It’s a meager noise like the scritch-scratch of a house mouse trying to worm its way into a bag of birdseed. Connor hears it, too, a noise that makes his hands suddenly stop their digressions so that he can pause to hear. His ears perk up; he listens, and it comes again, the scraping sound of paws on the hardwood floors. Harriet, I think, but no, Harriet is here, on the kitchen floor fast asleep. Not paws, then, but feet. Human feet. Tiny human feet, and then a voice, a quiet, unobtrusive voice as if not wanting to interrupt, not wanting be a bother. “Mommy,” says the voice, and I realize then, as I stand there in the kitchen, holding my breath, that it is Maisie. Maisie is here.
She appears in the doorway, hair in shambles, clutching her derelict bear, and says to me, “Mommy, I can’t sleep.” She catches sight of Connor and grins, and though I want to run to her, to gather her in my arms, to thank her for her timing, for saving me from this awkward fate, my voice remains staid.
“Did you try?” I ask, and Maisie nods her head, saying that she did. She tried. I run my hand the length of her hair, staring at her gratefully as her eyes become hopeful and she begs of me, “Mommy, you go to sleep, too?”
I nod my head. There is nothing in the world I would rather do.
With shaking hands I turn to Connor, and I tell him how I really must go, how Maisie needs me, thankful he doesn’t object, though his face falls flat and there’s a great letdown at this. Connor doesn’t want me to leave, to attend to Maisie. He wants me to stay. I appease him by saying, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” knowing I won’t call.
“Of course,” he says, nodding his head and drawing away, and I grip Maisie by the hand—wanting to tuck myself between my children and slip into oblivion, a restless sleep no doubt, if sleep even comes—as we watch him slide his feet back into the muddy work boots and leave the same way out in which he came.
I close the blinds so that no one will watch as we sleep.
NICK
BEFORE
It all goes wrong at the same time.
An official medical malpractice complaint from Melinda Grey arrives, delivered to me by a man who presses it into my hand and tells me I’ve been served. There’s no one around when he does it, and yet I imagine that everyone can see. I imagine that everyone knows, but in truth, only I know. My hands sweat, and my mouth turns to cotton as I take the complaint in my hands and, for whatever reason, thank the man for bringing it to me.
I squirrel myself away on a laptop in my office and get busy on the internet, researching the effects a malpractice suit has on doctors and dentists—financial and otherwise. They’re debilitating, though they don’t surprise me in the least bit because I’m already feeling every one of them. Practitioners who have been sued for malpractice have higher rates of suicide, as in my mind I think of ways to end my life. Dentists already have one of the highest rates of suicide of any profession, thanks to the self-sacrifice required and the extremely competitive nature of the job. I know; I’ve lived it firsthand. The easy access to drugs is also an advantage; sitting behind a locked storage cabinet in my office are all sorts of pharmaceuticals that could end my life if I so chose.
But a malpractice suit makes it even worse. Dental professionals lose happiness in a career they once loved, and depression ensues. Many leave the profession. For the rest, a rift forms between doctors and their patients, a wall of distrust. And then there is the financial impact, the loss of a reputation.
Soon, I think, this will be me. Depressed and suicidal, having lost enjoyment in a career I once loved.
I phone an attorney, and the discovery process begins, though we won’t go to court, the attorney tells me, because juries have been known to award upward of a million dollars for legitimate malpractice suits, whereas out-of-court settlements are usually less. I have malpractice insurance, which covers me up to a million dollars, though it doesn’t cover the cost of attorney fees, the loss of patients while I’m trying to save my reputation and practice. But whether or not to settle will be up to the insurance company to decide. If a jury awards Ms. Grey more than a million, or if the settlement demand exceeds that amount and I’m deemed to be at fault, the difference is mine to pay.
And then there’s the fact that my malpractice insurance rates will soar steadily, sky-high until I can no longer stay afloat. The fifteenth of the month draws near, meaning I owe the landlord rent. I still don’t have it, and I’m running out of time. I need to make quick decisions now, trying to turn an easy profit, and so I place the maximum I can on the Warriors in tonight’s NBA finals, though they’re in a do-or-die situation—down two games to one. I figure it’s fitting because I am, too.
More patients disappear, having caught wind of the referral giveaway across town, I tell myself, trying hard not to take it personally. It’s about the grill, not me. But maybe it is me.
Each day another poor rating appears online, and I try to convince myself that Melinda Grey and Connor are not in cahoots, putting their heads together to think of ways to ruin my life. I call Connor, once, twice, three times a week to try to talk this out, but he doesn’t answer his phone. The office ladies seem upset that the congenial Dr. C is gone. They don’t tell me directly, but I hear them talking about it when they think I’m not in the room. We never talk about the scene they observed in the hallway, me threatening to call the police on Connor if he didn’t leave. But we’re all still thinking about it, especially me. I hear them talking to clients on the phone. “No, I’m sorry,” they say to a patient who’s called to make an appointment. “Dr. Daubney is no longer with us. But I can schedule an appointment with Dr. Solberg, if you’d like,” and then inevitably the conversation drifts to quiet as the patient decides whether I’m good enough for them to see. Connor was always the more charming of us, the more witty and gregarious. The children loved him; he made dental exams fun. But not me. Sometimes these patients schedule an appointment with me, but other times I hear Nancy or Stacy explaining how they don’t know where Dr. C has gone or if, wherever he is, he’s taking new patients. There’s nothing in his contract that prevents him from usurping patients of mine, not that I could blame him if he tried.