I only hoped, how I hoped, that I would have someone precious and loving alongside me when I pushed away from the shore and began the journey.


5

  Is Love for Me?

Although I had assured Mommy I would have no trouble working in the hospital near Jack Weller, I couldn't help feeling as if my heart was wound in tight rubber bands when I stepped off the cable car and walked to the hospital the following day. The sky was heavily overcast and gray with rain only minutes away. In fact, the air was so humid I thought I saw drops forming right before my eyes. Sophie had already arrived. She had come early because she had a ride that brought her within a half dozen blocks and she could save the cable fare. Fortunately, Jack Weller wasn't coming on duty until midway through my shift, so for the first few hours at least I wouldn't have to confront him.

But when Sophie and I returned from lunch, Jack was standing in the hallway talking to one of the nurses. He gazed our way and smiled as if nothing at all had happened between us. I hadn't said a word about it to Sophie, so she thought Jack was just being his usual funny and flirtatious self. I went directly to the linen room. Sheila Delacrois, the young woman who I had thought had trouble with her gallbladder, did have a problem and had been taken upstairs for an operation. Afterward she would go to recovery and she wouldn't return to our floor, so I had to change her bed and prepare it for a new patient.

I was busy stacking the pillowcases and sheets when I heard the door of the linen closet close softly behind me. I spun around to discover Jack standing there, his back against the door, his hands behind him on the knob.

"Open the door," I demanded.

"I just want to talk to you privately for a moment," he replied.

"We have nothing to discuss. Just open the door," I insisted.

"Look, I want to apologize. Maybe I stepped over the line, went too far too quickly. Because of how intelligent you are, I thought you were more sophisticated. It was my mistake. I admit it. I just want to say it won't do dither of us any good to talk about this to others."

"You don't have to worry. I won't say anything to anyone. However, I did tell my mother," I added.

"Your mother?" His eyebrows looked as if they might lift right off his face.

"Yes. I don't hide things from my mother. We're very close."

"What did she say?"

"She didn't want my father to know. She thought he would come here and break your neck," I said dryly. Jack Weller swallowed hard and nodded. "I don't know what sort of a doctor you're going to be," I added, hot tears in my eyes.

"Hey, one thing has nothing to do with another. When I'm on duty, I'm a true professional."

"If you're not sensitive to people's feelings, it doesn't matter how much you know or how professional you appear," I retorted.

He smirked and shook his head. "I've seen girls like you before. Actually, I ran into your type throughout college and med school. You're too smart for your own good, know-it-alls who won't admit to their own feelings. You could have had a good time yesterday if you had let down your hair."

"I can live with the disappointment," I remarked dryly. My hot tears evaporated, and the trembling left my body. It was quickly replaced by cold anger, my fury showing in my eyes, eyes that glared down Jack Weller's arrogant smirk.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself." He opened the door. My heart was pounding and my hands were clenched into small fists. He paused in the open doorway, checking first to be sure no one was close enough to overhear his remarks. "I feel sorry for the poor jerk who makes love to you the first time. He'll probably feel as if he's just had a medical exam," Jack added and closed the door behind him.

The tears that had been kept in check under my eyelids poured free. How many men would accuse me of the same thing? I wondered. When would I find someone with whom I truly wanted to be affectionate and warm? Was I too cold, too impersonal, too analytical for my own good? Every boyfriend I'd had eventually deserted me, and now someone I thought was sophisticated and knowledgeable had accused me of the same crime, if it was a crime.

No matter how reassuring Mommy had been and would be, no matter how many books I read on the subject or how many other girls I questioned, I would always have these doubts about myself, I thought. Was I someone for whom the magic of love, the mystery of passion, would remain unattainable? Was it a curse or a blessing that I had what Claude had called X-ray eyes?

"Why is it," he had asked one time when he had tried to get me to make love with him and I retreated, "that I feel like you're looking at me and seeing spleens and kidneys and lungs and not me?"

