Cheating to Survive (Fix It or Get Out) (9 page)

“You are not understanding me, I’m a doctor.”

And what the hell was she? Did she not attend college specifically for a degree in nutrition? “Yes, and I’m a registered dietitian. Your point?”

“Then you should know that diabetics cannot get juice.”

Victoria cringed at the word again. “Says who? We practice carb counting here. They’re allowed three or four carbs at each meal. All our food is portion sized, they can choose the carbs they want and we ensure they receive the correct amounts with the correct portions. And also they– ”

“They are not allowed sugar or sweets.”

“They’re not children. They can have whatever they choose as long as it fits into their carbohydrate allowance and have mixed nutrient meals that will safeguard against any– ”

“Then how do you explain their high blood sugars?”

“Blood glucose,” she corrected. “Are you going to let me complete any of my sentences?”

He folded his arms and rested his elbows atop his paunch. The bags under his eyes deepened and obtruded.

“Do you want to know what I see causing hyperglycemia in our patients? I see incorrect diets ordered by doctors, IVs with dextrose, medications that raise blood glucose levels, illness, stress, infection, all common causes of high blood
glucose
.” Victoria squared her shoulders and arched closer to him. “But mostly I see the inappropriate use of insulin. Not enough insulin, insulin not being titrated appropriately, no pre-meal insulin, stopping insulin inappropriately. That’s not a dietitian’s fault, that’s a doctor’s fault.”

Dr. Pierce leaned away. The former cluster of chortling employees focused their attention on him now. “Well, I need proof of this information. I only abide by evidenced-based practices.”

“Not a problem. I can have a copy of the
American Diabetes Association’s Clinical Recommendations for Nutrition
and one on
Caring for Diabetes in the Hospital
, both from the 2008 Clinical Practice Recommendations Standards of Medical Care. I can have them for you by tomorrow. Will you be around?”

His eyes skipped around the room, surveying the health care professionals that pretended not to see his ass just get whipped. He squirmed, reached for his phone and stepped out of the nurse’s station. “I’ll be here tomorrow.” He then retreated.

****

Victoria cut across the hallway during her meals rounds and jarred to a halt at the clamor from the TV in the patients’ lounge. The beam on her face replaced the anger she still harbored from her argument with Ed this morning.

“The Wall Street Journal,” she hollered at the screen. “Yes!” Applause tumbled from the room into the hallway.

“1929,” she fired off. “Correct again.” Victoria suddenly felt bigger, taller, stronger. Alex Trebek smiled and raised his palms to congratulate her.

“Benito Mussolini.”

“You’re not watching Jeopardy again, are you?” Heather snuck around the corner to find Victoria in her favorite spot. “Do you ever get a question wrong?”

A gentle tingling swept up the back of her neck and across her face. “Once, I did.”

“What?” Heather gave her a side-glance. “The crazy thing is, you’re probably dead serious.”

“I need some fun in my life, don’t I? Or am I doomed to live this monotonous life forever?”

“I hear you. Let’s torch Jean’s office and then take off on some wild adventure.”

“Sure, just let me clear out my bank account and I’ll meet you at JFK before dinner.”

“You’re on. Now, should we torch her office after she leaves or while she’s still in it?”

“Hmm, hard decision.” A sneer touched the corner of her lips. “So, what brings you to the fifth floor? You rarely come down to visit anymore. I’m not annoying you like Catherine, am I?”

“No, silly. I…of course not. Just…busy.”

“Busy? Since when has that stopped our little chats?”

Heather’s face took on a pondering air. Her eyes grew distant and she drifted off as if forgetting where she was. “No, nothing. Just busy. But I’m here today.”

Heather was definitely hiding something, but she wouldn’t pry. Not yet. Heather wasn’t one to keep anything in, at least not since she told Victoria about her past. Since then she’s been pretty much an open book. Victoria, on the other hand, refused to reveal her chronic depression to her. No need for two people to moan about their miserable lives. Then again, misery loved company.

How happy was Catherine? She portrayed the perfect wife and mother. Always so well put together, peppy, perfect, punctilious, PTA participant. Punctilious. Word of the day.

