Anniversary Dance
Marie Anderson
Alex Whitten forced himself to talk slowly to his last patient of the day. He had only himself to blame for being way behind schedule. His lunch with Melissa had once again ended in a Motel Six room.
But that would never happen again. He’d promised himself. He’d told Melissa.
Dr. Whitten patted his patient’s knee. “I perform over 400 of these IRCs each year, Mr. Bolton. This pulsing technique reduces tissue damage because it removes your hemorrhoids gradually. It won’t take more than five visits, probably only three.”
“Say again, Doc?”
Dr. Whitten sighed and repeated what he’d just said. Mr. Bolton was only 73, the same age as the current leader of the free world, but unlike President Reagan, Mr. Bolton was hard of hearing, mottled with brown age spots, and charmless.
A sharp knock-knock-knock on the door was loud enough for even Mr. Bolton to hear. “Come on in, honey!” Mr. Bolton shouted. He winked a watery, bloodshot eye at Dr. Whitten.
Melissa opened the door. Her purse hung from her shoulder, and her jacket, a soft brown leather jacket Dr. Whitten had given her for Valentine’s Day, was folded over her arm.
“I’ve switched to the answering service, Doctor,” she said. She blinked blue eyes still swollen and glittery. “Okay if I leave now?”
Dr. Whitten nodded.
“Take care of those allergies, honey,” Mr. Bolton ordered.
“Oh.” Melissa stepped into the examining room. She held out a white square of paper. “Your wife called, Doctor. She said she didn’t want to interrupt you. Just wanted me to give you a message.”
Dr. Whitten took the folded square of paper. He kept his fingers from touching hers.
“Thanks, Melissa.” He smiled. “Have a nice evening. See you tomorrow.”
She nodded and managed a smile. Her lips trembled, her nostrils quivered, and her eyes stayed sad.
After she left, he unfolded the message and read his wife’s request: Hurry home.” He crumpled the note and dropped it in the wastebasket.
“Someone broke your girl’s heart,” Mr. Bolton said.
Dr. Whitten froze. “What?” How did the old guy know about Lola? His only child. His beautiful daughter. Exactly one year ago so much had broken. His heart. His wife’s heart. And Lola. Lola broken and gone. He felt his eyes burn with unshed grief and rage. He frowned at Mr. Bolton. “Say again, Mr. Bolton?”
“Your girl,” Mr. Bolton said. “Melissa. Saddest puppy dog eyes I ever seen. Someone musta broke her heart.”
“Oh.” He patted Mr. Bolton on his back. “Just allergies, I think, Mr. Bolton. Like you said. So. Ready?”
~ ~ ~
Later, Dr. Whitten found himself stopped at a railroad crossing. The gates were down, the bells were clanging, and a freight train slowly groaned and creaked as it lurched into view. Like a dying beast, the train shuddered and wheezed until it finally came to a complete stop. Just the locomotive’s nose was in the crossing, blocking two lanes of the west bound traffic. Dr. Whitten was in the inside westbound lane, ten cars back.
He gritted his teeth, looked again at his watch. He was now forty-three minutes late for the first anniversary. He’d promised his wife this morning that he’d be home long before 6:14 pm, the exact time, 365 days ago, that their 19-year-old daughter had been declared dead, fragments of fetus from a botched abortion infecting her uterus, plunging her into fatal septic shock.
Dr. Whitten closed his eyes, gripped the steering wheel.
All day he’d probed the dark abyss of the human body. He’d performed two sigmoidoscopies, a colonoscopy, and one IRC. If only he’d been as skilled in probing the dark abyss of his own mind. If only there’d been a probing procedure to free his daughter from her secrets, secrets she’d been too afraid to share with her parents. If only he could go back in time, be a different father, be a father in whom his little girl could confide. He’d have done right by her. He would have! She’d be alive and happy, a beautiful mom of a beautiful baby. He’d be a grandfather, a 42-year-old grandpa! He would have convinced her to keep the pregnancy. He would have! But is that what she wanted? Is that why she didn’t confide? Knowing how he felt, what he believed? He would have flushed his convictions down the toilet if that would bring back his little girl.
