Traveling with Spirits (15 page)

*****

  Tonight, the buses barrel by without halting. Years ago, they shifted the stop one street south. The busy Bijou Café is reflected back to her in the front window—tables of people chatting, eating, laughing, sipping wine. As the tiny candles flicker, faces move in and out of focus. Black-clad waiters balance impossibly heavy trays. The server, Martin, delivers a generous glass of sauvignon blanc. Beata is always a few minutes late.

*****

  Late, that’s what Monica and Jeanne imagined when Dad didn’t show up for dinner that Friday night. Mom told them he had a union meeting. The next morning, they found her sobbing. Shaking, she handed over the farewell note. Farewell, as if he’d been a visitor all their lives. Passenger rather than driver.

  As years passed, Marie Murphy rued that Wyoming vacation. She’d had a premonition, had campaigned for Colorado. But no, Tim Murphy heard about this Dude Ranch in the Big Horn Mountains. Jeanne and Monica could ride horses and milk cows. Really, his wife said, you just have a big fantasy about the West. Monica doubted either of them fantasized Dorothea, the handsome brunette with the smoky voice. Who would have predicted Tim Murphy would run away from home at age 47?

*****

  A long sip of wine and she feels the welt of Mom’s grief in her throat. Monica’s parents never claimed, or even imagined, the perfect marriage. They bickered about house expenses, church attendance. But the young immigrants had fun too; genuinely seemed to respect each other.

  Mom had married for eternity, had followed Dad in his daft plans for a better existence on this side of the ocean. Sure, they made more money here, from his driving and her typing, but was that a fair exchange for leaving their brothers and sisters back in Ireland? Monica knew Dad was happy to escape his parents. Mom’s parents, both sets of siblings, the parish, Kildare, the whole bloody country. Then after years creating a new life with Mom, Jeanne and herself in frigid Minnesota, Dad simply rode into the sunset.

  Monica thinks now how for years neither Jeanne nor she could forgive the bastard. She still wonders why she sent him a card last Christmas. (Well, he’s the only father she’ll ever have.) Since then, each of their three short phone calls has been less strained than the previous one. It’s not time to tell Mom or Jeanne about the tentative rapprochement, not yet.

  Monica senses Beata’s arrival before seeing her. Weather in the café has shifted. The other diners stare, catch their breaths, fantasize about this tall, willowy black woman in the stylish fake leopard coat. Movie star? International diplomat? Dancer? She’d guessed dancer when they met years ago at the Y.

  “Catch you in a trance, again?” Beata laughs throatily, bends down for a half-hug.

  “Brief winter meditation.” Monica hugs her back, inhaling the Rive Gauche and the frost smell of her hair. “So good to see you. It’s been a week. How are you?”

  “Cold,” Beata shivers as she slips off the leopard and zips her cardigan.

  “Cold?” she teases. “It’s been above zero for seven days. Weren’t you born in Minneapolis?”

  “Not my choice.” Beata scans the wine list, beckons the waiter.

  Immediately enamored, Martin grins.

  “A glass of Sangiovese please.”

  They clink goblets.

  “Here’s to an early spring!” Beata sighs.

  “Come on, winter is the ultimate season here. Water crystals dangling gracefully from roofs. Tree shadows on snowy lawns. The luscious quiet of night when snow absorbs voices and traffic noises.”

  “OK for you, Ms. Poetic Minnesota, but my people and my genes came from Louisiana. I’ve always pestered Dad about choosing the U of M for law school. We’re Louisiana folk! And before that, we hailed from an even warmer country. Somewhere.”

  “I know you love the sweaty heat of August while I long for the crisp dry cold of February. It’s a wonder we ever became friends.”

  Martin serves Beata’s vegetarian tower. Even her food is elegant. Much classier looking than Monica’s roast pork and potatoes.

  She reminds herself not to eat too fast. She does that when she’s tired and tonight she’s exhausted from clinic frenzy and the weird animosity between Louise and Alonso.

  Voices swell around them in the crowded bistro. She concentrates on the scents of garlic, butter, wine, basil. She’s glad she nabbed this corner table so far from the smokers in the bar.

