He makes a mark on my chart, his gray hair shining under the fluorescent lights. I wonder if he uses Rogaine, or if he just has crazy good genetics. He went gray early, like Clooney, and besides the gray, the only marker that he’s aged at all over the past twenty years since I became his patient are the slightly deeper laugh lines around his mouth.
“Any new stress at work?”
“No.”
“What about in your personal life?”
“No.”
Dr. Markovic sighs theatrically. “You’re old enough not to lie to your doctors.”
“I’m not lying.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Really? There’s nothing stressful about planning a wedding?”
I frown. “How’d you know I’m getting married?”
As soon as the sentence leaves my mouth, I know the answer. My father.I roll my eyes so hard, it’s a miracle they don’t fall right out of their sockets. Dr. Markovic is his longtime golf buddy, and I’m sure my fatherloveddropping the fact that his daughter is now officially engaged to the most eligible bachelor on the continent. Dr. Markovic crosses his arms and gives me a stern look.
“We have to take any stressors seriously, Maura. Anxiety could trigger another cardiac event.”
“I’m not stressed.”
“Aren’t you? This all seems to be happening rather quickly. You didn’t even mention you were seeing anyone at your last appointment.”
It’s a testament to my father’s complete inability to trust another soul—even his friend of twenty years—that he didn’t tell Dr. Markovic the truth of the arrangement.
“Because I wasn’t then. Whirlwind romance, you know.” I smile brightly, putting on my best everything’s-fine-thanks face. Because everythingisfine. My future husband seemed nice enough when I met him. He agreed to all my requests, and we’re on the same page that this is a business contract, nothing more. I’m not even planning the wedding. Dad’s team of assistants are organizing something elegant and small. I won’t have to lift a pinky.
The doctor doesn’t look convinced. “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“Positive.” My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.
“You’ve been stable for a long time, Maura. Lots of patients in your situation, with open-heart surgery years behind them, let their habits slip. They miss their medication windows. They stop exercising and eating right. You have to remember that you’re stable, but fragile.”
“I know that,” I insist. “You’ve told me a million times. I’ll be lucky to see forty. Iknow.And I do take it seriously.”
“You do?” He fixes me with a penetrating look.
I glance up at the wall clock. In a few seconds, I’ll have been here for exactly half an hour. I don’t want to waste another minute getting lectured about my mortality, as if I don’t already live with it every day.
“Is that everything?” I ask, raising a brow.
“For now. I want to see you again in?—”
“Two months, yeah.” I hop off the exam table, tearing the paper covering in the process. “I’ll talk to Sherry and schedule my follow-up. See you then.”
I push open the door and stride out before he can come up with another intrusive question. I’ve answered enough of them for one day.
Sherry, the receptionist, schedules me for an early May appointment, and I’m finally free.
I managed to find a parking space for my van right outside the doctor’s office. Brinley calls it my Murder Van, since it’s big, white, and windowless. It’s also the most convenient way to haul large paintings around. Some of my clients ask for wall-sized murals, and I got tired of renting moving vans every time I had to deliver something. By now, I’m an expert at maneuvering it in and out of tight parallel parking spots.
The painting I’m hauling now isn’t too big, roughly a square meter. It’s a dreamy gold and pearl abstract with traces of turquoise. It reminds me of a sandy Caribbean beach without being too literal. When I finished it earlier this week, I knew I wanted to display it immediately. We’re still in the gray, thawing part of very early spring, and people need a reminder that there’s still warmth and brightness somewhere outside of Toronto.
After I double-check that the painting is securely strapped in, I hop up in the passenger seat and turn on the radio. VOILÀ is playing, and I can’t help but smile. When the chorus hits, I turn up the volume enough that my tone-deaf voice blends in with theirs.
Thisis what I needed after that damn appointment. Music and art have always done more to make me feel better than any medicine Dr. Markovic could ever prescribe. It’s a short drive to the Copper Cup, the bookstore and café my friend Brinley owns. I usually display a few pieces there, and I want to swap this new painting out for one of the old ones. I’m lucky she lets me hang whatever I want there, even though I’m sure there are plenty of more talented and popular artists who would happily use the space.
