Page 52 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“We were at music trivia on Tuesday,” I tell her, hoping to distract Carol from digging further. She seems like the kind of person to demand to know a woman’s ovulation schedule.
Though Geneva usually stays at home after teaching her evening classes, I convinced her to head out with me on Tuesday. She’d admitted, after winning a twenty-dollar Bayside Table gift card, that spending the late-evening hours listening to seventies rock and chatting beneath the stars had been “agreeable.” I’d teased her about that particular adjective until I’d been able to press her against the side of the house in hopes of changing her opinion.
Begrudgingly—and breathlessly—she did.
Since Geneva going to karaoke is about as likely as finding ice cream in a hot oven, I didn’t even offer. Though, honestly, it’d been nice to have her to myself the rest of the week. Even though we’re supposed to be blissfully in love, she’s skittish about me even holding her hand in public. It’s such a stark contrast to when we’re alone, because the second she gets home from class, Geneva kisses me to within an inch of my life.
Carol hums. Or at least I think it’s a hum. Maybe more of a harrumph.
“When are you going to get a real job?”
My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “Excuse me?”
Most people consider being a physician a reputable profession.
I don’t miss the delighted quirk at the edge of her lips as she turns into the parking garage at the base of the condo tower. “You’re volunteering, not working. You need to apply for a position at the hospital on the mainland. Unless you’re going to throw your degree away and repair fishing nets for a living.”
There isso muchto unpack there. “Working in the fishing industry isn’t—”
“Yes. Fine. All jobs are valid and necessary. Blah. Blah. Blah.” She pulls her car across three tenant-only parking spots. “Answer the question.”
Acid bubbles in my throat, because I’m going to have to lie again. With Geneva and I acting like a real couple, the little white lies about the status of our relationship have been easier to tolerate. I could tell people about the repairs we’ve been doing or the new recipe we tried from a bodybuilder’s website without it being false. No one needs to know that I’m sleeping in Geneva’s guest room or that our marriage has an expiration date.
“Oh, good. You’re here.”
I’m saved from answering by a local I’ve yet to meet outside the passenger side window. Based on his rushed demeanor and furrowed, sweaty brow, this isn’t the casual house call I’d assumed it’d be based on Carol’s lackadaisical driving. I bolt from the car, taking my bag with me.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s just a little cut,” Carol calls from the car. “I only asked you to help because Dr. Prescott is on the mainland.”
“Isn’t Dr. Prescott an orthodontist?” I ask the man jogging next to me.
I remember meeting the barrel-chested man at our wedding party. He and his wife, Lidia, had even asked where we’d been registered. I’d had to lie through my teeth, saying that since we were consolidating two existing households, we didn’t need a new air fryer or blender.
“Yeah,” he says as we weave through the garage and a series of doors that lead into the interior courtyard of the complex. “But he’s always done this kind of stuff before.”
“What kind of—”
My words cut off when I find a man in a blood-stained blue camo tank top and green camo shorts holding a kitchen towel to his forearm. Another person rushes over with a handful of Band-Aids while a blonde woman hovers nearby, nervously chewing the side of her glittery thumbnail. Broken ceramic pots, soil, and dislodged petunias litter the patio around him. Another woman arrives with an array of colorful beach towels as I steer the bleeding man to sit in a nearby patio chair beyond the spray of magenta petals.
“I’m Van. I’m a doctor. Carol brought me,” I tell him while pulling a pair of gloves on. “Can I take a look at your arm?”
When he uncovers an impressive gash, the blonde woman wails. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, baby. You just make me so mad sometimes. Why you gotta do that?”
“I’m sorry, honey angel. I know I’m not the easiest to love.”
Before I can let him know that he’s lucky this isn’t deeper, because I don’t have dissolvable sutures in my bag, the woman hops on his lap, her platform sandals nearly kicking me. I shift to the side as the two of them kiss like he’s just come home from space and narrowly escaped death.
“Um…” Applying pressure to his forearm, I glance at the encircling crowd.
Carol pushes her way through the throng of people, using her cane against shins as necessary.
“Karen. Todd. Knock it off. Let the doctor work before you make even more of a mess.” Her gaze flicks to the soil spewed over the stamped concrete patio with a disapproving sniff before she turns on the people behind her. “Why are you all just standing there? Pick this up. Many hands. Light work.”
Karen finally agrees to move off Todd’s lap but hugs his face to her stomach the entire time I work, which—considering that I don’t carry anesthetics—is probably a decent distraction. Under Carol’s direction, the rest of the looky-loos pick up the patio before the complex’s maintenance manager hoses down the concrete.
It’s a nice common area with mounted propane grills in one corner, tables and chairs throughout, and a pergola with gauzy curtains and plush couches at the far end. The potted plants that edge the space are far too large to be thrown, so Karen must have chucked the petunias from one of the balconies opening into the courtyard.
