Mel Sheridan had been toying with a new concept lately. Screaming. How would it feel to scream herself blue? To cut loose with a holy howl powerful enough to shatter glass. Like that little girl in Jurassic Park. Except, hiding as she was in a bathroom stall, she was about as far away from Jurassic Park as she would ever hope to be.
Wellstone Cancer Care Clinic.
A new wave, new age, interactive, holistic, patient-centered, team-approached organization dedicated to the utter eradication and downright humiliation of cancer. Their motto might as well have been: If We Can’t Beat It, At Least We’ll Teach It A Lesson.
While Mel would have preferred a little less Pollyanna positivity and more honest-to-God truth-telling, she wasn’t the patient. It had been her mom’s call, and Julia liked it here.
Cancer is an absolute bastard. It’s random and sneaky. And just like the devil, it’s got all the time in the world. Right when you think you’re in the clear, it swoops in with a vengeance. Julia had beat it, after chemo and a double mastectomy, she’d been cancer-free for twelve years, but at her annual visit last year, two spots were found on her lung, which was how she ended up at Wellstone. The first round of chemo this time was hard, but Mel and Julia knew how to get through it. Practice makes perfect.
Except it didn’t work. The cancer had spread to her bones, so now Dr. Shaw sold Julia on a new experimental drug, which was worse than anything they’d tried to date. Never mind keeping down food and water, Julia was in near constant pain, but she never complained, not even to the doctor.
What Mel saw when she looked around Wellstone were patients—in various stages of pale, balding emaciation—who seemed to buy into this deliberately upbeat atmosphere. As if there was something noble about fighting cancer. As if cancer played fair. Hope was currency around here. But there was a fine line between hope and self-delusion. Of course, Mel never shared her thoughts on that subject.
No, no.
Not while there was an empty bathroom stall to hide in. Or better yet, a sound-proof, padded room. That would do wonders for morale. Maybe she should drop a note in the suggestion box.
She emerged from her bathroom stall, shook out her clenched fists, and fired finger guns at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her mother will get through this. Mel donned a confident—if fake—smile and left the restroom.
Trisha Gregson, one of the nurses, stopped Mel with a cheery hello, almost as if she was lying in wait. Mel muttered something vaguely positive-sounding. Around here, it didn’t really matter what you said, as long as you said it with a smile.
As close as Trisha was standing, Mel had to tip her head back to speak to her. Why do tall people do that? Mel was a skosh over five-one on a good day. Trisha must have been closer to five-nine in her bare feet.
For some reason, Trisha made an effort to engage Mel in conversation. In and of itself, this was not unusual at Wellstone. It was common to see staff mingling with patients and their families. It was all part of their “patient comes first” philosophy. They didn’t overbook appointments, to avoid keeping patients waiting. Consequently, there were blocks of ten or fifteen minutes throughout the day where doctors and nurses were encouraged to shoot the breeze with patients while they waited for their next appointment to arrive. Imagine that— a medical facility that kept the doctors waiting.
Trisha seemed young, just out of college. She was impeccably dressed, with the kind of crisp perfection that suggested money, so clearly, she wasn’t here for the nurse’s salary. Mel had noticed that a Gregson family was near the top of the list of donors in the lobby, so maybe Trisha considered this the ‘family business,’ or just a good place to find a husband. That whole hero-worship thing. Mel did her best to keep up her end of the conversation, but she had no idea why Trisha took an interest in her.
“You know, everybody around here just loves your mom,” Trisha said, walking down the corridor with her.
Mel nodded but didn’t respond. What was she supposed to say, me, too?
“She’s so funny,” Trisha added. “Such a bright nature and, like, positive attitude.”
“Yeah. I guess it skips a generation.”
There was something vaguely predatory behind Trisha’s coy smile, though Mel was hard-pressed to figure out what it was. She couldn’t help but admire Trisha’s shoes. Pink Jimmy Choo stilettos, no doubt, perfectly matched to her form-fitting dress. She wore a tailored lab coat with every ensemble, just like a pretend doctor. High fashion—never scrubs. Would you wear scrubs with four-inch heels?
If Mel ever wore shoes like that, she’d look like a wobbly circus performer on stilts. But Trisha was a natural beauty, statuesque, even without the heels. Mel figured Trisha and Julia’s ridiculously handsome doctor were an item. Mel wasn’t jealous, any more than a jackrabbit would be jealous of a racehorse. They both get to the finish line. If she envied Trisha at all, it was for her confidence. Mel could never go up to a slight acquaintance and strike up a conversation, but for some reason, Trisha made a point of talking to Mel.
“And you know your mom is in really good hands here. Henry—I mean Dr. Shaw—is the best.”
