The Boss and Nurse Albright (8 page)

Claire had managed to find the dwindling spring of life at the bottom of his well. He’d been bone-dry until then, and she’d tapped into what was left of him. Made him feel almost human again. He’d wanted more; had that been so awful?

He was supposed to have been with Jessica and Hanna the day of the accident, but the new medical clinic had delayed him.
Go ahead,
he’d said over the cellphone.
I’ll drive up later and meet you there.
They’d planned a weekend in Pismo Beach.

He didn’t deserve to be alive, or to feel, or to enjoy anything.

He wouldn’t slip up again.

M
ONDAY
morning, Claire and René had the medical clinic kitchen to themselves.

René poured herself a large cup of coffee; her full-bodied auburn hair was styled in layers and rested on the white of her doctor’s coat, and Claire admired how she always looked perfectly put together. She’d alluded to Jason’s troubled past in prior conversations, and after Claire had fruitlessly racked her brain all weekend over the cause of Jason’s odd behavior, she needed some answers.

Her divorce had left her wary of men, and maybe the same had happened to Jason, though he never made reference to his ex-wife, as most divorced men did.

They’d had a great dinner together, she’d realized how much she liked him, and he’d kissed her. Then he’d stopped. From one moment to the next, things had changed. Was she a bad kisser? Or had Jason had a sudden change of heart about her?

Something had kept Claire from writing Jason off as another of life’s disappointments wrapped in a male package. She needed to know the whole story before she
did that. She sat beside René and dipped her tea ball in the steaming mug of water.

“You have a minute?” she asked.

“Of course. What’s up?” René’s amber-brown eyes reminded her of a cat’s.

“I can’t figure Jason out. He’s a grouch one minute, kind the next. Did you know that he brought me soup and my pay check when I was sick?”

René’s perfectly made-up eyes widened and her brows rose halfway up her forehead. “Jason brought you soup?”

Claire nodded, with a wan smile at the memory. The man thoroughly confused her.

“He did seem to ask a lot of questions about where you were and what was wrong when you were out sick.”

The notion of Jason worrying about her caused a warm sensation in her chest.

René tilted her head in thought. After several moments and a sip of coffee, she looked Claire in the eyes. “Jason used to be the life of the party. He had more charm than the President,” she said. “His family is filthy rich, in case you didn’t know, and he never wanted for anything. He was a devoted family man. Completely content. And a great doctor. Still is a great doctor, just a little less accessible on the personal level.” René glanced at Claire with a rueful expression.

“Did he get divorced?”

René shook her head. “These days, he’s just doing the best he can.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but before she could her nurse stuck her head around the door.

“Dr. Munroe? Mrs. Callahan is on the phone. She thinks she’s in labor.”

René popped up from her chair. “Looks like my day has officially begun. We’ll talk more later.”

Claire shook her head. If he wasn’t divorced, then what was he?

She’d give Jason some space for now but, having recently been introduced to his passion for the sea, she couldn’t let him continue to sail at half mast. He needed a friend. And if they were going to be friends, he needed to talk. She shook her head, knowing there was no way she could force him to open up and talk. The man was so closed off; he’d probably never bring the subject up. But he’d shown early signs of life at dinner the other night, and there had been passion in his kiss. And she did owe him a dinner.

A relationship was probably the last thing he needed. Or wanted. Come to think of it, it was the last thing she needed, too. They could be friends, and together, as
friends
, they might find a place for him to begin to live again.

And if she were lucky, through that friendship, maybe she could learn to trust again, too.

After a few more moments lost in thought, Claire scrubbed her face with her palms, finished her tea, and set off for her first physical exam of the day.

Breaking through to Jason and becoming his friend seemed too much to ask for, but she’d never shied away from challenges in her life. Why start now?

As the morning wore on Claire’s insecurity got the best of her. How was she supposed to go about this?
Hi, I’m Claire. Can I be your friend because I think you
need one, and I have the audacity to think I can help you?
Ridiculous. She couldn’t even help herself get over her lack of trust. What made her think she could offer Jason anything?

She wound up being a coward and avoided him the rest of the morning.

He’d made it easy by staying in his office with his door closed in between patients. She kicked herself for not having any guts, but just before the end of the morning clinic, she had a perfect excuse to tap on his door.