Of course I told him he was wrong, but as we kissed and he pressed himself against me, I was thinking about his quickened breathing, his quick hardness, and the moist feel of his skin and wondering how the nervous system was triggered by sexual arousal and how different organs were affected. I guess I was some sort of brain monster.

The twins used to try to frighten me by bringing in worms and bugs, and they were always disappointed by my calmness. To satisfy them, I even tried to pretend to be as shocked as most girls my age would be if they found thick night crawlers in their sink or a daddy longlegs in their face cream jar, but I had no problem picking them up and putting them outside.

Pierre and Jean actually complained to Mommy about it. "Pearl isn't afraid to pick up a frog or a big black beetle!"

Mommy smiled and told them I had probably inherited my grandmother's love of animals. Even though she had never known her mother, she told us her grandmère Catherine described her mother as someone who felt comfortable with alligators and whom all creatures trusted. Birds would light on her shoulder and feed out of her palm. "Pearl's got that in her," Mommy had explained.

But was it that, or was I so scientific that I lacked feminine qualities? Couldn't I be interested in science and still be a warm, loving person?

I wiped away the tears and took a deep breath. Then I returned to my work and kept my mind on the tasks I was assigned. A wall of impersonal professionalism fell between me and Jack Weller. He made no more attempts at small talk, and if I walked into a room where he was, he would merely glance at me and then return to whatever he was doing.

There were other doctors—older, more accomplished professionals—with whom I had some conversations. Once they learned of my ambitions they were eager to speak with me and give me advice. If I went into a patient's room to replace a water pitcher or to bring juice or toast and tea, and a doctor was speaking to the patient in the other bed, I would linger and listen, learning about the diagnosis and treatment.

In the evenings I would tell Daddy about these things. He would listen, his eyes bright with interest and his lips relaxed in a tiny smile. If Mommy was there, too, she would sit back, her eyes full of pride, and she and Daddy would exchange secret glances.

Pierre and Jean were interested only in gory details. Had I seen another dead person? Did I see a lot of blood and broken bones? Most of my days were quite routine without any real emergencies, and in the twins' eyes those days were boring. Of course they were enjoying their summer—swimming in our pool, having their friends over, playing Little League base-ball, collecting insects in jars. I told them not to take these days for granted, that time would flow by quickly and before they knew it, they would have to bear down and work hard to become successful at something. Jean didn't want to hear such advice, but Pierre would nod and give me a knowing look.

In early July Mommy's new exhibition was ready. It was being held at one of the newer galleries in the French Quarter. The impressive guest list for the opening included high government officials, doctors and lawyers, big businessmen, and some entertainers. The twins hated having to dress up and keep themselves spotless on the day of the opening. Mommy insisted that they wear identical dark blue suits with silk ties. She bought them shiny new shoes and Daddy took them for haircuts. They did look handsome, if uncomfortable, confined in their new clothes and forbidden to do anything that would dirty their hands or faces or stain their suits.

Jean kept pulling on his collar and moaning that he was choking to death. "Dressing up is dumb, Pearl," he groaned. "You've got to worry about furniture being too dusty or about brushing up against something greasy, and boys have to wear these stupid ties."

"You look so handsome, Jean. Both of you do, and you're doing it for Mommy. You know how big a day this is for her," I explained. Jean nodded, reluctantly agreeing; but a few minutes later he was teasing Pierre by deliberately stepping on his shoes and messing up his hair, then running off through the house. Daddy had to pull them both aside and give them a stern lecture, after which they both sat waiting with their hands folded-in their laps, looking glum.

For a while the music and the excitement at the exhibition kept them amused. Daddy had given them instructions about how they should behave at the gallery, but the moment we all arrived, Daddy and Mommy were surrounded by friends, guests, and the press. The twins slipped away from me and explored. Every once in a while I caught sight of them darting in and out among clusters of people, gobbling hot hors d'oeuvres, and even sneaking a sip of wine. I cornered them a few times and had them sit quietly, but moments later they were gone.