“Good to know. Hey, by the way,” Mel said, indicating the children’s crayon drawings on Henry’s office door. This part of the clinic included the waiting room for children and families, with lots of games and toys in the center of the seating area, and large windows taking in the sparkling Elliott Bay and Seattle’s waterfront. Most of the stick-figure drawings which plastered Henry’s office door depicted a man holding a child’s hand, with the word ‘ONKODOC.’ “We were wondering what this word is. Is it some kind of medical jargon?”
“It’s his nickname.”
“What does it mean?”
Trisha drifted over one hip. “Well, as you know, when it’s cancer, we don’t just treat the patient. We treat the family.”
Mel nodded. It was in the brochure.
Trisha continued, warming to the topic. “So, a while back, Dr. Shaw met the granddaughter of one of his patients. He told her he was an oncologist, and she thought that meant something like ‘uncle,’ so she started calling him that. She made him a drawing, like these ones here, and you know, it caught on. Now all the kids call him Onkodoc.”
“That’s pretty cool,” Mel said.
“He loves children. He often comes out here on his lunch break and joins in the games. He reads to them. Sometimes they follow him around the clinic.”
“Wow. A regular Doogie Howser, MD.”
Trisha blinked, nonplussed.
“Don’t you know Doogie Howser?” Mel asked. “Neil Patrick Harris? Sitcom about a teenage doctor?”
Trisha shrugged. “I mean, I’ve like, heard of it?”
“Well, anyhoo,” Mel said, “Onkodoc. That is cool.”
And suddenly there he was, big as life. Dr. Henry Shaw. Like Mel, he was in his mid-thirties, six feet tall, but with his thick blond hair and blue eyes, had lost none of his boyish charm. He and Trisha resembled a matched set, like the king and queen on an elegant chessboard.
He had stolen up behind Trisha and said, “My ears are burning.”
“Oh no,” Trisha said with concern. “Are you okay?”
It took Henry and Mel a second to register that she didn’t get the phrase. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Just a saying. Means somebody’s talking about me.”
“Although, to be fair Trisha,” Mel offered, “it’s an expression used by people over the age of eighty.”
Henry responded, “What’s the modern equivalent?”
“I don’t think there is one,” Mel said sweetly. “That’s why it went out of style.”
Trisha broke in, “Mel just wanted to know how you got your nickname.”
“Ah,” he said, head bowed in mock humility. “The legend continues.”
Oy vey.
“Anyway,” Trisha sighed and cocked her head. “I guess I’d better get back to work.”
“Take it easy, Trisha,” Mel said, watching her go, then turning to Henry. “Yikes. You stumped her.”
“Well, she’s young,” Henry said. “Younger than you and me, anyway.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Wow.”
Mel had become more comfortable with Henry once she’d decided he wasn’t hitting on her. He was seriously good-looking, like the sexy boy next door in a GQ ad. He’d once asked her for coffee out in the lobby, and again for a meet-up at the vending machine (fine dining), but she’d always refused, never sure if he was joking. With persistence though, he’d worn down her natural wariness. She even looked forward to their banter now and had begun to poke fun at the way he took such care with his appearance. Ooh, something smells good—oh wait—it must be you.
She never let him get away with the effect he had on other females. They swooned in his presence. They gushed. No matter if they were five years old, or eighty-five, they would do anything he said. If he were to tell them the cure for cancer was to put boxer shorts on your head, put pencils up your nose and say ‘Wubble,’ they would do it.
When he bestowed his considerable charm on a person, it was hard to look away. With that crooked smile, he could have any woman he wanted. Mel considered it her bounden duty to bring him down a peg whenever possible. Somebody had to do it.
He teased her right back, which was pretty gutsy of him. Mel wasn’t very good at laughing at herself, but he wasn’t mean-spirited, so she let him get away with it. Like the way he would tell her not to bite her fingernails because if she worked in medicine, she would never, ever put her fingers in her mouth. Or talk about the importance of a healthy diet when she had a mouthful of Cheetos. He was like an annoying older brother, who, being bigger and stronger, would love to wrestle you to the ground and rub your face in the grass. Not literally, of course. Just that frat-boy mentality. Jock humor.
For all that, he did seem like a good doctor. Thorough, attentive, and caring. Always with some new strategy in reserve in case the current therapy failed. Mel wanted so badly to tell him her mom was having shooting pains in her hands and feet, but it wasn’t her call, so she kept her mouth shut on that topic. They would get through this, like they’d done before.
Although Mel would sooner eat nails than admit it, she took a gander at his LinkedIn profile, where it said he was the youngest partner at Wellstone. It was his singular goal while in med school that ‘nothing would stand in his way’ from working for this world-renowned organization. He was still young enough that the magical potential of modern medicine hadn’t quite lost its luster, in his eyes.
