The reception desk was waist-high and stretched the width of the room. No one was sitting behind it as I approached, but a nameplate, Nora Wishart, was propped up on the polished Formica. I stood there for a few minutes listening to the phone ring and looking for a bell to push, waiting for Ms. Wishart to appear. “Hello?” I warbled hopefully.
A voice somewhere behind me said, “He’ll be out in a minute. You’ll just have to wait. Nora’s not here, so things are a little backed up.”
The advice came from a very pregnant young woman, sprawled uncomfortably in the molded plastic chair, her feet stretched straight out in front of her.
“I see.” I lounged against the counter and watched in fascination as the blond kid colored Mickey Mouse green with an orange face. A red feather gradually took shape over the top of Mickey’s head. “That’s a nice hat,” I said.
He scowled up at me as if I were the stupidest grown-up in three counties. “That’s not a hat.” Tongue protruding with the effort, he ground the red crayon up and down a few more times over Mickey’s ears. “His hair’s on fire.”
I was imagining how the little monster would look with a violet blue Crayola shoved up his nose when Dr. Chase suddenly appeared, helping an elderly woman into her coat. “Don’t forget now. One of the white pills and one of the blue pills with each meal. Here, I’ve written it down for you.” He pressed a piece of paper into the woman’s hand, watched with patience as she transferred the paper to her purse, then opened the front door for her. Dr. Chase stood there for a few minutes observing the woman’s progress as she tottered down the sidewalk. When she had safely reached her car, he turned and addressed the pregnant woman. “I believe you’re next, Mrs. Quigley.
Mrs. Quigley struggled to her feet, but before the doctor could get away, I thought I’d better let him know I was there. I crossed the room, grinding one of the brat’s crayons into the carpet with my heel. “Dr. Chase, I’m Hannah Ives. I can see you’re very busy, but I just wanted to know if you would be able to see me today. I fell off my sister-in law’s boat-”
Dr. Chase ran a hand through hair that was thick and dark, except for a bald spot in the back the size of a pancake. “Of course, but I’ll probably be another hour or so.” He spoke to Mrs. Quigley. “Excuse me for a minute, will you?” The phone was ringing again, and he reached over the counter to answer it. With the receiver tucked between his ear and shoulder, he retrieved a clipboard with a blank form attached to it along with a ballpoint pen on a string. He made a scribbling motion with his fingers, then nodded in the direction of the waiting room. I gathered from this pantomime that I was to have a seat and fill out the darn thing.
I took the clipboard, mouthed a thank-you, and eased myself into the chair that had been well warmed by the mother-to-be.
Numbers! So many numbers. And boxes to check (both sides). Sometimes I could almost forget that I’d had cancer until something like this cropped up as a grim reminder. I hurriedly filled out the medical questionnaire and turned to more interesting matters, true facts that can only be gleaned by reading old issues of People and Time. I didn’t know that Loretta Young had had a daughter out of wedlock with Clark Gable! Amazing! Doctor’s offices can be such educational experiences, like standing in long checkout lines at the grocery, catching up with the tabloids. I was in the middle of an article about Fergie, Duchess of York, when the phone rang. Nobody picked up. It rang and rang and rang, insistent and shrill. I couldn’t stand it. I crossed to the counter, reached out, snatched the receiver off the hook, and said, “Doctor’s office.” Someone wanted to cancel an appointment. I wrote the information down on a slip of paper torn off a prescription pad, then returned to my magazine.
The blond kid was eventually dragged away from his artwork by a father with nerves of steel and the patience of Job, and the room gradually emptied until it was just me and the old fellow sitting next to me. By now his chin had dropped to his chest, and he was snoring loudly.
Dr. Chase appeared and waved a man dressed in overalls, like a farmer, out the door. “Sir?” I jiggled the old guy’s arm. “Sir. I believe you’re next.”
He awoke with a snort. “Hunh?” When he finally remembered where he was, he stood, patted both breast pockets of his tweed jacket and produced a brown plastic prescription vial. “Just need a refill.” He thrust the empty container in the doctor’s direction. “For this.”
Dr. Chase smiled. “I am sorry you had to wait so long, Mr. Finch, particularly when it wasn’t necessary. It says here on the label ‘two refills.’ Just take this bottle directly to the pharmacy next time. No need to wait here.”
“Oh.” Finch turned the bottle in his hands and stared at the label, looking forlorn. “Lucy would have known that.”
“I’m sure she would have. I’ll call the pharmacy for you, shall I? Then it’ll be ready when you get there.” Dr. Chase escorted Finch to the door with one arm encircling his shoulders. When the old man was safely away, Dr. Chase flipped a sign on the door from Open to Closed, pushed it shut, and leaned back against it with a sigh. “Whew! What a madhouse! My nurse is down with the flu, and my office manager was called out of town early yesterday on a family emergency. Phone’s been ringing off the hook.”
“Yes, I know. I took a call for you. A Mrs. Allen apologizes profusely and says she won’t be able to keep her appointment at ten tomorrow.” I handed him the scrap of paper along with the clipboard and the questionnaire I had filled out.
He studied the note first, then tucked it into the pocket of his lab coat. “Well, thank heaven for small favors.” He scanned my questionnaire. “Oh, right. You’re Paul Ives’s wife.” He appraised me over the top of his glasses, and I hoped he’d been too busy to watch the local news this week.
I shifted my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and waited to be embarrassed, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes moved rapidly down the page. I could tell by the raised eyebrow when he got to the mastectomy part.
“You’ve had a rough week, haven’t you?” he said at last. “First finding the body. Now, what’s this about falling off a boat?”
“Well, I didn’t fall off… not exactly. I just sort of hung off. Pulled the muscles here.” I touched my left side. “It’s awfully painful.” I rotated my shoulder.
“Can you raise your arm?” He demonstrated by extending his arms to his sides like a football referee calling off sides.
I held my arms out from my body at a ninety-degree angle. “That’s as far as I can stretch without screaming.”
Dr. Chase grinned. “If you can do that, I shouldn’t worry. There’s probably nothing that a day or two of taking it easy won’t cure. Wait here just a minute.”
He disappeared down the hall and through a swinging door. He appeared again a few minutes later with a handful of colorful packets. “Here are a few painkillers. Should be enough to get you through the next couple of days.”
I cupped my hands as a few dozen packets cascaded into them. “Cute,” I said.
“They’re samples. Pharmaceutical companies inundate me with the stuff. Thought I’d save you a few bucks.”
I crammed the tablets into my purse. “Thanks, Doctor. What do I owe you?”
“Not a thing. You answered the phone. Remember?”
I shrugged. “No problem. It was self-defense. Ringing phones make me crazy.”
Dr. Chase began pulling down the window shades, preparing to close the office for the day. I didn’t want to leave until I had asked him about Katie, but in spite of all the time I’d just spent sitting in his waiting room thinking, I still hadn’t come up with a subtle way to phrase it.