Fools Rush In

“Filling in for Dr. Whitaker,” I answered, sounding a little breathy. “Today was my first day. What a wacky thing to happen. Old coot.” We walked down the hall together, and I remembered to feign astonishment at his presence at OCSC. “But what are you doing here, Joe?” I peeked up at his glorious cheekbones.

“I’m doing some work here, didn’t you know?” He gave me a sideways grin, and my loins fired up.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you see my truck in the parking lot? I thought I saw you park behind me.” He pointed out the window to the parking lot, where my car was practically mounting his truck.

“Oh, of course!” I said, blushing. “Stupid of me,” I muttered.

“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around, huh, Millie?” He smiled again, and I forgot my stupidity.

“You bet, Joe. Take care. And thanks!”

I watched him walk away. The view was magnificent. And the plan was working.

CHAPTER SIX

ON APRIL FOOL’S DAY, I began work at the Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic. It was a small facility in Wellfleet, located right on Route 6, in a little strip mall with ample parking. Our neighbors were a T-shirt-and-gift shop, a video/liquor store and a take-out fried-seafood place. I would have to be wary of that last one.

I would be working at the clinic full-time, though my hours would vary. It was up to the other doctor and me to split the time as we liked; we would each cover a shift. The clinic was open from eight in the morning to ten at night, so even the late shift wasn’t too bad. We’d have a nurse and an administrative assistant for the day shift; after six, it would just be the doc and a temp to fill out paperwork and deal with the phones. A nurse would be on call if things got really busy. With any real emergencies or critically ill cases, we’d ship the patients down to Hyannis. Aside from basic X-ray and ultrasound equipment and an electrocardiograph, we were pretty much bare bones.

I hadn’t met the other doc yet but was looking forward to it. I had made some really good friends during my residency, but the closest one was in Dorchester, where she worked at an inner-city hospital. Hopefully my fellow clinic doctor would become a buddy, too.

The Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic was furnished in the same generic, soulless design of thousands of doctors’ offices. The waiting room featured bland blue chairs, six in all, covered in nubby, uncomfortable fabric. Sand-colored carpeting. Blurry floral prints on the walls to soothe our patients’ strained nerves. Punishing fluorescent lights to agitate said nerves. Coffee table with fake plant on it. Children’s corner, with cardboard box of cast-off toys. Counter where patient must stand and be ignored by receptionist for at least three minutes before being acknowledged. (That actually isn’t protocol…it’s just something I’ve noticed.) And beyond the counter, two exam rooms, the X-ray area and an office. Could have been on the Cape, could have been in Arizona.

We weren’t actually open for business today; it was more of an orientation. As Cape Cod Hospital officially ran the clinic, a representative was there to fill us in on paperwork, procedure and protocol. The three Ps, as she’d said brightly on the phone. The other employees were already seated.

“You must be Dr. Barnes,” an attractive woman in her forties greeted me, extending her hand. “I’m Juanita Ortiz from the hospital. We spoke on the phone.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I answered. She wore a light gray suit, the skirt short and slim, showing off her long, toned legs. A pink-and-gray scarf circled her neck, and I made a mental note to try that. I myself wore a generic pair of tan slacks and a cream-colored blouse, which I had pulled out of the waistband a bit to camouflage my lack of waist.

“This is Dr. Balamassarhinarhajhi,” she said, the endless syllables rolling effortlessly off her tongue as she indicated a very short, bald Indian man of indeterminate age. Bala…Bala…Balasin…

“Doctor,” I said, extending my hand automatically. He took my hand and shook it gingerly, giving me a nod.

“I’ve heard you and Mrs. Doyle know each other,” Juanita continued, indicating the plump, smiling woman next to Dr. B. I grinned and leaned over, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Jill Doyle was one of my mom’s oldest pals, and I had been thrilled when I’d heard that Jill would be working here. She was chatty and comforting, organized and energetic…a perfect nurse, I would wager.

“And this is Sienna,” Juanita finished, pointing to a young woman who looked no more than fifteen years old. Ah, I thought. Some flavor. Sienna had pink streaks in her brown hair, liquid black eyeliner and bloodred lipstick the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my makeover. Her ears were studded with punishing-looking hoops and chunky metal fragments, none of which could really be called an earring. She smiled and idly kicked her Doc Martens against the chair.

“So!” Juanita said. “Let’s get started.”

For the next two hours, Juanita told us how to handle the three Ps. This was the most excruciatingly boring part of any job, and medicine was no exception. Insurance forms, test orders, referrals, transfers, treatment documentation, confidentiality regulations, malpractice…unfortunately, these things took up much more time than you might expect. In truth, Dr. B. and I would rely on our staff to handle a lot of these while we did the actual treating. Apparently, Sienna had a degree in health information processing.

After a few hours, Juanita and Sienna went out to pick up our lunch, leaving Dr. B., Jill and me alone. “I think I’ll take a look around,” Jill said, wandering off into the exam rooms. I trailed along, daydreaming.

I am working at the clinic, wearing much better, more sophisticated clothes than I have on currently. I have a waist. My hairstyle is symmetric. Suddenly, a battered maroonpickup screeches into the parking lot. Out staggers Joe, one hand bloody from the foreign body protruding so rudely from the soft tissues of his palm.

