The Blue Cotton Gown (28 page)

At four, we close early and gather in the waiting room, where there are enough chairs for everyone. The atmosphere is as cloudy inside as out. Nobody says anything. Abby stares at the large framed photographs of pink magnolias. She has to go to her mother’s farm outside Helvetia this weekend. Her mom’s slowly losing her mind, and Abby desperately needs to hire someone to stay with her, even if she has to pay for it out of her own pocket. Usually bouncy Linda gazes out the long windows at the dark clouds. Her husband is still out of work at the mines. Now her paycheck is all that they live on. The rest of the secretaries and nurses sit waiting, no joking, no gossiping. Then everyone turns toward the door.

When Donald walks in with his briefcase in hand, I’m sure they’re expecting the worst. I, as usual, play master of ceremonies when everyone gets settled, too anxious to keep quiet and give my husband an opportunity for leadership. “We’ve asked Donald Collins, our new accountant, to join us today to give everyone an overview of the practice’s financial picture.” Tom slumps in his chair, staring down at his shoes, while I babble nervously on. He’s still wearing his scrubs from the OR.

“I know some of you have been concerned about the money picture for the practice, and this meeting will give everyone an opportunity to ask questions.”

Donald pulls a ream of paper out of his briefcase. “How’s every-

one doing this afternoon?” he asks cheerfully, a ray of sunshine in the gloom.

He summarizes our situation: “The practice is spending more than it makes and is gradually going deeper and deeper in debt. In addition, the IRS has instructed several government insurance plans to withhold your payables, and that has hurt your bank account significantly. I’ve come up with some recommendations.” All eyes are pinned on his face. “I’ve told Patsy and Dr. Harman that, while I respect their generosity to their employees”—he looks around the group to be sure everyone is listening—“it’s part of the practice’s financial problems.

“Since Dr. Burrows resigned and you dropped obstetrics, what you collect isn’t equal to what it costs to do business. Now, there isn’t any way to cut most of that expense. The rent for the office, supplies and so forth, are fixed. To make up the deficit, we could cut staff or health insurance benefits.” People shift in their seats uncomfortably. “Or we could cut salaries.” A telephone rings, but no one gets up to answer it.

“The Harmans have insisted that they are unwilling to do this.” If there was a bomb in the room, we’d hear it ticking. “What we’ve decided to do instead is to drop the employer’s part of the retirement contribution from the ten percent they’ve contributed in the past to the three percent that’s required by law.” He pauses to let that sink in. Collectively, the group lets out a long breath.

“Originally, Dr. Harman explained to me, the ten percent was a way to share profits with employees, but for the last few years there haven’t been any profits. Dr. Harman has, in fact, taken a consider-able salary reduction this year to keep the business afloat.” I hold my breath, waiting for the staff ’s reaction. It feels like the moment in a dive before you hit the water. You know it will be cold, but you don’t know how cold.

Celeste speaks up. “Well, I think this is sensible! It’s not what we want, of course, but if it keeps the practice going, I’m all for it.”

The women murmur agreement. “I’m sorry about Dr. Harman’s salary though.” Everyone turns to Tom, who stares at the hunter green carpet. I know he feels bad about the 401(k) cuts. I feel the same way.

“Hopefully, next year will be better,” Donald continues. “Once we get the taxes caught up and the practice stable, we can consider contributing more to your retirement fund.” I find it comforting, the way he says
we.

My husband clears his throat. “I just want to say that it’s okay about my salary. I don’t want anyone to feel bad about it. Patsy and I could always use more money, with the boys in college, but I can use the peace of mind more. Knowing we can pay the bills here without difficulty will take a lot of weight off me.” He doesn’t say anything about the second mortgage on the house we’ve just had to take out in order to make the looming IRS payment.

“Any questions?” Don asks. No one speaks, so, with a rustle of pa-pers, Don stands and begins to pack up his briefcase.

Tom hurries out to make rounds in the hospital, and the nurses and secretaries disperse cheerfully, happy that no one will be let go, they’ll each continue to get a paycheck, and they’ll still have their health insurance.

“Thanks, Don,” I say, leaning over to touch his veined hand as he puts on his raincoat. “You made that much easier.”