Were all her tales at lunch true? Successful stockbroker husband with two handsome, athletic sons and an attractive daughter. She had yet to meet any of them. All she knew came from pictures and stories. They must be doing well though – his BMW, her Lexus SUV. The way she spoke about name brand clothes and objects gave Victoria the impression she worked in Bloomingdales for years…or at least shopped there.

Maybe Victoria went about it all wrong. Maybe she should have kept the fire going with Ed. Sure, their children occupied many years of their lives but Catherine pulled it all together somehow. How could her hair and clothes, not to mention her eating habits, be so impeccable? Did she have a nineteen-inch waist?

She bet her sex life was ideal as well. One of those quiet ones that performed wild acts in the bedroom like hanging from the chandeliers with handcuffs while the children were off at religious instruction. Catherine’s perfect hair slicked back in place and sheets changed before the children returned home.

Then again, maybe Catherine hid dark secrets like the two of them. Did we all have demons?

Chapter 13
Heather

For weeks, Heather watched Dr. Silvatri saunter past her nursing station pretending to talk on his phone in front of the glass partition that divided them. Multiple times he pretended to look for a chart in the rack when she knew he didn’t have patients on her floor. A few times he’d strike up a conversation with a doctor near her, clown around and howl at ridiculous lame jokes.

She’d let herself catch his eye and act surprised to see him. “Good Morning,” she would say. It was all he needed to sit down next to her. Then he used Heather’s binder full of photographs to start a conversation. He had a six-year-old son himself, the love of his life. He spoke about him daily, only mentioning his wife once, the wife he was currently separated from.

He kept the conversations going, interested in getting inside her head, but she refused to indulge, revealing very little.

Nowadays, feeling more confident, he’d walk into the nurse’s station, pull out the chair beside her and ease into it as if they were old pals. His visits came daily, all his downtime between cases spent with Heather.

Today he strolled into the nursing station with his partner, Dr. Richard Bettman. Had he mentioned anything to him about her?

“Hey,” he said first, exhibiting self-assurance in front of his partner.

Dr. Bettman smiled, then took off to see his patient, leaving them alone.

He settled into the chair and leaned well into her space, brushing his massive shoulder against hers. He twirled her pen between his impressive fingers. Heather captured his blue eyes with hers and the two of them gazed acquisitively. His head tilted, eyes crinkled, attempting to read her mind. If only he could.

Silvatri winked.

A bolt ran through her. What did he see? How she wanted him to grab the back of her head and kiss her? Now, right here in the nurses station for all to see? Yes, it was true. She visualized his plumpy lips every night before bed. What did they taste like? The feel of them on her mouth, stuck together, lipstick gliding off.

She wanted to look away, but lingered to see what developed. Heather’s mouth parted, her breathing too heavy for her nose. What was he thinking? Her heart clobbered her ribcage. Could he see it through her sheer white blouse, see her heart pounding for him? Could he read her mind now, as she imagined him unbuttoning her shirt?

After two months, he still sent waves of excitement through her. Heather’s day revolved around his visits. Not wanting to miss any of them, she rushed upstairs to her floor and remained there until a minute before lunch. Victoria was right, she was neglecting her. Was it a crime to want some attention though?

Once Silvatri arrived, she didn’t want him to leave. Their interactions were never tiresome. Their friendship, if it could be called that, sprouted into invigorating exchanges. But the clash between pleasant conversation and bottled up sexual tension was obvious.

He provided a small escape from her disregarding husband at home and her degrading boss at work. A small vacation into fantasyland.

Silvatri and Heather acted professional in front of other employees, but did he feel the same way she did? Did he dream of her at night? She pictured them lying naked in his bed countless times.

It was wrong. Certainly. God, it was wrong. So wrong.

But to know someone else liked her gave Heather hope. No one but her knew about these fantasies, and if she kept them to herself, what harm would there be?

She tried to reveal her feelings to Victoria last week but what if this damaged their friendship? What would she think of her? Victoria dedicated twice the amount of time to her marriage than Heather did, demonstrating her faithfulness and upholding her vow. Victoria would think Heather was only repeating her past mistake. But was that a mistake, and would this be too?

No, never again. She promised. The hurt she caused the last time…

“Are you ready?” His partner approached.

