Dr. Dad (6 page)

And she would. She swore to herself she'd be as good a hostess as she could, just for the chance of getting Susannah Dawson to like her.

“Maybe it's time for you to start practicing being better by climbing the stairs and getting into bed,” her father said with a teasing smile. “It's late, Lindsey. Time for you to get some sleep.”

“I'm old enough to stay up till ten-thirty. Everyone else in my class…” She bit her lip to silence herself. She knew what her father thought about everyone else doing something: he didn't care. And if he felt like it, he could give her a very long speech about why he didn't care.

She hoped he would spare the speech tonight.

He did. “I'll be heading up to bed myself soon. I'll give you a five-minute head start, okay?”

“Maybe you should stay up and watch
Mercy Hospital.
”

“Is it on tonight?”

“No, but I've got it on tape. It's always on too late, so I have to tape it.” She eased her legs out from under the T-shirt and stood. She could have found a better way to argue about her bedtime, but not tonight. Not
when her father was looking so wistful. Not when he was missing her mom.

“Don't forget to brush your teeth,” he reminded her.

“Yeah.” Her teeth had chocolate grit in them from the brownies. “Good night, Dr. Dad.”

“Good night, Hot Stuff. I'll be up in a few minutes.”

She went upstairs, brushed her teeth, used the toilet and went back to her bedroom. Checking through the window, she noticed that the lights were off downstairs in Susannah's living room and the dining room, but Cathy's old window was still bright. Lindsey couldn't see Susannah, though. She couldn't even see MacKenzie.

She tugged the string to lower her shade, then sprawled out in bed. The house was as quiet as midnight. She closed her eyes and listened for her father's footsteps on the stairs, but she never heard them.

He was probably still in the study, staring through the window at the house next door.

 

O
VER BREAKFAST
Saturday morning, Lindsey announced that she wanted to go to the supermarket with him. According to her, the music store two doors down from the supermarket was selling a CD by the latest sixteen-year-old singing sensation at a three-dollar discount. “She is so cool,” Lindsey rhapsodized. “Everybody at school has her CD. I've got to get it.”

“If everyone already has it, why don't you borrow someone's CD and tape it,” Toby suggested.

She rolled her eyes. “It's not the same.”

“It's at least ten dollars cheaper.”

“But it's not the same. Don't you know anything?”

The girl who had been so open to him last night, so generous and friendly, had disappeared. The surly Lindsey Beast was back.

He sighed. He'd felt so close to Lindsey last night. Like old times, when they could talk about anything—even Lindsey's mother—and share a snack, without borders or barriers. She used to be so affectionate, so transparent. If she was angry she yelled. If she was sad she cried. If she was hungry for love she climbed into his lap and wrapped her arms around him.

She was too old to climb into his lap now. But why did she have to keep retreating behind walls? Why couldn't she let him reach her?

“If you want to come to the supermarket with me, be my guest,” he said. “But I'm not going there directly. First I'm stopping at Arlington Memorial to see how my patient with leukemia is doing.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. As long as you don't spend like forever with him.” She shoved a handful of dry Cheerios into her mouth and stood. “I'm gonna go get my wallet.”

Watching her flounce out of the kitchen, he suffered a stabbing pain in the vicinity of his soul. Why couldn't she always be the sweet, loving girl she'd been last night, when she'd wanted to bring Andy Lowenthal brownies? It wasn't as if he believed she shouldn't change and grow and shed her child's skin like a chrysalis, emerging a butterfly-lovely woman. All he wanted was for her not to be so nasty on her journey from here to there.

There was a limit to how much he could blame on hormones. Some of it was just plain Lindsey, a kid who was bored with school, fed up with her teacher and vexed by her father, a girl whose best friend had
moved a thousand miles away and who resented the universe because of it.

A fine drizzle hung in the air as they left the house. He tried not to glance at Susannah's house as he drove past, but he couldn't resist the temptation. Maybe he'd catch a glimpse of her moving about inside.

He saw no sign of life at all, though. All the windows were dark.

Next to him, Lindsey slumped in her seat. She was wearing jeans, a snug-fitting sweater and a windbreaker with Arlington Soccer stitched across the back. She'd played soccer for the past four years, and he'd signed her up for spring soccer again, but he sensed no excitement in her about the impending season. He couldn't imagine her getting revved for it, charging out onto the field and dominating the game the way she had in seasons past. The possibility that she was outgrowing the sport broke his heart.

“So, what's the name of this wonderful new singer again?” he asked, hoping to start a conversation.

She gave him a withering look, then turned on the radio and pressed one of the buttons she'd preset for her favorite stations. “Listen awhile, they'll probably play her song.”

All right, he could take a hint. She didn't want to talk to him. From the radio came the nasal voice of a man wailing about how sometimes life goes sour and a person just needs to explode. Toby wished the windshield wipers could drown out the song.

Traffic was light, and he reached the hospital in ten minutes. He parked in the staff lot. “I'll wait in the car,” Lindsey announced.

“No, you won't. You're coming in with me. I might be a while.”

She frowned, her exasperation obvious. He himself was close to snapping. He wanted to remind her it had been
her
idea to accompany him on this outing when she knew damned well what it was going to entail, and she'd better not complain if he spent a few minutes with Andy Lowenthal. But lately he'd found that arguments with Lindsey were pointless, all heat and no light, and he never felt any better when they were over, even when he won. To lash out at her now would likely spoil the rest of the morning.

So he held his tongue and returned her frown, certain that she'd see just as much exasperation in his face as he saw in hers. Then he shoved open his door and climbed out.

