"Don't give anyone the wrong pills," she warned. "I'm not permitted to dispense medication. I'm just an aide."
"Well don't give anyone the wrong aid," she said and laughed. "Look. I'm sorry. Maybe you're right. Maybe the girls went too far and I should have told you right away, but I didn't want everyone to hate me, too."
"Too?"
"You know what I mean. Anyway, I said I was sorry."
"Okay. Thanks. Have fun."
"I will," she promised and we hung up. I sat there for a moment thinking. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard the voice of a little girl trying to hold on, trying to keep me from being so serious. But it was a voice that was dwindling and barely audible anymore.
Whether I liked it or not, I was rushing headfirst into adulthood now. And there was nothing to do about it but sit back and enjoy the ride.
I fell asleep quickly after Catherine and I spoke, but I did have a nightmare about Mrs. Conti. I saw her eyes pop open when I returned to her room, and they were glassy and milky white. Then I thought about Dr. Weller and his impish smile. "Still want to be a doctor?" he had challenged.
"More than ever."
I mumbled it in my sleep.
"More than ever."
4
Life Lessons
"If you and I are going to be study partners," Dr. Weller said as we left the hospital the next day, "you should call me Jack. Dr. Weller is too formal after we walk out of there," he said, nodding back toward the hospital.
"Jack?"
"That's my name. Oh, my real name is Jackson Marcus Weller, which is what I will hang on my shingle. I was named after my great-grandfather on my mother's side. I'd rather be just Jack, though, especially to people I admire and people I hope will admire me," he said. Then he put his hand on my waist to turn me to the right. "My apartment is just a few blocks this way," he said. "You don't mind walking, do you?"
"No." His hand lingered on my hip, his fingers pressing with authority.
"I have a car, but I seldom use it. Driving is such a hassle in the city. I'd much rather walk or use public transportation." He drew his hand away when we started to walk again.
"Did you grow up in New Orleans?" I asked.
"Grow up?" He smiled and then laughed. "Most of my relatives and friends think I haven't. They think because I'm going to be a doctor, I should look, act, and feel like an old man. Who trusts a young doctor these days? In almost every other profession, youth is an advantage, but in medicine . . ." He paused and turned to me. "My ex-roommate actually dyes his hair gray. Do you believe that?"
I shook my head.
He stared at me a moment and relaxed his lips, a look of pity in his eyes. "Actually, I feel sorry for you. It's twice as hard for a woman to become a doctor. You've got to be twice as good. But," he said, winking, "I think you might just have the grit to make it. Now," he said holding up his hand, palm toward me, "don't tell me anything else about yourself. Let me guess."
We continued, strolling at a slower pace. It wasn't quite as humid as it had been the day before. The sun was low enough to leave the eastern sky a darker blue so that the billowing clouds looked as white as milk. Toward the south a single-engine plane was dragging a banner that advertised a jazz and dinner special in the French Quarter. We could hear the streetcar rattling along past the palm trees behind us. The birds were twittering noisily. I imagined they were filled with news that they had stored up like acorns during the impressive heat and humidity. Now that they were cooler and able to gossip, they did so nonstop.
The street lanterns were just flickering, it not being dark enough to turn themselves on full. Less humidity seemed to free the scent of camellias and of the banana and magnolia trees that grew along and be-hind the pike fences of the houses we passed as we ambled along the sidewalk, which in New Orleans was known as a banquette. Most banquettes were built two to three feet high, mainly to keep water out of houses. Across the way I saw three Tulane summer school coeds giggling and walking while two boys in a convertible followed slowly and tried to get their attention.
"You're not an only child, and you're not spoiled. That's for sure," Jack Weller began.
"I have twin brothers, twelve years old."
"Uh-huh."
"But I am spoiled," I admitted.
"Sure. All spoiled young women agree to work as nurse's aides for peanuts and are willing to clean up after sick people," he remarked. He gazed at me again. "You're not spoiled."
"I'm spoiled, but I'm determined," I replied.
He laughed. "I like that. You're from a well-to-do family, right?"
"Yes. But did you really guess that or did you cross-examine Sophie?" I fired back quickly.
He laughed again. "You are a bright girl. All right. I'll confess I asked Sophie some questions. Just down here," he said seizing my hand and turning us into a side street toward an apartment building with a canopy that sagged in the middle. The gray stucco walls were badly chipped and cracked and the front door was in dire need of paint or wood stain. "I want to prepare you," he said as we approached the en-trance. "I have only a studio apartment. Someone from the Garden District won't think much of it, I suspect."
"I'm spoiled, but I'm not a snob," I said.
His smile widened again and he opened the door. We stepped through a short entryway into a small lobby, the walls of which were faded and smudged. Here and there the dark brown tile floor was chipped. The only furnishing was a rickety table with an oval mirror in a dull white frame above it. The aroma of shrimp gumbo filled the air.
"The stairs are faster than the elevator," he said, nodding toward them. I followed him up three flights, the old, worn steps moaning complaints at our every step. "At least I have a little view," he said putting his key into the lock.
I was prepared for a small place with inexpensive furnishings, but I wasn't prepared for the mess. The door opened immediately to the living room-bedroom. The settee to the right was covered with books and papers, and there were books and papers on the floor as well. There was also a coffee cup, still with some coffee in it; the dish beside it was crusted with leftover pasta. The windowsill was caked with dust, and the rug was frayed clear through in spots.
"I got up late this morning and didn't get a chance to clean up from last night," he explained. "Otherwise, it's comfortable."
Comfortable? I thought. It would be easy to become claustrophobic here. We had closets bigger than Jack's apartment. There was only one narrow window in the living room-bedroom, and the room itself was barely big enough to contain the settee, the bed, a table, and two chairs. Through an open doorway I saw a tiny kitchen with dishes piled in the sink and a small trash can stuffed so full that a take-out pizza box popped up and over the side.
Jack scurried about, clearing off the settee, chairs, and coffee table.
"Just give me a minute," he asked. He carried the dishes into the kitchen and then hurried back to straighten up the bed. "Bachelors," he said with an emphatic shrug. "This is the way we live, but you don't know any real bachelors yet, I imagine," he said. When I didn't reply, he stopped and looked at me. "Do you?"
"What? Oh, no." I couldn't get over how messy his apartment was. A doctor should be concerned about cleanliness, I thought.
"I wasn't raised to be a slob, if that's what you're thinking," he said, reading my mind. "Just wait until you start your internship. You'll see how little time you have for yourself. Unlike you, I come from modest means. My father worked on the oil rigs in Beaumont and was laid off so often that I used to think he was rich and had to work only a few months a year. Medical school is pretty expensive, you know," he added.
"How did you manage?" I asked, feeling guilty for condemning him so quickly.
"My grandmother left a trust for me. When she first left it, it was worth something, but inflation ate up a lot of it and the cost of medical school climbed, so I had to borrow money. I'm in debt up to here," he said holding his hand an inch or so above his head. "It's a great advantage to attend medical school and not have to worry about financing," he said. "But you've got to have more than money to become a doctor. Only thing is . . ." He stopped cleaning up and stared at me, shaking his head slowly.