Christine Rimmer - A Doctor's Vow

At a little before five, he threw back the covers and got out of bed. He found another pair of slippers and a second robe and then didn’t know what to do with himself.

He decided to check on his children.

Both of the younger ones were still sound asleep. Lisbeth was wrapped up tight in her blankets, only her button nose peeking out. Griffin had kicked the covers down and then curled himself into a ball against the nighttime chill.

Looking down at him, Ryan thought of Tanner.

Tanner, his younger brother. Tanner used to kick the covers down on winter nights sometimes. Before Tanner was five, they were separated for the first time. But during that initial year and a half after they lost their parents, they’d slept in narrow beds, side by side, in the state home. And when Tanner would kick his covers down, it was easy for Ryan to slide from his own bed and cover him back up again.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, Ryan pulled the covers close around his four-year-old son. Griffin let out a small sigh, his little body relaxing as the blankets banished the cold.

Ryan peeked in on Andrew—correction: Drew—last. He turned the doorknob slowly and pushed the door open with great care. Once he’d slid inside the room, he closed the door without letting the latch hook, to avoid the small click that might have disturbed a light sleeper.

He was halfway across the floor when Drew sat up in bed. “Dad?”

All he could think to whisper was a rebuke. “You should be asleep.”

“Dad, I’m sorry. About what I did.”

Ryan sat on the side of the bed and looked at his son through the predawn darkness. He was thinking that he should spend more time with him, and that he really ought to say something meaningful and profound right now. But all he could think of was “It’s okay—as long as you don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“Well, all right.”

“Ronni wasn’t mad. She’s nice.”

Ryan felt a thoroughly witless smile try to pull at the corners of his mouth. “You like her, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I like her, too.” A lot.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“You can go back to bed now. Everyone’s safe.”

Ryan still felt as if he should say something. Perhaps about Patricia. About what his son had lost, what they had all lost. The one who tied everything together, the unifying thread.

“Drew, I…” What? I’m sorry your mom is dead.

Sorry I’m not a better father.

Sorry the right words won’t come…

So many damn things to be sorry about.

He stood. “Lie down, now. Go on back to sleep.”

Obediently, Drew stretched out again and pulled his covers up under his chin. Ryan started for the door.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“You talked to Ronni about me, didn’t you? She told you to call me Drew.” Ryan hesitated before answering, long enough that Drew said, “It’s okay with me, Dad. If you talked to her.”

“Yes. I talked to her. Now, go to sleep. Pizza Pete’s tomorrow.”

“With Uncle Tanner?”

“That’s right.”

Ryan’s mother-in-law tapped at the French doors to the guest house the next day at noon.

Ronni looked up from the open box of jeans and heavy sweaters she’d just set on the bed. The curtains were drawn back, letting in the thin gray light of a cloudy—but so far rainless—day. The mother-in-law held up two foil-covered plates, one in each hand. She also had Ronni’s anorak slung over her shoulder. Ronni went and opened the door.

“I didn’t see you leave this morning, so I thought that just maybe, since it’s Sunday, you might be taking the day to unpack.”

Stepping back, Ronni gestured her in and closed the door behind her.

“It looks like you’re making headway,” the woman said.

Ronni cast a glance at the box on the bed. “There’s really not that much to deal with. I put most of my things in storage for the month.”

“Ah. Until your own home is ready…”

“Yes.”

“I’ll bet you’re really looking forward to that.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” They smiled at each other, rather forced smiles, Ronni thought. She reached for the anorak. “Here. Let me take that.”

“Oh. Certainly.” Ronni slid the weatherproof shell off of the other woman’s shoulder, then turned and tossed it on a chair. That accomplished, she turned back to her guest. “Mrs….”

“It’s Underhill. But please. Call me Lily.”

“And I’m just Ronni.”

“Good enough. Ronni.” The woman hefted the plates again. “I was putting my own lunch together and it occurred to me that maybe you might enjoy a little break yourself.”

“That’s thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

They smiled at each other some more. Ronni felt a little like an interviewee at that moment. An interviewee for a job that really didn’t exist—which would make Lily the employer. An employer determined to conduct a pleasant interview, no matter that she had no intention of hiring anyone.

Well. Nothing to do but get the interview over with. “Let’s go on into the kitchen.”

“Good idea.”

In the kitchen, at the cute round pine table with its pedestal base, Lily took the foil off the plates, revealing a pair of sandwiches cut in half diagonally. Matching mounds of pasta salad sat neatly between the halves.

“This looks good,” Ronni said.

“It’s roast beef. With just a touch of horseradish sauce. I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

“No. Roast beef is great.”

“And horseradish?”

“I love horseradish.”

“Well, then, this should work out fine.”

They used paper towels for napkins. Ronni apologized. “I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to get to the store yet.”

“Oh, I know you must be busy. A doctor’s schedule is just killing, isn’t it?”

“It could be worse. I do have my Sundays, now I’m in private practice. And today, I’m not even on call. How about coffee? I have that.”

“Just a glass of ice water.”

“Water, I’ve got.”

“And forks, for the pasta salad?”

“No problem. All the kitchen things were here when I got here.”

Lily sighed. “This little house. Always ready for visitors.” She went to a drawer and took out the flatware they needed.

They sat down and started to eat. The sandwich was good, the beef thin-sliced and tender. Ronni told Lily so.

Lily waved a hand. “Oh, it’s just a sandwich. But I must confess, I do love to cook. Patricia…that was my daughter, Ryan’s wife?” Ronni did not miss the slight emphasis on the word wife. “Patricia loved to cook, too.” Lily chuckled. “And she was much more self-disciplined than I am when it came to sampling what she cooked. I’m a size twelve now, myself. Have been for years and years. But my daughter…aside from her pregnancies, never in her life did she go above a size eight.” Lily’s eyes changed, lost their brightness. “And then, at the end, she was so thin.” Lily blinked and spoke flatly. “She died two years ago. Cancer, in case you hadn’t heard. It’s been…such a challenge, without her. For the children. For Ryan. For all of us.”

The usual condolences rose to Ronni’s lips. She held them back. It seemed the wrong moment for a kind cliché.

“You never met my daughter, did you?” It was almost an accusation.

“No. I did my residency up in Washington. And only moved here two and a half years ago. This is my first practice, with Marty, and with Randall Sheppard.”

Lily swept a hand out, indicating the whole of the cheerful, pretty room. “Patricia did all of this. Country French, she called it. She wanted the guest house to be cozy and casual. Blue-checked curtains for the kitchen. Blue willow plates on the plate rails.” Lily looked up at the rows of blue-and-white china plates that lined the narrow shelves above the cabinets. “And she did the main house, too. All of it. She chose everything, all by herself. She had a real sense for what makes a home an inviting place.”