The Murderer's Daughters (20 page)

“You can’t guarantee anything.”

“Yes,” I said. “I can. We have control of our lives, Merry. Don’t forget that.”

By spring, I feared my control was slipping. I finally understood how people fell asleep at the wheel. I was terrified of nodding off while putting in an IV. Marta kept reminding me about Ron’s party that night, but I’d have been satisfied spending the night watching
Dynasty.
Our internship ended in five hours, and I’d be happy spending every hour in the Neuro Step-down Unit, sitting in Mr. Vincent’s room, enjoying the food his wife brought to the hospital.

The Vincents had been married for fifty-five years, and Mrs. Vincent was determined to keep her husband alive. Hour after hour, she held his hand, craned her neck to watch the mounted television, and fed the staff. She and her son arrived at the hospital each day by ten, her son carrying a cardboard box stuffed with newspaper for insulation. Inside the box were Tupperware containers filled with warm comfort food, daily variations of ravioli, lasagna, and roasted eggplant. The list seemed endless. In addition, her son carried a plastic bag slung over his shoulder crammed with cannoli and cookies from her cousin’s bakery.

“Hello, Mrs. Vincent,” I said, walking into the room. “Hi, Mr. Vincent. How are you feeling today?”

“Look, Joe, it’s Doctor Zachariah.” Mrs. Vincent tenderly wiped a line of drool off her husband’s mouth. “We’re watching the news. Joe loves the news. Right, Joe?”

Mr. Vincent smiled and nodded, as he did at everything. Mrs. Vincent took his happy expressions as signs that he’d recover from his stroke despite the gloomy reports from his neurologist.

“Hungry, sweetheart?” She reached into a wrinkled Jordan Marsh shopping bag.

I dropped into the chair next to her. “Starved.” I’d been seeing patients since arriving Saturday morning. It was now past seven Sunday evening.

Mrs. Vincent made up a paper plate with lasagna. The food was cold, but I didn’t care. She handed me a plastic fork and a folded napkin. I rolled my eyes in deep pleasure as I took a mouthful of the sweet-spicy-meaty dish.

Somewhere during my internship, food had replaced sex as my source of tension release. Having time for bouts of aerobic sex seemed part of another life, in the relatively easier world of medical school,
relatively
meaning, of course, how in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

A strand of pasta fell on my white coat, blending with the blood just spit up by my patient down the hall. I picked up the noodle and, for a moment, almost considered eating it. I dabbed my jacket with a napkin, succeeding in making the small blood spot into a saucer-size red smear that would no doubt be visible from Mars.

“Here, here, take this.” Mrs. Vincent held out a moist towelette. “Are you trying to terrify your patients?”

“They should be scared,” I said. “Do you know how long I’ve been here?”

Mrs. Vincent snorted. “Big deal, look at Joe. You get to go home. He never leaves. You’ll be fine. Be happy you’re young and healthy. Strong girl like you, you can handle everything. Just make sure to have a cannoli, you need the sugar.”

Mrs. Vincent was one smart cookie. Didn’t her husband get the best
care in the place? Who’d be crass enough to leave without doing a little something for Mr. Vincent—listen to his heart, do a little eye check, a squeeze test—after eating Mrs. Vincent’s lasagna? I struggled not to fall asleep as I ate and watched the national news, keeping my eyes open by playing the FQ game, fuckability quotient, deciding if Peter Jennings was fuckable. This had recently become the new craze for Cabot interns, determining who was worth bedding. We judged movie stars, hospital staff, presidents, everyone but patients. Ethics still played a role in our lives.

FQ got us through. If we couldn’t have sex, we’d pretend. During our fifteen-minute cafeteria meals, we’d throw out names for the FQ, though never obvious choices, like Richard Gere or Demi Moore. We’d offer people like Gorbachev or Nancy Reagan, forcing decisions among each other.

Peter Jennings was too easy; they’d laugh me out. Obviously, Jennings was eminently screwable. How rude would it be to ask Mrs. Vincent to change the channel? I needed to find someone different, someone under the radar.

“Coffee? My son brought in a thermos.” Mrs. Vincent held up an empty cardboard cup. I salivated at the idea of her not-hospital coffee, especially as I considered going to the end-of-internship party instead of my usual postshift sleep.

“Thank you. I’d love coffee.”

“Wonderful. By the way, I think Joe’s pulse is a little high.”

Ron Young, my former anatomy and study group partner, hosted the party in the two-family in Dorchester he’d inherited from his folks. His father had been a carpenter and had rebuilt the home from the basement up. Every corner had another inviting specialty—built-in bookcases, cherry wainscoting, intricately bricked fireplaces—and lilacs from the garden filled cut-glass vases. Ron’s home looked like family and history all twined together.

Ron invited everyone from our original medical school class who was still in Boston along with what seemed like five thousand others who
could have been anything from fellow Red Sox fans to performance artists, knowing Ron’s eclectic taste.

“See anyone you like?” Marta appeared at my side bearing two glasses of wine.

I nodded noncommittally.

“Take the red,” Marta told me. “Too bad Henry’s left for L.A. You guys could have one for old times’ sake—a springtime ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ He could slip you a cup of kindness. How long has it been?”

Marta’s delicate features belied her dirty mouth. I tipped my chin toward a man in the corner, listening and nodding patiently to a too-cute redhead. “Who’s that?”

