The Blue Cotton Gown (34 page)

“I don’t know, Pats, I’m beat. It’s been an exhausting day. I’ll probably fall asleep with Melody. Is it important? I mean, could it wait until tomorrow? I’ll meet you for lunch.”

“Yeah, I guess so, but you might want to hear this tonight. I was going through some of the stories I’ve been writing and found one about Aran. You know what we were talking about before, about the autopsy and what that cop told you?”

“You mean the detective saying she committed suicide?” “Yeah.”

There’s a moment of silence, and I make a face. Maybe this was a bad idea. Finally, Trish sighs resignedly. “Okay, just give me a sec, let me see if Dan can feed Melody. Hold on.” The phone clunks down on the table. There’s silence on the line and then—

“Okay, I’m back. Let me close the door. I’ll do the dishes while we talk.”

“No, you better sit down. I found something that Aran said to me a long time ago. Remember that time I asked her about depression? Remember that? When I read this I felt she was speaking right to us.”

Trish sighs. “I’m sitting.” I hear the scrape of a chair, can picture the sink full of dishes, the smell of meat loaf still in the air.

“Well, it was the visit I had with Aran in the exam room right after she started staying out all night. Remember? I was concerned she had postpartum depression and was soothing herself by getting high or drunk. I told her the story of when I used to live on the farm and had postpartum depression. So, are you ready for this?”

“Yeah, go ahead. I’m sitting.” I can tell that she’s not. Plates are clinking softly in the background, but I go on.

“Okay, so here’s what I wrote. I printed it out. We were in the exam room and I’d just asked her if she ever thought of killing herself, you know, just to escape. And this is what she told me, word for word. I swear, Trish, this is exactly what she said.”

I clear my throat, reading Aran’s words aloud. “‘
No,
I could never

do that. I think that this is the life God gave me and even if it hurts right now, everything happens for a purpose. I really believe that. I didn’t want to have a baby. I never wanted to be a mom. I don’t even like little kids very much. But I got one, for whatever reason. I would never kill myself.
I would never.
’”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone, no clinking, no breathing. “Trish? Did you hear that?
She would never kill herself. Never.
”

“Thanks, Patsy.” I picture Trish with her eyes closed, her sandy head leaning back on the kitchen wall.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry. Did it make you feel worse? It made me feel better. Her death was an accident. I’m sure of it.”

“No, I’m okay. It’s good. I’m glad you called. Can I get a copy of that for Dan?”

“Sure. I’ll bring one tomorrow . . . I’m really sorry if I made you sad.”

“No, it’s just that when you read what she said I could hear her voice so clearly, and I miss her so much. Even if she was rotten sometimes, I miss her, and she’s never coming back—” A door opens and I can hear Melody crying again. “I got to go now,” Trish says, and the line clicks off.

Shit. I’m not sure the call was the right thing to do. Maybe I should have waited. I’m always so impulsive.

I read the passage to myself again, remembering the beautiful teenager.

“I would never kill myself.
I would never.
”

Pestilence

Something is wrong today, I can tell. All morning I’ve heard my husband sigh. I know that sigh. He’s depressed. I watch him as he passes back and forth from his exam rooms to the lab. He’s avoiding me.

At noon I tread cautiously into his office, put his bag lunch on the desk, close the door, and flop down in his leather guest chair. “Nila sent a letter that she made it to South Dakota without the car breaking down. She’s with Doug again and she sent a check for the whole three hundred and eighty. Something wrong?” I ask Tom, touching his arm. “What’s up?”

“It’s a letter,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Another damn letter.”

He hands over an envelope with Community Hospital’s return address.

“What is it?” I remove the stationery and contemplate the signature on the bottom: Leonard Noble, MD, Chief of Staff. “What does he want?”

Tom opens his cheese sandwich on whole wheat bread. He inspects the pickle and mayo, closes it, and takes a big bite. He may be low, but it doesn’t interfere with his appetite.

“It’s a case from four months ago,” he says with his mouth full. “The peer-review committee is requesting my rationale for not stag-ing the lymph nodes in a woman with uterine cancer.” He talks while he chews, and then swallows. “I was working with Dr. Jamison, doing a hysterectomy on Cybil Reinhart. She had a bad Pap test, cancer in situ.” He takes another big bite. “When we opened the patient and went to take out the uterus, it was all mush, obviously full of cancer. We
could have
staged her lymph nodes, assessed the invasion of cancer, but it wasn’t necessary.” He sighs again. “She’ll
still
get both chemotherapy and radiation.”