But Jason’s door was open, and she needed to borrow his more up-to-date drug formulary, so she went inside. She glanced around the bookcase to locate the bright orange 2010 handbook, when her gaze settled on a small picture. A lovely dark-haired woman and a little girl with impish eyes smiled out at her from the delicate frame. They had to be the family René had referred to.

What had happened?

Jason barreled into the room and tossed some paperwork on his desk. Startled, Claire almost dropped the picture.

“Oh,” she said. “I was just looking for your drug formulary.”

“And you decided to snoop while you were in the neighborhood?” He pinned her with an accusatory glare.

“I’m sorry, Jason. I just happened to notice this lovely picture and…”

He walked to another bookcase across from his desk and flipped out the item in question. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

At a total loss for what else to say, she nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” She took the book and retreated to her office, feeling humiliated and angry, and avoided Jason the rest of the afternoon. The man’s barriers were thicker than steel trapdoors.

Frustrated by an afternoon that had seemed to yawn on, Claire arrived home with a bag of groceries and Gina in tow to find a message on her answering machine from her landlady, Mrs. Densmore.

“
Claire, I’m not doing well. Can you check in on me?”

A chill cut through Claire. Mrs. Densmore never complained about anything. Though frail, she was still one of those robust North-eastern transplants who laughed at the spoiled mild climate residents of California, and who could be seen gardening in the foulest coastal weather. Her violet-colored hydrangeas, lipstick-red hibiscus, and cross-bred multi-colored roses were proof positive of her green thumb. She walked daily with a fancy carved walking stick, and scoffed at people who rushed to the doctor for little problems. Only something major would cause her to ask for help.

Claire put the groceries that needed refrigeration away, and left the rest. She gave Gina some wheat crackers and string cheese, took her by the hand and rushed to Mrs. Densmore’s door. It seemed like ages before the woman answered.

On the surface Mrs. Densmore looked her usual self, except she hadn’t bothered to pull her shock of white hair back in a bun. It hung thin and limply on her hunched up shoulders. Her face seemed stiff, dried drool clung to the corners of her mouth, where a peculiar grin
contradicted her plea for help. No, this wasn’t at all like the normal Mrs. Densmore.

“I’m sick,” she said. “I thought it was flu. It’s something else.”

“Do you want me to take you to the urgent care or E.R.?” Claire asked, trying to hide her alarm.

“I don’t want to go there. Can you examine me?”

Now was not the time to argue with someone about their being stubborn. Her landlady needed her help.

Gina wanted to hug Mrs. Densmore the way she always did. Claire bent down to make eye-to-eye contact with her. “Mrs. Densmore is sick, Gina. I need you to be good.”

Gina’s wide blue eyes stared at the older lady. “She thick? I be good.” With that, she walked across the room, patted Mrs. Densmore’s hand, then crawled up on her favorite antique rocking chair and started it in motion. “Where you hurt?”

Mrs. Densmore didn’t respond to Gina, a child she normally showered with attention, and Claire knew the woman needed medical attention.

She cleared her head and opened her nursing bag. Normally, she didn’t do home visits, especially when casual acquaintances were trying to tap her for an easy diagnosis. The liability issue was an entirely different matter. But her landlady wasn’t like that.

She listened to Mrs. Densmore’s list of complaints: back pain, generalized stiffness, and jaw pain for the last week, which had been getting progressively worse. Heart attacks presented with non-traditional symptoms in women. She needed to rule that out. Or a stroke.

“Have you lost consciousness at any time?” Claire asked, and noted the woman’s head shake. “Are you sure?”

Mrs. Densmore gave a sharp stare in answer.

“Give me your hands. Squeeze mine.” Mrs. Densmore’s grip was equal on both sides. Normally she’d ask a patient to smile to help check for stroke, but the odd grin was already in place. And she’d had a steady even gait.

Claire did a head to toe assessment. Mrs. Densmore’s heart rate and rhythm were normal, and so was her blood pressure. Her lungs sounded clear, though it seemed hard for her to take in a deep breath. When Claire got to the woman’s hands, she saw several scratches and one angry, swollen cut on her middle finger.

“Gardening,” Mrs. Densmore said. “Those stubborn roses.” It seemed difficult for her to talk and swallow.