At least he had work. His wife had nothing. Over the past year, she’d grown thinner, quieter. She’d quit her tennis, her bridge, her book club. She’d stopped teaching piano. She didn’t even knit anymore.
She spent her days listening to music—Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams, Tony Bennett—all the crooners and balladeers they’d played in the labor and delivery room when their daughter had been born.
Hurry home, she’d asked.
“Fuck!” He shot the Jaguar out of the line of cars, into the empty eastbound lanes, and roared toward the railroad crossing.
Just as he swerved through the narrow gap between the lowered gates, the train rumbled to life. It blared its horn, lurched forward, blasted furnace-hot breath through the Jag’s open windows.
I’m going to die, thought Dr. Whitten, and the rubber bands that he hadn’t realized were squeezing him began to snap.
But he didn’t die. He made it through the crossing without losing so much as a fleck of paint off the Jag’s shiny body.
~ ~ ~
He walked into the den. Every lamp was lit, even the light on top of the baby grand piano.
His wife lay supine on the couch, lifeless as a corpse in a casket. Her eyes were closed. Andy William’s buttery voice crooned softly from the CD player.
“Karen?”
He approached the sofa. She didn’t move. She didn’t open her eyes. A moss green blanket covered her body up to her neck.
Their daughter had knitted the blanket, a basket weave pattern. She’d given it to Karen last Mother’s Day right after the waiter had taken their orders, and when Karen stood up in the restaurant, wrapping the blanket around her like a shawl, other diners had actually crowded around, oohing and aahing and stroking the blanket.
“And not only can my little girl knit like a pro,” Dr. Whitten had bragged, draping his arm over Lola’s shoulders, “she’s a top-ranked athlete on her college gymnastic team. She’s at Kendall Christian College on a full sports scholarship!”
“Daddy,” Lola had said, her face blooming red. She’d shrugged away from his arm.
“Well if a father can’t brag,” he’d said.
As the other diners returned to their own tables, Karen and Alex kissed Lola’s cheeks. “I love the blanket,” Karen said. “But having you as my daughter is the best gift of all, sweetheart. Your goodness and beauty fill our lives with joy.”
“Hear, hear,” Alex said, raising his champagne glass.
By Father’s Day, Lola was gone.
Now Dr. Whitten knelt before his wife. Her face was white as bone, and against her pale skin, the once cheerful freckles spilling across her nose looked dark and malignant.
He trembled, closed his eyes, touched her cheek, expecting stone, but instead feeling warmth, soft heat, like just melted wax.
He opened his eyes. She was looking at him. Her eyes were dark caves that both beckoned and repelled. He helped her sit up. The blanket fell to the floor, becoming a ribbon of moss that tripped Karen into his arms.
She led him to the middle of the den. They began to dance.
They did not hold each other close. The space between them was just large enough to include something small. They did not look into each other’s eyes.
Karen was talking. He heard her voice but did not understand.
“What?” he said.
“I’ve been taking my temperature every morning before I get out of bed,” she said. “I’ve been charting my basal body temperature. I’m ovulating today, Alex. Forty-one’s not too old. I want to try again.”
“What?” he said.
“We need to try again,” she said.
He froze. They stood in the middle of their den. The music washed over him.
“I’ve lost my right to be a father,” he said, and he slapped the tears that spilled from his eyes.
“She didn’t tell either of us,” Karen said. “Not just you. She felt she couldn’t come to me either. We’re both to blame. Not just you.”
“There’s more,” he said. “I—” But Karen pressed her finger against his lips. She stepped away from him. She began swaying, dancing. She extended her arms toward him, beckoning with hands cupped into cradles. His knees wobbled.
“Moon River,” Andy Willliams was singing.
Alex placed his hands into his wife’s. She pulled him close.
The song ended. But she continued to dance, and he followed.
