearing nothing, she descended the stairs. Her auditory senses were on alert, and every sound seemed magnified. The stairs creaked beneath her, and her footfalls seemed like hoofbeats. Even the refrigerator emitted a low hum, an irritating noise that Claire had not previously noticed. At her desk, she paused and traced the butcher knife over the calendar to today’s date. She read, “John in Baltimore.”

She’d written the note a month ago when her fiancé gave her his business travel schedule. A knot in her stomach tightened. John wouldn’t be home until the following evening to get Claire’s message.

She paced a path between the front living room and the kitchen, contemplating a course of action. She could leave and go sleep in the hospital.
She could call the police, but the thought that her caller might see them and retaliate scared her more than doing nothing. She could try to ignore the phone call and sleep in her house alone. Or she could call Brett. No, that was out. After yesterday, she couldn’t exactly ask him to sleep over. She’d be driving the boy crazy. Maybe even driving herself crazy.

She paced the house for a few minutes more, listening to every sound. This was crazy. She’d never get any sleep here. As much as she hated going back to the hospital, at least she could find a safe call room to sleep.

She walked back to her bedroom and unfolded her whitened fingers from the butcher knife. She placed it on the dresser by the door. She pulled a fresh outfit from her closet and packed her on-call bag. She’d have to be ready to spend two nights in a row back at the hospital. What to do after that would have to be decided later. Fatigue was catching up with Claire, and she didn’t want to think that far ahead. What mattered was now, and her first priority was a safe place to get a night’s rest before the next day’s call.

She finished her packing and was just zipping her bag when the doorbell rang. She froze for a moment, then picked up the knife and ran to the bathroom window which overlooked the front stoop. Who could be ringing her doorbell at this hour? Was it her caller, trying to further convince her of his ability to get close to her? She eased her head up to the window and gently lifted the white curtain. Expecting to see no one, she gasped with relief. It was Brett!

She stumbled down the stairs, knife still in hand. She jerked open the front door and pulled Brett into the house.

“Whoa!” He stood back and laughed at her enthusiastic reception. “Uh, hi.” He leaned forward and wrinkled his forehead. “Are you okay?”

Claire slammed and locked the door behind him. “Am I glad to see you!”

“C—Claire?” Brett stammered and backed away, looking at the knife.

She glanced at her hand and thought about telling him she was just working in the kitchen. Instead, she smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “I thought you were threatening me.”

“Me?”

“Well, not you,” she said, still waving the knife. “I mean I thought the person at the door might be someone who just threatened me.”

Alarm spread across his face. “Threatened you? Would you mind telling me what’s going on?” He paused, his eyes still on the knife. “And would you mind putting down your weapon? You’re making me nervous.”

Claire’s cheeks felt hot. “Sorry.” She put the knife on her desk. “Someone just called here.”

“Who? Someone threatened you?”

Claire slumped to the couch and spilled her story.

Brett’s eyes widened. “Did you get a look at the vehicle?”

“No. It was hidden by the van.” She felt her eyes begin to sting. “Brett, who would do this?”

He shrugged. “Someone who really wants to win a lawsuit is my bet.”

She sat quietly for a minute while Brett looked around the apartment. She watched him as he sauntered back into the room. “By the way, what are you doing here?”

He sat down in an old easy chair across from the couch and leaned forward. “I came to apologize for being such a jerk yesterday. I had no right to treat you like I did.” He opened his arms, palms up. “Sorry, Claire.”

The simple act touched her. He’d come to apologize, yet he sat quietly listening to her entire story first. Part of her wanted to jump right into his arms again and let him tell her everything was going to be all right, just like he’d done the day before, after she’d shared all of her fears about HD. But she refrained, telling herself that she’d just complicate their relationship with unnecessary temptation. She smiled. “It’s okay, Brett. I’m glad you came over. Thanks for apologizing.”

She twisted her engagement ring and inspected the setting. “It’s hard to keep this thing clean at the hospital. I’m constantly getting glove powder down beside the stone.”

“Let me see,” Brett responded, leaning forward and taking her hand. He held it up to the light and nodded. “I can clean it for you in the ultrasonic tub in Dr. Rogers’ lab. It’s great for jewelry.”

“Really?”

“Sure. If you trust me, let me have it, and I’ll take it in tomorrow.”