As Donald Collins goes out the door, he salutes me with a twinkle in his blue eyes, my smooth, mild-mannered accountant, man of steel, our hero.

tara-sue

I nudge Tom’s arm and point down to the lake. “Did you hear that?” He cocks his head. “Peepers. I think it’s the peepers.” We sit silently

in the dusk on the side porch, sipping mint tea, but the high ringing sound doesn’t come again. There’s no sound but the trucks on the distant freeway.

“Early yet,” Tom says. “Too cold.”

I don’t think so. I’m sure that I heard them. It’s Friday evening and the air smells like wet dirt. He’s been in the OR since early this morning.

“Can I tell you a funny story? I’ve wanted to tell this to someone all day.” Lately my husband’s been so tired and moody I’ve been overly polite. I never know what to expect from him, and we still haven’t gotten over the fight about the IRS levy, never apologized even, just went on as if nothing had happened. When I hold hands with him there’s no song in our touching. I’m getting so I hardly care.

“Sure.” Tom puts his feet up on the porch rail. Beyond us there’s nothing but green. The green locust that grows close to the front porch hangs with white grape-like blossoms, the green lawn on the side, the green peach trees and tall ash and pines. West Virginia in spring is the green of Ireland. The sky in spring, however, is gray. The gray of sidewalks and ashes and shadows, a dripping-wet gray. “Well, this morning,” I begin, “as I passed through the waiting room I see this slim middle-aged redhead, you know the type, classy, with nice legs and sling-back sandals. She had on a flashy lime twin-set sweater with a low-cut V-neck. I couldn’t help noticing. Push-up bra and everything. Ten minutes later she’s in my exam room, wearing nothing but the blue exam gown and these huge silver hoop earrings. I mean
huge,
you could have worn them for bracelets.

“So I ask her the usual questions and proceed with the exam . . .

You still listening?” “I’m here.”

For a second I think I hear peepers again, but then they’re gone, so I continue.

“Well, get this. I’m just starting the pelvic when her cell phone rings, some catchy salsa tune. She flings herself off the table. I’m

not kidding. She grabs the phone out of her huge handbag and says, ‘What do you want? I’m kind of busy right now.’ I stand waiting with my exam gloves on.

‘‘ ‘Well, for God’s sake! Do you know where I am? At the
gynie of-

fice.
’ She has a kind of nasal twang, Dolly Parton with a stuffed-up nose, a breezy good-humored way of talking. ‘Well, tell him I’ll call as soon as I’m done.’ She slaps the phone shut, rolls her eyes, and hops back on the table.

“I’m adjusting the exam light, getting ready to start again. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘that was work. If I’m out of contact for a minute they have a crisis. It’s a bunch of men. None of them cute!’ She lies back, putting her feet in the footrests, and spreads her legs as if she does this every week. Then the salsa music on the cell goes off again. She jumps up like before, grabs the cell phone, and gets back on the exam table and lies down again. She looks at me and waves me on, like I’m supposed to continue the exam while she talks. I hesitate for a minute, thinking,
This is bizarre,
and then do what she says. I can’t wait all day.”

“You examined her while she talked on the cell phone?” Tom chuckles.

“Yeah, this is a first, and you should have heard the conversation. Apparently it was the guys at work again, International Fish or something. ‘What now?’ she snaps. ‘What’s the big hurry? More lobster? Didn’t they get the first shipment I had flown in? Okay, put him on.’

“Now she tries to move the phone to the other ear and it gets stuck in her big hoop earring. I’m not kidding. She’s fooling around with her cell phone while I’m doing her Pap test.

“‘You
know
where I am,’ she goes on. ‘My
gynecologist.
I’m on

the exam table . . . For real . . . Yeah, right now.’ She tells some cus-tomer this, winking at me. I think she enjoyed shocking him. ‘Well, just remember the next time you see my district manager. Tell him I’m such a good rep I even take client calls during my gynie exam!’ “By this time I’d finished and was taking my gloves off. She

bounces off the table and starts to get dressed. I’m just standing there with my mouth open.

“‘I take it that was an emergency?’ I say finally.

“‘Yeah, a lobster emergency. This resort in Laurel Springs has a big party coming in and needs thirty lobsters tonight.’ Then she steps into her high-heeled sandals, gives me a wave, and is gone.”

“A lobster emergency,” Tom repeats. “That’s a good one.”