“Millie…Millie, are you in there?” he calls. Adorably, he is woozy from the sight of his own blood. (This is an actual Joe C. fact, filed away from the time he got cut during metal shop in eleventh grade.) I come out, placing a friendly and firm arm around his waist, and he leans against me.

“I had an accident with the nail gun,” he murmurs. I guide him inside, competently reassuring him, numbing and sterilizing his hand. He gazes at me with clear green eyes, suddenly seeing me in a new light….

“Where did you do your residency, Dr. Barnes?”

It was the first time I’d heard Dr. B. speak. I turned to him, smiling. “Brigham and Women’s in Boston,” I replied. “And you, Dr.—I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve got your name down just yet.” I smiled with what I hoped was charming self-effacement.

“Balamassarhinarhajhi,” he answered in a lyrical, singsong accent. “I was a resident at St. Vincent’s in New York City, though that seems a very long time ago.”

“This must be a big change, then. Much quieter.” Clearly, I was going to have to write his name down and study it before tomorrow.

“Indeed. A pleasant change.”

“Have you lived on the Cape long?” I asked.

“No, not long,” he answered.

“Do you like it here?”

“Of course.” He stared at me expectantly, so I forged on.

“Are you married? Any kids?”

“Yes,” he replied, his black eyes staring at me, no doubt wondering why I was grilling him. Okay. Not the chattiest guy. New friend would take some work.

THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WENT WELL. Although work was pretty slow, it was fun to be with Jill, mostly shooting the breeze while we waited for people to walk in. My parents’ friends were by and large wonderful people, and Jill was a particular favorite. She had several grandchildren she doted on, and I listened happily as she reported on their amazing talents and clearly much higher-than-average intellects. Sienna was a hoot, filling us older folk in on her youthful exploits…actually, she was only five years younger than I was, but I didn’t do things like go into Boston at eleven o’clock at night to hear a band or sleep over at strangers’ houses or date multiple men. Sienna did these things and seemed happy to burble on about them to us.

Dr. Balamassarhinarhajhi (it only took me twenty or so tries) agreed to be called Dr. Bala when Sienna told him outright she thought saying his entire name simply took too much time. We met briefly during the half hour that our shifts overlapped to fill each other in on the happenings of the day. Otherwise, he remained polite and distant. Sienna had managed to discover that his was an arranged marriage. How she learned this was a mystery, but it didn’t stop us three females from talking about it a good deal.

And yes, there was an occasional patient. A Provincetown chef sliced open his finger and needed three stitches. A child slammed his finger in a car door and needed an X-ray and a splint. Your everyday emergencies…We had no bomb scares, no poisonous gas leaking into our air supply, no gang members, no feral dogs, no helicopters crashing through our roof, so it was nothing like TV.

The night shift was even quieter. Dr. Bala usually covered this for mysterious reasons that I certainly didn’t want to question. Our temp was a college student, a very pleasant young man named Jeff, who opened his books and studied diligently in the complete silence that often characterized the hours between five and ten o’clock. When I did work the night shift, I quickly learned to bring the New England Journal of Medicine or my laptop and spent quiet hours reading the latest medical news.

Here at the clinic, it was easy to help the patients who came in. I got to spend a lot of time with the few I saw, chatting them up and paying lots of attention to them, and it was this that I loved the most. My dream of being a family doctor seemed closer when I chatted with Mrs. Kowalski, who suffered from a rash after eating Chinese food, or gave Barbie stickers out to Kylie McIntyre, who’d gotten poked in the eye by her older brother. And I enjoyed being the doc in charge, because as a resident, I had always been supervised. I called Dr. Whitaker each week and filled him in, on both the clinic and the nursing home, and he seemed pleased with what I was doing.

When I wasn’t at work, I toiled diligently away at my other life’s mission, stalking Joe. Each Thursday during my hours at the senior center, I carefully staged an innocent crossing of paths between the golden one and myself, a casual hello, a friendly wave. Once Tripod, who accompanied Joe on all his jobs, hopped over to me, and I was able to stroke his head and tell Joe what a sweet dog he had.

I continued to run, and after a few weeks, my little jog didn’t cause quite so much pain, though I still gasped like the largemouth bass my dad regularly pulled from Higgins Pond. I lost a few more pounds and tried to cook at least one decent meal a week, learning the hard way that most recipes call for the meat to be thawed before cooking.

On another front, the house was becoming more and more mine. I painted the cellar floor and cleaned energetically. Occasionally I would pick up a picture frame or vase or some other little object and happily agonize over where to put it. Digger and I were quite content.

ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON in late April, as my dog and I huffed toward the house, I saw Sam’s truck in my driveway. He and Danny were getting something out of the back of the pickup.

“Hi, Mil!” Sam called.

“Hi, Aunt Mil!” Danny echoed.

“Hello, boys,” I gasped, letting Digger off the leash. The silly dog forgot he was supposed to protect me from strange men and instead leaped over to Sam and Danny, collapsing with joy as they reached down to pet him. I took advantage of this moment to regain my breath and steady my trembling knees.

“How’s the running going?” Sam asked with the annoying smirk of a natural athlete.