Silvatri stood, examined her from head to toe like a beautiful marble sculpture, not blinking once. The left side of his face curled into a grin. He handed her pen back, providing one last contact between them and held on when she attempted to remove it. His mouth opened, as if to speak but then closed again, eliciting a smile instead.

Dr. Bettman pushed him along like a father redirecting a child hypnotized by a toy store window. Stealing him.

She wanted more.

****

Heather climbed into bed Friday night irritated that she had to work this Memorial Day weekend. The weather promised to be gorgeous – cloudless skies, eighty-degree temps, barbecues and beach parties. The imprisonment of work only annoyed her further.

After only three hours of sleep, she heard wailing from Rori’s room. The clock laughed at her and blazed 2:13 a.m. Bad dream? Maybe if she ignored it Rori would fall back to sleep.

Five minutes passed and it only intensified. She looked over at Lance. He heard, but never once clambered out of bed in the middle of the night for any of their children, to feed them, change a diaper or tend to them when they were sick.

The heaviness in her body weighed her down, pushed her deeper into the mattress, eyelids refused to open. She needed to wake at five o’clock for work and her muscles forbid her to move.

Heather yawned, dragged herself out of bed and shuffled her feet across the floor. She crept into her room without turning on the lights. Rori bolted up in bed and screamed. She attempted to rub her back, pacify her, but nothing worked. Heather flipped on the light switch and spotted the throw-up all over her sheets and pajamas.

Not tonight.

She replaced Rori’s clothes but when she attempted to change her sheets, the frightened girl insisted on being held. Her sluggish one-armed bed-making skills irritated Rori causing her to cry out again. Rori’s exhaustion trumped Heathers. She called out to Lance, asking him to hold her while she finished the sheets. He hobbled into the bedroom and banged his shoulder against the doorframe.

“What is it?” he grimaced. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Heather’s eyes protruded. She held her tongue and handed Rori to Lance. She jabbed the fitted sheet around the four corners smashing her knuckles into the wall. When she tucked the flat sheet under the mattress, Rori’s cries returned. She spun to find Lance lying on the carpet, fast asleep. Rori, a few feet away, had rolled out of his arms.

“Are you serious?” she yelled. “Get up and bring her into our bed. How could you be so inconsiderate?” Heather tossed the comforter back on the bed, searing with fury. She put a clean blankie under the covers and Rori’s stuffed koala bear next to her pillow.

The piercing howls returned.

Heather turned on the hall light and stomped into their bedroom. Rori had thrown up in their bed now. Lance curled himself into a ball, snoring away.

“Lance,” she screeched. “You’re not even taking care of her. She threw up in here.”

“What? What do you want from me? I’m tired.” He chucked the covers off himself and marched into the living room, leaving Heather to change their sheets as well. He was tired? She had to work in the morning, not him. He fell asleep at least two hours before she did, passed out and snoring loud enough to be heard while she cleaned the den on the other side of the house.

She carried Rori back into her room and tucked her in her bed. The ill child immediately fell asleep from the chaos and disorder. Heather changed their sheets, started a load of laundry and then slinked back into bed. The clock sneered. 3:04 a.m.

Wide awake.

Heather’s feet dragged into work the following morning. Her desk chair creaked from her body collapsing into it. She yawned. Alone in the dietitian’s office and glad no one else worked with her on weekends, she knew she could sleep there without anyone knowing. She placed her head on the desk and daydreamed of a life without throw-up, homework, temper tantrums and middle school drama. Her eyes glossed over and then drifted shut.

The only thing Heather dreamed about anymore was Silvatri. Him picking her up in the middle of the night, sneaking her out the bedroom window like high school kids and discovering what his lips tasted like. Was that so much to ask? Just one tiny kiss.

Of course it was. This was insane. Married with three kids and dreaming about some doctor sweeping her off her feet. Literally. Even if he liked her that way, God she wished he did, what would happen? They’d share lunch together in the hospital cafeteria? Plan a romantic dinner at a fancy restaurant on a Saturday night? Chat on the phone in the evenings while doing Gia’s American Revolution homework? Perhaps meet up at a nearby park with their kids and push the youngest ones on the swings?