Healer by Carol Cassella Page B

suited to the valley’s deep snow and spring slush. She had not felt nervous on the drive here, had felt, in fact, a blinding, determined confidence storming out of her anger. A furious resolve not to talk to Addison until she had a job. But suddenly she wishes she’d called ahead, or asked Jenna, the pediatrician she’d met at the hospital, to call ahead for her. What was she thinking? That the county is so starved for doctors she can barge out of the blue into a busy physician’s office hours? That because she shared the letters MD behind her name she had some invisible privilege?
    The receptionist asks for her name and insurance card, and Claire says she hasn’t actually come to see the doctor. Well, yes, she has cometo see Kit, to see the doctor, but not as a patient. She takes a breath and starts over. She is looking for a job.
    “Are you a nurse?”
    “No, I’m a doctor. I just moved here.”
    The woman behind the desk pauses, and then leans across the counter. “Can you wait a bit? She’s backed up right now, but I’ll tell her you’re here. She may not think she needs any help, but I’m the one who makes out her schedule.”
    Kit Halpern has a single thick chestnut braid dangling over her shoulder alongside the curving black tube of her stethoscope. She has close-trimmed, unpolished fingernails and her white coat hangs open over khaki pants and a plain navy turtleneck. She wears no makeup; looks like a woman who probably doesn’t consider makeup a smart use of her time. Claire pictures her getting dressed early every morning, putting on the same clothes she’d worn the day before if they are passably clean, braiding her dark hair with memorized motions, not a glance in the mirror. Threads of gray are woven through the braid—she is probably older than Claire by five or six years. There is an assertiveness in the lines at the corners of her mouth, and the direct gaze of her clear gray eyes suggests the comfort of compassionate authority.
    Claire waits while Kit dictates a chart note. The facing wall is covered with degrees and certificates—it looks like she’s stuck them in whatever cheap ready-made frame best fit the paper, more a convention than a point of pride. Claire scans the bookcases for photographs—Kit on a horse, Kit with three wolfish-looking dogs. No Kit husband. No Kit children. She tries to imagine herself owning that side of this desk, its labeled plastic trays stacked high with her own patients’ medical charts. She still remembers all the secrets a chart can tell, the pain nobody talks about: marital infidelities that shed light on genital sores, the unconfessed alcohol that explains a distressed liver. The averted gaze of teenagers who squirm about falling grades and missed curfews and the smell of pot in their hair, young enough to believe they invented sin. And how would the Boehning financial disaster be diagnosed? What tabbed section of the chart would hide their secret? She tries to remember if there is a blood test to measure stress hormones.
    She catches Kit watching her and blushes. “Candace, my receptionist, says I should hire you. But maybe I should ask you if you’re looking for a job first?” Beyond the half-open office door a nurse walks a patient down the hall; another two exam rooms have red flags calling for Kit as loud as alarms.
    “I am looking for a job. I’m sorry I didn’t call you first, to make an appointment.”
    “Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ll find Hallum’s pretty casual. In a year you’ll recognize everyone on the street—which is a bit of a problem when you’re a doctor here. I get almost as many consultations in the grocery store as I do in the office. Where did you go to medical school?”
    “University of Washington.” Claire reaches into her briefcase and pulls out one of the résumés. “I want to tell you up front… I haven’t worked in a long time. Not since I had my daughter. But I’ve tried to keep current. My license