“I'll wait in the gift shop,” she said as soon as they entered the hospital's main lobby.

“You'll come upstairs to pediatrics with me,” he told her. She was not going to set the agenda, especially not after she'd been so snotty in the car.

Pouting, she followed him down the hall, shuffling her feet and affecting that slouching posture he'd noticed yesterday. They reached the elevator and he jabbed the button. When the doors slid open, he saw a familiar face inside: Allison Winslow, a nurse in the neonatal unit of the pediatrics wing.

“Allison!” he greeted her with a rush of relief. Here was a friend, an ally, someone who wouldn't get into a snit over nonsense. He'd known Allison for as long as they'd both been practicing at Arlington Memorial. She'd watched over many of his youngest patients, the newborns and day-olds who remained at the hospital while their mothers recuperated from childbirth. As far as he was concerned, Allison was the heart and soul of her department.

She grinned. “Hey, Toby, what brings you here? Did you pull a Saturday shift?”

“No, I'm just stopping by to see how a patient of mine is bearing up. Do you remember my daughter? Lindsey, this is Nurse Winslow,” he introduced them.

“Or is it McCoy?” Allison had gotten married a year ago.

“Still Winslow,” she told him. “It's a tradition in my family. No matter what—or
who
—happens to us, we always remain Nurse Winslow.”

“Allison is the third generation of nurses in her family,” Toby told his daughter, who looked painfully bored by the conversation.

Allison smiled at her. “Of course I remember you, Lindsey. You were at the July Fourth barbecue last year, weren't you?”

“Yeah, right,” Lindsey mumbled, studying her thumbnail. As soon as the elevator doors slid open, she bolted, shouting over her shoulder, “I'll be in the kiddy gift shop,” as she jogged down the hall.

Toby let out a long, weary breath. It was one thing for her to be rude to him, but quite another for her to be rude to Allison. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. “She's in a foul mood this morning.”

Allison gazed down the hall after her. “She's changed so much since last summer.”

“Tell me about it.” Dejection echoed in every word.

“She's practically a teenager.”

“She hasn't even turned eleven yet. She's too young to be a teenager. She's just acting like one.” He scruffed a hand through his hair, wondering whether Lindsey was deliberately trying to embarrass him by behaving like a brat in front of his colleagues, or whether she was completely indifferent about how she came
across to others. “I wish I knew how to get through to her. Sometimes…” Like last night, he thought. “Sometimes she's the most wonderful kid in the world. Other times, it's as though her body has been inhabited by some alien creature.”

“I bet she feels that way, too,” Allison remarked thoughtfully.

He turned to her, puzzled. Attired in a powder-blue T-shirt under a white coat and white slacks, with her stethoscope draped around her neck and her long, curly hair held back from her face with a barrette, she looked both professional and blessedly confident, not the least bit offended by Lindsey's behavior.

“What do you mean—she feels that way?”

“As though she doesn't know who's in her body. Or what happened to her old body. Or who she is.”

“I survived adolescence,” he argued. “I don't recall it being all that confusing.”

“You're you,” Allison pointed out. “Lindsey's Lindsey. Besides, you're a guy, which makes a big difference.”

He swallowed a groan. This was part of it, he knew, part of what troubled him about his daughter. “I haven't got a wife to help her through this,” he said, trying not to sound bitter about that miserable fact. He didn't want sympathy; he was just stating the truth.

“I know, Toby.” Allison gave his arm a gentle pat.

“Maybe that makes it harder for you. It's possible she'd be behaving just as badly with a mother as she is with you, but if you had a wife for moral support, it would help.”

“Well.” He shrugged and forced a smile. “I guess I'll have to do without moral support, then. Unless you've got some to spare,” he added hopefully.

She smiled. “As a matter of fact, I might. Why don't you try the Daddy School?”

“The what?”

“The Daddy School. It's a program my friend Molly Saunders-Russo and I started two years ago. We give classes on parenting designed just for fathers. I work with expectant fathers and fathers of newborns. Molly offers classes to fathers of older kids. You'd probably find it useful.”

He probably would. It certainly couldn't hurt. “When do these classes meet?” he asked, acknowledging that taking them
could
hurt his already overburdened schedule.

“I think Molly has a couple of evening sessions for fathers of older children. I'm not sure when she holds them, but I can give you her number and you can call her yourself.” Allison gestured for him to follow her to the nurses' station in the neonatal department. Once there, she grabbed a notepad with a pharmaceutical company's logo printed on it and jotted down her friend's name, along with a phone number. “This is the number of the preschool she operates, so don't panic when you call and hear lots of screaming toddlers in the background. It's really a top-notch preschool. Molly knows her stuff.”

“About preschoolers,” he said dubiously.

“And older children, too.”

“Does she have any kids of her own?” he asked, still skeptical. Who could possibly understand what he was going through, other than someone who'd gone through the same thing?

“A three-and-a-half-year-old stepson and a baby on the way,” Allison said with a smile. “I know—you think that means she's no expert. But I'll tell you, her
stepson was quite a handful when he came into her life. His parents were divorced and he had some serious issues to work through. He was smack in the middle of the Terrible Twos, which is the same thing as adolescence except that the kid is shorter. Molly fell in love with Michael before she even fell in love with his father. She knows how to handle the tough cases. Trust me—you're in good hands with her. And really, what have you got to lose?”

Nothing,
he thought. His daughter was already half lost to him. He was clinging hard to the other half, but he felt her slipping like sand through his fingers.