  “How are things at the Center?”

  “Just fine, I guess.” Beata taps her fork pensively against the flowered ceramic plate. “It was one of those fundraiser days when you felt more like the chatelaine of a country estate than the director of a top treatment facility. Of course that means interrupting in the counseling schedule, the administrative calendar. Who do they think does the work while we’re all sipping tea together?”

  “I bet it’s galling to perform for some of these donors.”

  “Lord, yes. Still, private facilities depend on these rich philanthropists who live in Never-Never Land.”

  Monica thinks back to her own tedious hours with insurance forms. “Money, if we didn’t need money, we could concentrate on the work.”

  “So how’s Lake Clinic?”

  “You read my mind.”

  “Hardly.” Beata sips the Sangiovese. “Sometimes your face takes on that distinctive ‘yet another day at the clinic’ expression; a cross between rage and anguish.”

  “One of those Dr. Jill days. She’s doing a ‘hot’ radio series this week.”

  “I caught that during breakfast, some new diet for pregnant women?”

  “Who knows?” Monica is abashed by her searing hostility for the prima donna wonder doc who graduated first in her Northwestern Med School class to a national column in
Women’s Way
to become the Twin Cities celebrity medico. She misses two thirds of clinic meetings and when she does appear, makes suggestions that have already been tried. Louise insists she brings “visibility and cachet” to the clinic. Monica waits for the malpractice suit from neglected patients. Unaccountably, they love her too. Perhaps people like the secondhand glamour. Still, it can’t do much for their strep throats.

  Across the room, an abstract painting with large purple lines catches her attention. There’s something cold, ghoulish, about its blobby texture, intense color. Monica likes almost everything at the Bijou except the thunderously bad art.

  “Girl, you could use some detachment from that woman.”

  “I imagine you’re not advising the kind of detachment that ends in homicide.”

  “Nooo,” Beata takes a bite of her towering vegetables. “St. Olaf’s is sponsoring a serenity retreat up at Lutsen next month.”

  “Thought we had a détente. I don’t make snarky comments about your prodigious designer shoe collection and you don’t hassle me about returning to the Church.”

  “Listen: Lutsen is absolutely your kind of place. Rustic cabins overlooking frozen Lake Superior. Perfect for the winter poet.”

  “I could ice fish while you listened to the padre ramble?” Monica eats the last of her delicious, proletarian pork. “Bizarre that we survived Catholic schools with such opposite reactions. Maybe your nuns were less dogmatic.”

  “Maybe.” Beata grows quiet.

  “Well, compared to my education in blue collar Saint Paul, your Minneapolis classes sounds like Manhattan.”

  Beata examines her newly manicured nails. The deep red matches her lipstick.

  “Sorry about the retreat.” Monica’s heart sinks. “I know St. Olaf’s is important to you. Retreats just aren’t my thing. Truce?”

  “Truce.” Beata takes her hand. “Another glass of wine to celebrate Friday?”

  What would she have done without Beata’s friendship during these stressful years? As Jeanne distanced herself, Beata assuaged the pain and loneliness. She loves her younger sister. But now she’s vanished, like Dad.

  “Earth to Monica. Are you there?”

  Monica glances at the dessert menus and the two fresh glasses of wine. “I was just thinking, ‘Freedom is what Saturdays are all about.’ ”

  “Pardon?”

  “You said that at the Y when we were getting to know one another.”

  “You were pretty tightly wound then. Not that I’d call you loosey goosey now.”

  “Med school does that to a person.”

  “Family does that to a person.” Beata drums her nails on the glass table.

  “Not that you’re a stranger to obsession, ‘Ms. Dedicated to the Cause.’ ”

  She rolls her eyes, pushes aside the menu. “You want dessert?”

  “You’re off topic. Aren’t we both a little fanatical about work?”

  Beata’s face is filled with distress, even repugnance.

  “What are you staring at?” 

  “That purple canvas,” Beata laughs dryly. “Do they specialize in bad art here?”

  Monica grimaces, “Not the most relaxing image. But you’re still off topic.”