She shrugged. “Sure,” she said, twisting off the ring. She put it in a little velvet box that she kept in her desk drawer. “Here.” She dropped the box in his hand and looked away. “I should let you go.”

“Are you afraid to stay by yourself?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sleeping here alone. I’m going back to the hospital to a call room.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do that, Claire. That means you’ll be there three nights in a row.”

“I can’t stay here. That creep might be watching me. He said so.”

“That was probably just a threat to scare you.” He paused and shuffled his feet. “I’d be glad to stay.”

She lifted her eyebrows and stared up at his tanned face. “I can’t expect you to do that.”

“I did it before. I’ll take the couch.” He smiled. “I’ll behave myself.” He motioned his head toward the stairs. “You need to get some sleep. I ran into Drew this afternoon. He told me about your night.”

She nodded. “You know what they say. ‘Never let the sun come up on a bowel obstruction without an operation.'” She walked to the hall closet and retrieved two blankets and a pillow.

She watched Brett’s eyes light up.

“I guess I’m invited?”

She laughed nervously. “To sleep on the couch.”

He spread out the blankets and threw the pillow at one end of the couch. “Where’s your Sabiston?”

She pointed to her desk. “Need to study?”

“I need something to help put me to sleep.” He hoisted the heavy book into his hands. He looked up at Claire and responded soberly, still weighing the book in his hands. “You know, I love this stuff.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s crazy, the life we put up with, but … I really love this.”

She nodded. “I know exactly how you feel.” She started up the steps. “Thanks for staying. I’m going to be leaving at six in the morning. Feel free to sleep as long as you want. There’s an extra house key in the top drawer of the desk. You can use it to lock the dead bolt when you leave.”

“Don’t I get breakfast in bed for protecting you?”

“You can have what I’m having. Coffee. Strong. With French vanilla creamer if it hasn’t spoiled in the fridge.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Sounds great. If you need me, I’m right here,” he added, opening the surgery text.

“Good night, Brett.” She climbed the old stairway and shook her head.
Just when I’m in a panic, Brett shows up. God, are you trying to tell me something?

Chapter Thirty-Three

T
he next evening, John Cerelli’s flight into Brighton was delayed an hour because of heavy rain. When he finally arrived home, the odor of stale pizza greeted him. He flipped on the light and grumbled to himself about his roomie. He grabbed a can of Pepsi from the refrigerator and listened to his phone messages. The third one grabbed his attention.

It was Claire, and she sounded distressed. Frightened, maybe? Her voice carried an urgency and cracked with a sob. “John, this is Claire. I need you to answer. We need to talk.”

He whispered a quick prayer. Claire had been so upset by the news about her father. She probably just needed an ear.

The news about HD was taking its toll on John as well. The visit to Stoney Creek to meet Claire’s parents had been an eye-opening experience. Since his visit, John had spent hours searching out everything he could find about Huntington’s disease. He had bookmarked at least six different Internet sites so that he could get his hands on helpful resources for himself, and for Claire.

He wanted Claire to be tested for the HD gene. He wanted to know so he could be prepared. But life with HD looked like certain agony, so he understood how years of waiting for the disease to strike could ruin what good years a person might have, if the person at risk tested positive. In the end, he would have to let Claire make the decision. He wanted to marry her anyway. He felt certain of that. He was willing to pay any price to have Claire as his bride, even if he was only to have her at his side for a few good years.

He’d started keeping in contact with Della. Talking with her, seeing her strength in the face of having to care for Wally, gave John hope that he too could summon the fortitude to care for Claire if she had the Huntington’s gene. In fact, knowing the diagnosis seemed to bring Della to a new calm. Finally, she had a name for the problems she’d been facing. Finally, there was a reason. The enemy had a name. It wasn’t her husband. The enemy was acting through him. The enemy was Huntington’s disease.

John dialed Claire’s number and stuck his head in the refrigerator. The only thing he found was a half-empty can of Spaghettios. He sighed and shut the door.

After ten rings, he checked the calendar. Of course, it was an even day. Claire was in the hospital tonight.

He called Della to see if she’d talked to Claire. She hadn’t, and sounded more upbeat than the last time he’d talked to her. She was excited that an insurance man had stopped by, and when she told him about Wally, he promised to look into a policy that could cover nursing home costs in the future. “He was such a nice man,” Della proclaimed. “He seemed so interested in everything about our family.”

“That’s great,” John responded. He said good-bye and promised to call again if he heard from Claire.