Marta smiled. “Nebraska.”

“That’s his name?” I sipped at my wine, planning to make it last.

“That’s where he’s from.”

Nebraska looked ruggedly appealing in his jeans and navy corduroy shirt, shirtsleeves folded back to reveal thick arm fuzz matching his dirty blond hair. “You spoke to him?”

Marta nodded. “For a bit. Too white-bread for me.” Marta’s taste ran to olive-skinned men—Italian, Greek, Jewish, or Puerto Rican, like her—with big paychecks. “He’s not a doctor.”

“What is he?”

She shrugged. “An artist.”

“You say that as though it’s boring.”

“He does commercial art. Hallmark cards, maybe. I forget.” She waved away my frown. “You’ll love the artist. He’ll float your boat. Next to Henry, he’s a wild man. He actually seems to have a bit of personality. I don’t know if you can take it.” Marta had long ago pegged me as prissy.

I studied Marta’s clothes. Her spiky heels were over three inches high, giving her an edge, and her teal dress hugged her tight in ways no dress of mine ever would. Comparing myself to Marta made me want to race to Saks Fifth Avenue. I threw back the cup of wine, dousing my emotions before they flared up. “I’m getting a refill, want one?”

Marta shook her head. “I’m checking him out.” She pointed her glass in the direction of a rather dumpy man. “Number one in his class at Harvard, intern of note, and top surgical resident at Mass General.” She ran
her tongue over her upper lip. “Slated for big dollars. He’ll be the perfect husband—Jewish, surgeon, and plain enough to worship me.” She brushed her perfect nun fingers over her Virgin Mary face.

“Don’t be so sure of the Jewish-men-make-the-best-husbands theory.” I couldn’t tell her how I’d disproved this hypothesis. Like everyone, Marta knew me as a car crash orphan. “Personally, I think Jewish men invented the line themselves. Self-promotion.”

I headed to the wine. Marta headed toward her husband-to-be.

As I drank my second glass of wine, I concluded that Nebraska emanated a high FQ. The question was how to get rid of his Chatty Cathy companion. The more I studied him, the more I liked his clean, natural look. In a room full of moussed-up men, it was a turn-on to see someone whose hair moved. I wanted to pull off his shirt, lay my head on his broad chest, and rest there for hours.

I drained my glass, tousled my hair, and headed over to Nebraska. When the redhead’s attention drifted, I caught his eye and tried for a Marta-like smile.

“So, what kind of doctor are you?” I felt superior knowing the answers to the questions I asked.

“I’m not a doctor.” He had a soothing voice, slow and measured, not New York, not Eastern.

“If you’re not a doctor, what brings you here?” I asked by way of greeting.

“I’m hoping to meet a doctor.” Behind a pair of wire-rim glasses, Nebraska’s eyes knew more than I’d expected, including kindness.

“Lucky you,” I said. “I’m a doctor.”

“Lucky me,” he said. “And what kind of doctor are you?”

“Right now, a tired, tired one. A finishing-her-internship-exhausted one.”

“They overwork you, don’t they?” His tone had a level of concern I was used to giving, not getting. “Your eyes, though quite beautiful, look like the before picture of a sleeping pill ad. It makes no sense putting folks through the wringer of deprivation to teach them to help sick and vulnerable people. Why ill-equip those who’ll care for the neediest?”

“I think the theory has to do with training us to manage well even under the worst of conditions.” I put my hand to my throat, wishing I’d
worn something prettier, something sparkly, something Merry would have worn.

“Maybe that’s what they say to get long hours of cheap labor.” He put a light finger under my chin, tipped it up, and looked into my eyes. Then he swept away my too-long bangs, which, as always, threatened to block my vision. “I see a need for deep sleep, nutritious food, and nonmedical conversation.”

“I see someone who can provide at least number three.” It was either the wine or his voice; whatever the reason, this man had engendered my first case of flirting.

“I can. And I will. But only if you let me buy you a decent meal.”

The next morning I woke up next to Nebraska. How much had I drunk? I staggered out of bed, hoping not to wake him, too hungover to walk on tiptoes.

I made it to the toilet just in time to heave up red wine and the remains of a roast chicken dinner—Nebraska’s idea of a decent meal. Revolting. Then I collapsed on the floor. The linoleum looked disgustingly grimy and germy. I kept meaning to clean the apartment, but sleep always won my what-to-do-with-my six-free-hours-a-week conundrum.

Alcohol and I had never been well suited. I pulled a towel from the rod above for a blanket and made myself as small as possible. Between bouts of vomiting, I slept on the cold, dank linoleum, wedged between the toilet and the tub.

I woke to a dog’s-eye view of bare male legs covered with golden brown fuzz. Fighting vertigo, I struggled to rise.

Nebraska squatted beside me, wearing boxers. My gorge rose again.

Even sick to my stomach, I wanted to touch him.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said when I finished throwing up what little remained in my aching stomach. He held a wet washcloth, and I wondered where in my apartment he’d found a clean one. He took my hands and wiped away the sweaty grime, starting with my fingers. I watched in silent appreciation as he worked the soft, hot cloth over my skin. Afterward,
he stood, rinsed the cloth carefully, and ran it gently over my face and the back of my neck.