Page 11 of Unwanted Vows

“Exactly,” Charles returns. “Maddy,” he says, as she turns back from directing the worker with the splinter into a rest area.

“Charles! Is something wrong?” she asks.

“No, no,” he assures her. “I’ve brought you some help. It looks like you could use it. This is Dr. Andrew Lane. He will be joining the medical team at Spindizzy hospital. Dr. Lane, please allow me to introduce Ms. Madeline Northernfield.”

Ms. Northernfield stiffens, and there is an odd look on her face. She seems familiar, yet I cannot quite place her. Where have I seen her before?

Given the annoyed look on her face, it’s possible that I made a bad impression on her. There have been so many people that I have worked with on different medical services over the years, she could have been assigned to work with me on a day that didn’t go my way. I try not to be one of those doctors who shouts at his staff when he’s in a bad mood, but I can’t say that I’ve always been a perfect example of professional poise.

She turns away and I nod at Charles before following her inside.

STUCK TOGETHER

MADDY

I just stare at Dr. Lane for a minute. So that’s who he grew up to be. I remember the night we met. It was one of those crazy parties with loud music and lots of dancing.

I wasn’t drinking alcohol or partaking in any of the smorgasbord of other substances being passed around, but I was more than half-drunk on the deep rhythm of the tribal drums and the sensual nature of the wailing flutes and other instruments all around me.

I joined a conga line, and discovered I was dancing with him. He’s older now, of course, and his skin has been burned to the ruddy tan color that fair-skinned Caucasian men get after years of working outdoors.

There are lines at the corners of his eyes, and a sad droop to the corners of his mouth which is new. When we spent our fateful week together so long ago, he had been cocksure, bossy from time to time, and had smiled a lot.

That week we spent together, we talked about our plans for the future. He was going to Africa, to work with Doctors Without Borders. He didn’t say much about his assignment, but he did talk about his hopes for when he returned to the States.

We had bonded. Or at least I thought we had. Then, one day, he boarded a plane. Instead of writing or calling, he just disappeared.

Later, I was told he had died, and the hope that he would come back and sweep me off my feet had died at the same time. I hadn’t known I was a romantic until the silly dream of one day marrying him had been stolen away from me.

There is not a flicker of recognition on his face as he looks at me, not even after hearing my name. I yank myself out of the past, and say, “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Lane. Your family has made quite a splash in the news lately.” I do not offer him my hand. I just can’t.

He grimaces. “Unfortunately. However, we can hope that everything will calm down and reach an equilibrium.”

I noticed that he did not say get back to “normal”. The last few years had seemed very far away from “normal”, whatever that was. Between global warming, pandemics, and small wars here and there all over the world, it is hard to imagine anything that approached equilibrium. That’s no excuse for forgetting a girl that you shared all your dreams with for a week in college. I certainly remembered him.

Am I really that easy to forget? Have I aged that much that he just doesn’t recognize me?

These musings won’t help either of us, or change the situation, so I set my features into my professional mask, and ask, “Do you prefer children or adults as patients?”

He smiles at me for the first time, in that way that I had found so attractive when we first met, and the tired lines at the corners of his mouth turn into laugh lines. “Either, or both,” he says.

His mouth still has the elegant lines of a polished recurve bow, with deep dimples flashing in each cheek, just as I remember. He could charm the socks off a platoon of hardened army nurses with that smile. Maybe he has and that’s why he doesn’t remember me.

“Then we’ll just set up two stations and trade back and forth as we go, until there are no more people to treat. Ramey will be your assistant. She knows where everything is kept.”

“I appreciate that,” he says. “Nothing worse than searching for supplies, even for simple injuries or illnesses.”

Ramey looks up at him, clearly charmed by the blue eyes, dimples, and wavy blond hair that is gently touched with silver at his temples.

I turn away. It was surreal to see a man I thought was dead administering a soothing lotion to a bad sunburn case. My weary mind even starts to question if I ever actually met him at all. However, my son is proof enough that he was real, and that he has apparently risen from the dead to show up on my doorstep so many years later.

There must be a reason why he has not acknowledged me, although I cannot imagine why he would not. Is he just trying to be professional? I stamp out this flare of hope viciously. I saw his complete lack of response when we were introduced. He has no idea who I am.

As I start preparing for my next patient, I think about when I’d discovered a little over a month later that forgetting a condom really does mean that one time really is enough. I remember my heart beating wildly in my chest as I dialed the number he had put in my phone when we met. I was greeted with the monotone announcement on the other end of the line that the number was out of service.

I remembered my panic all too well. I’d first gone to the university’s on-campus clinic. The doctor there told me that they did not usually handle maternity cases, but gave me a referral.

Meeting with the gynecologist’s financial specialist quickly let me know that I did not have the money to cover the care my baby and I would need. She kindly referred me to Family Services on campus, and the Health and Welfare office. “They can help you with your financial planning,” she had said.

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