“So why does Noble need to talk to you?” My paranoia is running wild. “Maybe the committee’s going to restrict your privileges? Did the patient ever come back for a post-op? Is she okay?” I’m pacing around the room like a trapped lioness. “Maybe she’s seen a lawyer. I’ll call her, see how she’s doing, feel her out.”

I should stop, but I can’t. “You call Dr. Jamison and see if he got a letter from peer-review too—”

“Stop, Patsy. That’s why I don’t tell you about these things.” “What things? Are there more?”

“Yeah,” he snaps. He’s being mean now, and throws it out. “Mrs. Teresi, the neurologist’s wife with post-op complications, failed to show up for her follow-up appointment today. When I had Sherry call her, all Dottie Teresi would say is she’s never coming back to our practice. She’s seeing a gynecologist in Pittsburgh from now on.”

Something splits open in me. Something purulent and rotten,

like a boil that’s been festering just under the skin. “Shit,
she’s
going to sue! Remember, I told you. I
told
you this would happen.”

“Do you want the rest of that?” Tom asks, nodding toward my lunch.

“How can you eat?” I shove my cheese sandwich at him and it spills down his front. We both stare at the dime-size gob of mayon-naise sliding down his favorite silk Beatles tie.

“Patsy, get out of here.” Tom jumps from his chair, wiping himself. “I don’t want your help, and I don’t want to be near you. You’re crazy when you get like this. I’m her physician. I’ll take care of it!” He’s backing me toward the door. My husband isn’t a big man, but he’s mostly muscle. He hasn’t touched me, but there’s threat in his voice. When Tom Harman’s mad, you don’t want to be there. Still, I’m the one with no self-control. If I had something to throw right now, I’d do it. I look wildly around the room and, not seeing anything I can get my hands on, pull open the door, planning to

slam it in his face. Sherry, Tom’s nurse, stands just outside.

“Your first afternoon patient is ready in room one,” she says formally and abruptly hands me the chart.

kaz

Kaz frowns as I’m palpating his hairy abdomen. “Do you think Dr. Harman would do a hysterectomy on me?” I pull down the thin blue cotton exam gown to cover his masculine belly. At this mo-ment the mere mention of Tom Harman’s name enrages me and I don’t give a damn what Dr. Harman would or wouldn’t do, but I take a deep breath to calm myself and answer professionally.

“I imagine he would. The trouble is, your insurance won’t cover it. I mean, what would we use for a medical necessity? There’s no bleeding or pain.”

“Yeah, I know, I just wondered.”

I turn to wash my hands and hold out the tissues. The checkup over, Kaz pushes up to sit on the end of the exam table. “I’m thinking of saving my money and paying for it myself. Someday, I’d like to stop having these Pap tests.” He runs his hands over his hairy thighs.

I’m vaguely uncomfortable, not used to sitting alone with a naked man in the exam room. There’s something disorienting about his being here in this safe feminine haven. Kaz has no womanly con-tours. His body is muscular and hairy. Still, he has a vagina, uterus, and ovaries and has to be examined, like the rest of us.

“You seem a little down today, Kaz,” I project.

“I don’t know why. My job is going well except for the bathroom thing. I ignored their edict and so far no one has had the guts to challenge me. I’ve stopped looking over my shoulder expecting someone to come up and say, ‘Aren’t you the Kasmar Layton who used to be a woman?’ It’s not like I’m one of the good old boys, but the harassment has nearly stopped. It’s been a week since I got a weird letter. The thing is, I’m going home for the first time next week.”

“What’s wrong with that? Are you worried how your family will react?”

“I guess.” Kaz sits with his arms folded across his almost flat chest. He still has small breasts but wears a breast binder when he’s dressed.

“I thought they knew all about your transformation a long time ago.”

“Well, yeah, theoretically. But
seeing
me is going to be different

than
hearing
about it. Anyway, I only told my dad about the change. I assume he’s talked to the rest of the family, but I’m not sure. And there will be neighbors, people I’ve known my whole life.” He takes a deep breath.