Marie Anderson
Alex Whitten forced himself to talk slowly to his last patient of the day. He had only himself to blame for being way behind schedule. His lunch with Melissa had once again ended in a Motel Six room.
But that would never happen again. He’d promised himself. He’d told Melissa.
Dr. Whitten patted his patient’s knee. “I perform over 400 of these IRCs each year, Mr. Bolton. This pulsing technique reduces tissue damage because it removes your hemorrhoids gradually. It won’t take more than five visits, probably only three.”
“Say again, Doc?”
Dr. Whitten sighed and repeated what he’d just said. Mr. Bolton was only 73, the same age as the current leader of the free world, but unlike President Reagan, Mr. Bolton was hard of hearing, mottled with brown age spots, and charmless.
A sharp knock-knock-knock on the door was loud enough for even Mr. Bolton to hear. “Come on in, honey!” Mr. Bolton shouted. He winked a watery, bloodshot eye at Dr. Whitten.
Melissa opened the door. Her purse hung from her shoulder, and her jacket, a soft brown leather jacket Dr. Whitten had given her for Valentine’s Day, was folded over her arm.
“I’ve switched to the answering service, Doctor,” she said. She blinked blue eyes still swollen and glittery. “Okay if I leave now?”
Dr. Whitten nodded.
“Take care of those allergies, honey,” Mr. Bolton ordered.
“Oh.” Melissa stepped into the examining room. She held out a white square of paper. “Your wife called, Doctor. She said she didn’t want to interrupt you. Just wanted me to give you a message.”
Dr. Whitten took the folded square of paper. He kept his fingers from touching hers.
“Thanks, Melissa.” He smiled. “Have a nice evening. See you tomorrow.”
She nodded and managed a smile. Her lips trembled, her nostrils quivered, and her eyes stayed sad.
After she left, he unfolded the message and read his wife’s request: Hurry home.” He crumpled the note and dropped it in the wastebasket.
“Someone broke your girl’s heart,” Mr. Bolton said.
Dr. Whitten froze. “What?” How did the old guy know about Lola? His only child. His beautiful daughter. Exactly one year ago so much had broken. His heart. His wife’s heart. And Lola. Lola broken and gone. He felt his eyes burn with unshed grief and rage. He frowned at Mr. Bolton. “Say again, Mr. Bolton?”
“Your girl,” Mr. Bolton said. “Melissa. Saddest puppy dog eyes I ever seen. Someone musta broke her heart.”
“Oh.” He patted Mr. Bolton on his back. “Just allergies, I think, Mr. Bolton. Like you said. So. Ready?”
~ ~ ~
Later, Dr. Whitten found himself stopped at a railroad crossing. The gates were down, the bells were clanging, and a freight train slowly groaned and creaked as it lurched into view. Like a dying beast, the train shuddered and wheezed until it finally came to a complete stop. Just the locomotive’s nose was in the crossing, blocking two lanes of the west bound traffic. Dr. Whitten was in the inside westbound lane, ten cars back.
He gritted his teeth, looked again at his watch. He was now forty-three minutes late for the first anniversary. He’d promised his wife this morning that he’d be home long before 6:14 pm, the exact time, 365 days ago, that their 19-year-old daughter had been declared dead, fragments of fetus from a botched abortion infecting her uterus, plunging her into fatal septic shock.
Dr. Whitten closed his eyes, gripped the steering wheel.
All day he’d probed the dark abyss of the human body. He’d performed two sigmoidoscopies, a colonoscopy, and one IRC. If only he’d been as skilled in probing the dark abyss of his own mind. If only there’d been a probing procedure to free his daughter from her secrets, secrets she’d been too afraid to share with her parents. If only he could go back in time, be a different father, be a father in whom his little girl could confide. He’d have done right by her. He would have! She’d be alive and happy, a beautiful mom of a beautiful baby. He’d be a grandfather, a 42-year-old grandpa! He would have convinced her to keep the pregnancy. He would have! But is that what she wanted? Is that why she didn’t confide? Knowing how he felt, what he believed? He would have flushed his convictions down the toilet if that would bring back his little girl.