  “I have lots of interests—Jazz, shopping. The Church. And yes, like you, I take work seriously. That’s one reason we became friends.”

  “We’ve been through a lot together since those early days at the Y.”

  “Political campaigns, good movies, bad movies. And a few men,” Beata nods.

  “You have to take credit for the last two jokers.”

  “
Moi
?” Beata raises her eyebrows, sips the Sangiovese.

  “Absolutely. You dragged me to that lawyers’ party.”

  “Dragged?”

  “Alright, I was curious. Craig was pretty dreamy at first glance. I was as smitten as you were with Al.”

  “Remember that weekend in Chicago?”

  Monica sees that only three groups of people remain in the quieting café. She loves these long, leisurely dinners with Beata. Sometimes she thinks that everything would be solved if they were lesbians and they could forget about men.

  “That trip was fun,” smiles Monica. “At least I enjoyed being with you and Al. Craig spent half of Saturday on the phone to his office. He was married to that job.” The memory makes her crave another glass of wine. She’s walking home tonight. But she has to be alert for the morning clinic. Besides, Jeanne’s drinking is getting out of hand and she doesn’t want to follow.

  “Some might say the same about us.”

  “Speaking of which, mind if I ask for the bill? I’m on Saturday shift.”

  “You’ve worked a lot of Saturdays this winter. You overdoing it?”

  “Not really. People get sick in winter.”

  “Let’s hope you’re not one of them.”

  “Thanks.” This is the kind of friendship she craves with her sister. Concern. Laughter. Jeanne is so cold, complaining, resentful. Their mother tells her not to worry, that her little sister has always been the sensitive one.

  “I’m fine. I did more sit-ups than you in Body Pump class.”

  “Never crossed my mind to check.”

  “Right.”

  They latch arms, walking to the parking lot.

  “Damn!” Beata exclaims. “I didn’t notice how much it snowed during dinner.”

  “There, there. Winter princess comes to your rescue.”

  Brushing away the soft snow, they work fast to ward off the cold.

  “Let me give you a lift.”

  “It’s only a few blocks and I need the air.”

  Beata hugs her. “You’re a stubborn one.”

  “Take care!”

  “You do the same, Doctor. Think about taking a break. You could skip the chapel part of the retreat and just wander around the snowy woodland and join us for delicious meals.”

FOURTEEN

March, 1997, Minnesota

  Monica slips through the dim lobby, sets the steaming latte on her desk and closes her door, careful not to disturb any other early birds.

  They all share exam space. Still, this room is her home base. Attached to the ceiling is a blue and red mobile from the Farmer’s Market which is particularly popular with women getting pap smears. Men rarely comment on it.

  Sipping the latte, she opens the laptop, determined to catch up on the wretched computer system. As clinic director, Louise has persuaded everyone to standardize records. Her interview charts are labyrinthine. In another life, Louise designed torture instruments. Enough, she’s got to clean up her attitude toward “teammates” as Louise likes to call them. The woman is a hard worker; everyone has quirks.

  She squints at multi-colored tables. God, she misses the intimacy of taking notes as patients talk. Conversation. Making eye contact. Asking intuitive questions. With this computer, she’s more of an admissions clerk than a physician, always waiting for the next item on the chart. OK, Louise is right in some ways. What if a patient has a crisis when she’s out of town? Who could read her shorthand? She’ll get this down. But not this morning because the clinic opens in twenty minutes.

  Startled by Brewster’s radio, she finishes her coffee and closes the program. Their charming and ever-patient receptionist always begins mornings—before he thinks anyone has arrived—with NPR news.

  She opens another program to confirm her schedule: a pretty average day. Three routine check-ups. One flexible sigmoidoscopy. Mrs. Polanski is worried about her memory again. Two people with flu symptoms, a follow-up on Roger’s broken arm, an anti-depressant consult, ear infection, skin cancer assessment. A crowded list—she hates how Louise limits consultations to twenty minutes—but still manageable.

  Brewster turns off the radio. She hears him clicking on all the lights; his crepe rubber soles squeak on the clean floor.

  She opens her door for air.

  “Monica!” He looks embarrassed. “Did my radio disturb you? I thought…”