“Won’t Jerry be with you? Does he even know Jerry?”

“Oh, sure. We’ve been together for years and she’s been home with me lots of times.”

“So if she’s with you, won’t that be a help?”

“Well, yeah, but she can’t be there until Saturday. I’m getting there Thursday.” Kaz sighs and rubs his face, as if washing off worries.

I change gears. “This transition’s harder than you expected, isn’t it?”

“Just harder in
ways
I didn’t expect.”

“But you told me your dad is supportive.”

“Yeah, he’s been one of my main boosters all along. He’s eighty-three years old, you know . . . and he’s been sending me some of his old clothes. I guess he’s always wanted a son.” Kaz indicates the khakis and the blue flannel shirt on the chair. “He’s really cool. He told me he always
knew
I wasn’t like other females.” Kaz laughs, cheering up. “Maybe he assumes
anyone
would want to become a man if they had the
balls
for it.”

“Well, you seem to,” I say, giving him a big hug.

“You’re right,” Kaz says, straightening his back. “I’ve got the balls for it . . . I’ll be okay. And if they don’t love me as
I am,
I say fuck ’em. Right?”

I snort a short laugh. “Right. You’re the prodigal son. They’ve got to love you.”

Flight and Forgiveness

All afternoon I go in and out of the exam rooms, clamping my jaw until my head aches. I make nice with the patients but speak to no one else. For a moment back in the exam room, I thought of confessing to Kaz.
You know, buddy,
I would have confided,
things aren’t what they seem here. The practice is barely solvent. We have patients who are going to sue us. Peer-review is investigating my husband. My marriage is falling apart, and I can’t stand the man who once was the love of my life.
But I say nothing.

All afternoon the staff are walking on eggshells, and Tom and I stay as far from each other as possible. I avoid cutting through the lab and stick to my side of the clinic. No one asks what’s going on, but these women aren’t dumb. It’s like eating dinner with your fam-ily just after your mother has a major meltdown and runs away from the table to slam the bedroom door. After that, it’s all “please” and “thank you,” the scrape of knives on plates, and the rest is silence. As soon as my last patient’s annual exam is finished, I split.

In the driver’s seat of the Civic, I sit slumped, looking across the health center parking lot. It’s not just the finances or this new request for medical records. It’s not because Mrs. Teresi is dropping Tom as her gynecologist. The incessant worries of the practice have hollowed me out until whatever was left of my love for my husband and my love for my patients has withered and died, like pea vines in the autumn garden. The next wind that comes along, the plants will be knocked off their trellis. Any wind. It doesn’t have to be a gale. This one minor threat and I’ve lost my mind, lost my faith about everything! The security guard walks slowly between the parked vehicles and waves. I wave back, just barely lifting my hand off the

steering wheel.

I’m thinking of running away again. Tom will be at the med exec meeting tonight. I could really do it. I did it before. In twenty minutes I could be in Blue Rock Estates; in another hour, packed. If I left now, I would never have to see Tom Harman again, never have to worry about getting sued, the shrinking insurance reimbursements, or the debts of the practice.

Tired of fuming, I open the car door, take my bike off Tom’s Toyota, which is parked two slots down, and struggle it into my trunk. Then I drive aimlessly down Clifton and across Pinewood to exit 10 on the freeway, the Dairy Queen where I’d last seen Nila. Here, I order a large hot fudge sundae and fries and enjoy every sin-gle bite of sweet, salty sin.

For a minute I think I see Gibby and shrink down behind the

steering wheel, but when the guy turns I see that I’m wrong. Feeling fortified and not a bit guilty, I drive out Weimer Road past Nila’s old house and then back into town.

On my way up Hadley, I turn into Glen Terrace, searching for Aran’s blue mobile home, but I’m either in the wrong lane or it’s been removed. There’s a cement pad with pipes protruding where I thought it would be. Somehow I expect to see Pappy, the trailer park manager, walking along the road holding a couple of fans. We could sit on his porch and I’d let it all spill out.

I’ll leave him.
That’s what I’d tell Pappy.
To hell with Tom Harman,

Golden Boy Harman, respected by nurses and admired by thousands of patients. Well, most of the patients, if you don’t count Mrs. Teresi and, apparently, Cybil Reinhart, who’s planning to sue.