Mel had spent a major portion of her youth in doctor’s offices, so she knew better. She’d learned doctors don’t have all the answers, much as they want you to think they do.
“Let me guess,” Dr. Shaw said, indicating Mel’s outfit. “Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz?.”
“Hardly,” she said, smoothing out her skirt/sweater set, which she wore with ankle socks and saddle shoes. “I prefer Ginger Rogers in Stage Door.” She hooked her thumb in Trisha’s direction. “Do you realize she never watched Doogie Howser?”
“That was a classic.”
“And you’re practically the spitting image.”
“Oh, you think so.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall, a couple of feet away from her, as if he’d noticed how gigantic he appeared next to her tiny frame.
“How did you know how old I am?” she asked.
“Huh? Oh, that. Your mom must have mentioned it,” he said.
“My mom?” Maybe he’d been looking her up too?
“Yeah, you know. She’s proud of you. Said you graduated Phi Beta Kappa.”
“Your point?”
“You look a lot younger than that.”
Here we go, she groaned inwardly and walked away toward the exam room where Julia was waiting. With her diminutive size and pageboy haircut, most people assumed she was in high school. She was an editor at Windsor Press. When she would meet with a new author at the office, they invariably assumed she was the intern and ask her to get them a cup of coffee.
He caught up to her. “When did you get your BA?”
“2017.” Where was he going with this?
“Me, too.”
“What a coincidence. You, me, and three thousand other people.”
“Hear me out. By any chance, did you work in food service?”
“For a while…”
“Was it Husky Den?”
“Local Point.” One of the many eateries on campus.
“Yes! That was it! You got in a fight with a girl!”
Mel dropped her head and clenched her fists. “Okay, she started it.” This had been her stupid claim to fame in college. Some girl had accused Mel of stealing her boyfriend just because she was talking to him, and it got physical. Even though there were dozens of people around, no one had tried to stop it. He would bring something like that up.
“Oh jeez, it was you,” he managed, hands-on-knees laughing.
For a charming guy, he could be a real jerk. Looking around, she could see they were attracting attention, so she kept walking around the corner.
“When she dropped that sheet cake over your head, I nearly lost it. I thought you looked familiar, but once I got to know you better, I figured it couldn’t have been you. You seem too young…”
“As my best friend likes to say, ‘until I open my mouth.”
“God, that was hilarious,” he said, still chuckling.
“Really?” Her eyes narrowed. “Thanks. I’m so glad my public beating and humiliation provided entertainment for you and your genius fraternity brothers.”
They were standing outside the exam room now, but he made no effort to go inside.
“How did you know I was in a fraternity?” His eyes sparkled now, but at least he’d stopped laughing.
“Please. It’s practically tattooed on your forehead.”
“Okay, smarty, which one?”
“You have more than one forehead?”
“What?” He blinked. “No, which fraternity?”
“Ah,” Mel said. “Aren’t they all the same?” she added with sugared innocence.
“Ow!” He clutched his chest. “You must not have been in a sorority.”
“And you’re just now figuring that out? I thought doctors were supposed to be smart.”
“You’ve gotta admit though, after all these years, it was pretty funny.”
“Must I?”
“It’s not something you see every day.”
“More’s the pity,” she said, her hand on the exam room door.
“But seriously.” His voice was a rumble now, too low for others to hear, his hand lightly over hers. “You were… dignified. Even with the cake. That was what I remembered.”
She felt like a butterfly in a jar under his warm gaze. Words. Words would be handy now.
As close as he was standing, she could feel the vibration of his voice inside of her. She wasn’t immune. This was why she generally kept her distance from him.
He bit his lip. “Not everyone looks good in chocolate.” He clicked his teeth.
And… the moment was gone.
He followed her into the exam room where Mel was able to put some space between them and regain her equilibrium.
Julia was seated on the exam table, looking down at her knees, but she put on a big smile when they came in. No matter how awful she felt, she never wanted the doctor to feel bad. The doctor who gave her the drugs that made her sick. It drove Mel crazy.
Even in her current condition, though, Julia always looked so put-together. She didn’t dress in vintage togs like Mel, but she loved to wear bright colors because she taught second grade. She said that her little charges had to stare at her all day long, she might as well give them something interesting to look at, with pithy sayings like, “Cursing Cursive is cool.”
When she’d learned she was going to lose her hair again, Julia had invested in a human hair wig. Sounded gross to Mel but it didn’t look like a wig at all. It was medium brown with shades of red in the right light. Julia said she was going to keep wearing it after the treatment. Then on Halloween, she could come to school with wild, spiky hair, and show up the next day looking perfectly normal.
“Hello, Mrs. Sheridan,” Henry said smoothly. “How are you feeling today?”