At least he had work. His wife had nothing. Over the past year, she’d grown thinner, quieter. She’d quit her tennis, her bridge, her book club. She’d stopped teaching piano. She didn’t even knit anymore.
She spent her days listening to music—Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams, Tony Bennett—all the crooners and balladeers they’d played in the labor and delivery room when their daughter had been born.
Hurry home, she’d asked.
“Fuck!” He shot the Jaguar out of the line of cars, into the empty eastbound lanes, and roared toward the railroad crossing.
Just as he swerved through the narrow gap between the lowered gates, the train rumbled to life. It blared its horn, lurched forward, blasted furnace-hot breath through the Jag’s open windows.
I’m going to die, thought Dr. Whitten, and the rubber bands that he hadn’t realized were squeezing him began to snap.
But he didn’t die. He made it through the crossing without losing so much as a fleck of paint off the Jag’s shiny body.
~ ~ ~
He walked into the den. Every lamp was lit, even the light on top of the baby grand piano.
His wife lay supine on the couch, lifeless as a corpse in a casket. Her eyes were closed. Andy William’s buttery voice crooned softly from the CD player.
“Karen?”
He approached the sofa. She didn’t move. She didn’t open her eyes. A moss green blanket covered her body up to her neck.
Their daughter had knitted the blanket, a basket weave pattern. She’d given it to Karen last Mother’s Day right after the waiter had taken their orders, and when Karen stood up in the restaurant, wrapping the blanket around her like a shawl, other diners had actually crowded around, oohing and aahing and stroking the blanket.
“And not only can my little girl knit like a pro,” Dr. Whitten had bragged, draping his arm over Lola’s shoulders, “she’s a top-ranked athlete on her college gymnastic team. She’s at Kendall Christian College on a full sports scholarship!”
“Daddy,” Lola had said, her face blooming red. She’d shrugged away from his arm.
“Well if a father can’t brag,” he’d said.
As the other diners returned to their own tables, Karen and Alex kissed Lola’s cheeks. “I love the blanket,” Karen said. “But having you as my daughter is the best gift of all, sweetheart. Your goodness and beauty fill our lives with joy.”
“Hear, hear,” Alex said, raising his champagne glass.
By Father’s Day, Lola was gone.
Now Dr. Whitten knelt before his wife. Her face was white as bone, and against her pale skin, the once cheerful freckles spilling across her nose looked dark and malignant.
He trembled, closed his eyes, touched her cheek, expecting stone, but instead feeling warmth, soft heat, like just melted wax.
He opened his eyes. She was looking at him. Her eyes were dark caves that both beckoned and repelled. He helped her sit up. The blanket fell to the floor, becoming a ribbon of moss that tripped Karen into his arms.
She led him to the middle of the den. They began to dance.
They did not hold each other close. The space between them was just large enough to include something small. They did not look into each other’s eyes.
Karen was talking. He heard her voice but did not understand.
“What?” he said.
“I’ve been taking my temperature every morning before I get out of bed,” she said. “I’ve been charting my basal body temperature. I’m ovulating today, Alex. Forty-one’s not too old. I want to try again.”
“What?” he said.
“We need to try again,” she said.
He froze. They stood in the middle of their den. The music washed over him.
“I’ve lost my right to be a father,” he said, and he slapped the tears that spilled from his eyes.
“She didn’t tell either of us,” Karen said. “Not just you. She felt she couldn’t come to me either. We’re both to blame. Not just you.”
“There’s more,” he said. “I—” But Karen pressed her finger against his lips. She stepped away from him. She began swaying, dancing. She extended her arms toward him, beckoning with hands cupped into cradles. His knees wobbled.
“Moon River,” Andy Willliams was singing.
Alex placed his hands into his wife’s. She pulled him close.
The song ended. But she continued to dance, and he followed.