I watch him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he thought it was as funny as I did. He’s in a good mood tonight, tired, but relaxed. It helps that we got the loan and paid off the Feds. Don’s leadership with our finances has relieved another burden. Now if we can just get back what the IRS stole from us, if we can just catch up . . .

Our eyes meet. I know what he’s thinking. “Want a glass of wine?” he asks.

Why not?

chapter 15

aran

At seven on Monday evening, as I’m getting ready to take the dog for a walk, the phone rings. I tuck the receiver under my ear and try to continue tying my running shoe. “Hey,” I say, expecting it to be Tom. It isn’t.

Trish is sobbing into the receiver. “Aran, she’s . . . she’s gone. Oh, God! Aran! Aran . . .” The rest of the sentence is garbled.

“Aran’s gone? Trish, slow down! I can’t hear you. She’s
gone?
” I

can’t understand her. “Did you say she took the baby? She took Melody?” Adrenaline is shooting through my body, and I feel like someone has punched me in the gut. “What’s happening?” Trish takes a deep breath, trying to get it together. “I’m sorry. Aran’s gone. I mean, she’s
dead.
”

The colors all change in the room and I sink down on a dining room chair, almost knocking it over. “She’s dead. No, she can’t be!”

“I know. She can’t be, but she is.” Trish sobs.

I feel faint and put my head down. I’d just seen Trish in the parking lot a few days ago and everything was fine. Well, sort of fine. There must be some mistake.

“What happened? You have to tell me. Breathe.”

There’s the muffled sound of a nose being blown. “On the way home from work tonight I called Dan on the cell to say I was going to pick up some groceries, to tell him I’d be a little late. He told me, ‘Forget it. Just come now.’ So I did. The sheriff ’s car was in front of our house.

“As I pull into the drive I’m wondering,
What’s Aran done now?
But when I walk through the door, I see Dan crying, sitting on the sofa holding Melody. He tells me to sit down, and it just feels all wrong.” Trish is almost whispering. “But I never expected this . . .” She trails off, then starts up again. “Oh, Patsy, I know I said it the other day, that she’d end up dead or in prison, but I didn’t mean it . . .

“And the sheriff says, ‘I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am, that your daughter was found dead this afternoon in her trailer.’ Just like that.
‘Your daughter was found dead.
’ Her girlfriend Leslie discovered her and tried to wake her up but couldn’t. ‘I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am,’ that’s what he said.”

I picture a pretty girl shaking Aran on a bed in a run-down trailer.
Wake up, silly! It’s two in the afternoon. Let’s go get some burgers. Let’s party.
Leslie shakes the limp body harder.
Come on, Aran . . . rise and shine . . . Baby? . . . Honey? . . . Come on!
She’s getting scared.

“So Leslie ran to the neighbors’,” Trish says, clearing her throat, “and called nine-one-one, but it was too late.” It’s quiet for a few seconds, then our voices begin to run over each other’s, both saying the same thing in different words. “Oh God, our kids are supposed to grow up and grow out of it.”

“It can’t be true.” “Oh, Aran!”

“Oh, Trish!”

Then finally, “I’m sorry. I’m just a mess. I just wanted you to know.”

I’m still sitting at the dining room table, holding on to one shoe and clutching the phone like it’s Trish’s hand.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You can’t help it. This isn’t supposed to hap-pen. You did everything you could.”

“I want to turn back the clock. I want this to be yesterday and she’s still alive,” Trish says.

“What can I do?” I’m standing now, ready to bolt out the door.

“Nothing, I’ll be okay. I just wanted to tell you . . . They’ve already taken her to the morgue in Charleston for an autopsy. The cop wouldn’t say what happened, but it was a drug overdose. I know it. He said they’d confiscated some pills, but there was no evidence of violence or foul play.” Trish begins to cry again. “I didn’t even get to say good-bye. I didn’t get to say good-bye or even see her be-fore they took her away.”

“Oh, Trish. You want me to come over and take care of Melody?

What can I do?” I ask it again.

Trish blows her nose. “Nothing. We’re going now to get Aran’s stuff. Our neighbor is taking Mellie and the kids.”

“Where did she live? Where are you going?”

“Glen Terrace. It’s that trailer park by the old power plant, out Hadley Road. She’d just moved back there with Leslie a few weeks before she was found in the alley.”

“You want me to come? I’ll come too . . . You sure you want to do this now?”

“Yeah, I have to. I have to see. I’ll be okay.”