Gardening. Cuts. Generalized stiffness. Facial spasm. A stubborn woman who avoided the doctor. Mrs. Densmore had recently cleared out a new area in the overgrown back yard. The soil hadn’t been disturbed in decades. A dismal thought unnerved Claire. Anaerobic spores in old soil.

“When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

The woman made a
pfft
sound, as if to say
Those silly little things?

Claire didn’t want to make a snap decision, but she had a horrendous feeling that her landlady might be in the early stages of tetanus. But who in the world got tetanus these days? Claire had read a recent article in a geriatric journal about an increased incidence of tetanus in elderly gardeners and, if her memory served her right, the older the patient the higher the fatality rate.

“I’m taking you to the E.R.,” Claire said.

“No. I won’t go.”

“You may have had a heart attack or maybe it’s tetanus!”

“You don’t know that for sure. You’re not a doctor.”

Mrs. Densmore’s traditional and outdated views surprised Claire, but she wasn’t about to argue with the woman in her time of need.

“Then I’ll get one.” And though she’d been a coward all day and had avoided Jason at work, she was worried enough on Mrs. Densmore’s behalf to dig into her purse, fish out her cellphone, locate his number and speed dial it.

“Jason? I need your help. My landlady wants a doctor’s input before she’ll let me take her to the E.R.” Claire gave a frustrated glare at her stubborn landlady. “Where she belongs.”

When Jason offered to come right over instead of brushing her off, Claire was both surprised and relieved. He may have clicked into concerned doctor mode, but it hadn’t made her any less upset with him for being such a jerk earlier.

“How long ago did you get those scratches?” she asked, focusing back on her patient.

“A week or so, but I get scratched up all the time.” The woman looked at her wounded hands, then at Claire. Fear sparked in her eyes. “I started having trouble swallowing today,” she said in a confessional voice. “That’s why I called you.”

Claire rushed to her side and put an arm around her.
“If Dr. Rogers says you need to go to the hospital, please don’t fight him. OK?”

A tinge of regret crossed over Mrs. Densmore’s face. “I know you know what you’re doing. It’s just that I’m afraid to go to the doctor. When Gerald went, he never came home.”

Claire found and handed her a tissue to wipe the brimming tears.

“Medicare can only pay for so much, then you’re on your own,” Mrs. Densmore said. “They wanted to take our house. It’s all I have left.” The Densmores had never had children. The woman didn’t have a family support system that Claire knew of.

“I’ll pay for whatever your insurance doesn’t. Don’t sweat it.” A sharp pang of empathy had Claire making a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. Hell, she could hardly handle her own finances. If she had to, she’d moonlight somewhere in order to help Mrs. Densmore.

Jason must have flown instead of driven because it seemed that only ten minutes later he banged on the mansion door.

Gina ran across the tiled foyer. “Man,” she said with a squeal, pointing to Jason when Claire opened the door.

He crouched beside her. “Hey, squirt. What’s new?”

Gina jumped up and down. “I drawed you pictures.”

“And they were pretty,” he said.

“Pwetty.” Gina ran around in circles to show her delight. “Pwetty!”

Though distracted at first, Claire and Jason greeted each other cautiously. She thought she’d noticed a hint of contrition in his expression, but he didn’t apologize.
Claire was grateful to see him and, since they were both focused on a medical condition, none of the awkward fallout she’d imagined there’d be after their first kiss and his subsequent jerk attack at work existed.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he’d convinced Mrs. Densmore where she needed to be. They got the woman into his car and decided that Claire would stay home with Gina.

Jason backed the silver Mercedes sedan out of the circular driveway. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

By eight o’clock, Claire had fed and bathed Gina, read her a goodnight story, and put her to bed. She’d changed into more comfortable clothing—navy-blue velvet warm ups—and fed Mrs. Densmore’s litter of cats, then tried to catch up on her
Holistic Health
journal reading, though she had trouble concentrating. By quarter to ten she thought about calling Jason, but didn’t want to interfere if he was still at the E.R.

At 10:00 p.m. she heard tapping at her door and reacted with static electricity on her arms and up her neck.

There he stood, hair across his brow, looking depleted but with enough energy to engage her with a single earnest glance. “You were right,” he said with half a smile. He followed her into the living room, took off his jacket and laid it over the back of couch, then sat. She joined him on the opposite end, aware of his aftershave and evening stubble.