Janice Macdonald - The Doctor Delivers

Martin pulled up a chair, swung the seat around and sat down, his arms around the backrest. “You think she’d be there?”

“Sure. She’s in PR. Those people always hang out at social functions,” Graham said. “They’re social animals. Party people. It’s their thing.”

“WHAT WAS THAT, sweetie?” Catherine stood in the lobby of the Harbor House Hotel, the receiver jammed up against one ear, her palm flattened against the other, straining to hear what her daughter was saying. Behind her, sounds of revelry poured out of the ballroom where Western’s holiday party was in full swing.

“Daddy called,” Julie announced in her child’s singsong voice. “Twice. He said if you don’t have time to get my ballet dress, he and Nadia would take me to get it. He said they saw a real pretty one in the Little Ballerina shop. And Nadia’s going to get me some new tights because mine have holes in them. And she’s going to get Peter a new jacket because his old one is yukky.”

Catherine’s fingers tightened around the receiver. A rush of adrenaline made her pulse race. So this was going to be Gary’s tactic. Keep the pressure on until she broke. “Listen, Julie.” She tried to keep her voice slow and steady. “If Daddy calls again, tell him I said not to worry about it.” Tell him to stay the hell away and stop trying to buy you. “We are going to get your dress, okay? Just you and me. I promise.”

“Tonight?”

“No. Not tonight.” Catherine closed her eyes. A band had struck up in the ballroom, the bass notes seemed to reverberate through her body. “I’m going to get away as soon as I can, but the stores will be closed by the time I get home. You’ll be in bed, but we’ll go tomorrow, okay?” Silence on the other end. “Julie, sweetie, I know you’re disappointed, I am, too. If there was any way I could have got out of this thing, I would have.” More silence. “Tell you what, kiddo. How about we make tomorrow really special? We’ll get your dress then go get a hot-fudge sundae? Brownie sprinkles, whipped cream, the whole works.” She heard Julie’s slightly mollified assent. “Good, now let me talk to Grandma, okay?”

She told her mother about the a tuna casserole in the freezer, tried not to snap as her mother launched into a rambling account of the dangerous things microwave rays could do to food, reminded her to be sure Peter took his asthma medication and, in a slightly wheedling voice, asked if she would mind very much just running an iron over the blue dress Julie wanted to wear for school tomorrow.

When her mother complained that stooping over an ironing board aggravated her back, Catherine urged her not to bother, she would do it herself in the morning. With a final reminder to be sure all the doors were locked, she hung up. Tomorrow night, she thought as she headed down the corridor to the rest room, she’d do the pot roast for dinner. Before she took Julie to Little Ballerina and thwarted Gary by spending money she didn’t have.

Inside the rest room, she squinted in the bright white light, frowned at her reflection in the mirrored walls. Pale, drained and a little disheveled. Definitely not a thing of beauty. With everything else there was to juggle, how the hell did single mothers manage to date? Some of them did, she’d overheard a couple of nurses in the cafeteria discussing how soon it was okay to let a boyfriend sleep over. One of them said she always had sex at his house, never at her own if the kids were there. The other said she didn’t bother about it, sex was a fact of life. Kids adjusted.

She leaned over the washbasin, splashed her face with cold water. Sex and dating were the last things on her mind, especially now that Gary had started this custody thing. A man in her bed would be all the ammunition he needed.

Swept by a stew of emotions—fatigue, anger, frustration, self-doubt, she grabbed a paper towel from a dispenser, held it tight against her face. Life felt like one huge compromise. Worrying about finding Connaughton while she scrambled eggs for the kids this morning, standing in some stupid hotel bathroom when she wanted to be home, reading a bedtime story to Julie, helping Peter with his homework.

For a moment, the disillusionment and anger seemed to engulf her. She took a few deep breaths and splashed more cold water on her face. Tomorrow, she’d do something really special for them. Exactly what, she didn’t know yet, but something. And then she would work on Dr. Martin Connaughton.

Five minutes later, she pushed her way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the ballroom looking for Derek. At one end, a small forest of bleached, tumbleweed Christmas trees twinkled with tiny white lights. In the middle of the room, dancing couples swayed and grooved to “Jingle Bell Rock.” Administration reportedly spent big bucks on the annual holiday party and this year was obviously no exception.

She spotted Derek at one of the buffet tables, paper plate in one hand, a plastic glass of wine in the other. He had changed into black linen slacks and shirt and his hair was combed straight back off his forehead.

“Gawd, what a day it’s been.” He speared a piece of bacon-wrapped shrimp. “One damn thing after another. D’you reach Connaughton yet? Selena Bliss paged me twice tonight. Says I owe her a favor and she has to talk to him, or she’ll never give us any decent coverage again. What are these things?” He gestured at a silver chafing dish. “Alpo balls?”

“Swedish meatballs, I think.” Catherine piled some celery and carrots on her plate, doused them with a scoop of diet ranch dressing. “No luck with Connaughton. I’ll go up to the unit first thing in the morning. The babies should have all stabilized by then, so maybe he’ll be more receptive.”

“Good.” He ladled meatballs on his plate then stopped to inspect a silver tray. “Keep trying. There’s been a new development, and we need to be sure Grossman and Connaughton are singing out of the same hymnbook.” He lowered his voice. “There’s no love lost between the two of them.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Grossman thinks he’s God and so does everyone else at Western, except for Connaughton. Now Grossman wants to try this new surgery that’s never been tried on a kid this size, but Connaughton thinks the kid’s too sick and he’s not making any secret of it.” He dug a toothpick into a meatball. “The problem is, I want to promote this teamwork concept and…what are these little numbers?”

“Rumaki.” Catherine dipped a carrot stick in dressing. “Teamwork concept?”

“Exactly.” Derek winked at a passing reveler in formfitting black leather pants. Face flushed with wine, he poked a toothpick into a wedge of cheese. “What was I saying?”

“Teamwork.”

“Right. The Freeway Triplets and Western’s team of miracle workers. Connaughton who delivers them, cares for them in our state-of-the-art NICU. Grossman who performs this miraculous, life-saving surgery. Fabulous PR. Jordan loves it.”

Catherine watched a conga line form a few feet away. A man she recognized as one of the lab techs, motioned her over to join him. She shook her head, then leaned closer to hear Derek’s voice over the noise. A wave of wine-scented breath forced her back.

“What makes this whole triplet thing particularly timely—” Derek brought his face closer “—is that Ned Bolton has been nosing around lately—”

“Ned Bolton?” Catherine frowned. “The medical writer with the Tribune?”

“The same.” Derek nibbled a piece of cheese. “Bolton’s specialty is striking fear into the hearts of public relations people. I suspect he secretly wants to bring every hospital in his circulation area crashing down in an avalanche of scandal. Anyway, last month we had a couple of, uh, surgical mishaps that Bolton thinks we’re trying to cover up. He hinted—not very subtly—that the incidents were a result of underlying management difficulties.” Derek drained his wine. “Jordan nearly hit the roof when he heard that one.”