Page 2 of Doctorshipped
Fiona’s lost too much for a girl her age. First, my mom passed three years ago. And then Margot battled cancer. When we lost her, it did me in. Somehow Fiona grieved and seems to have moved forward for the most part. She was born with a spirit of carpe diem.
My dad’s words from a few weeks ago echo through my head as Fiona and I climb into the back of our Uber and the driver pulls away from the curb.
You both need a fresh start.Look at this move as a clean slate. That town needs a doctor. They couldn’t ask for better than what they’re getting. And you two need to move somewhere that doesn’t ring with the memories of all you’ve endured.
That girl of yours is resilient. But she’s also only a girl. She doesn’t always show her feelings. Maybe she’s protecting you. I know she’s prone to do that. Trust me. This move will be the thing you need, even if it isn’t the thing you want.
My dad’s right.Fiona possesses amazing resilience. And we have too many specters of our family in St. Louis—memories haunting us and keeping us tied to the past. We need this change. Well, we needachange. Whether this move will prove to be the change we need is highly debatable. Time will tell.
We pull into the airport and unload, Fiona pops her St. Louis Blues backpack onto her shoulders and follows me into the terminal.
As soon as we approach the area designated for departures, a commotion at the ticket counter captures my attention. A few passengers ahead of us in line are looking at one another and then at the agent involved in a conversation with a very animated passenger.
The woman, who can’t be taller than five foot two, flails her arms in front of her reddened face and paces a few steps in each direction as she seems to beg the agent for something. Then her phone rings.
Vivaldi’sFour Seasons-Spring? That’s a ringtone? This young woman looks more like she’d have an obnoxious One Direction song blaring, or the repeated quack of a mother duck anxiously corralling her ducklings.
The staccato notes of stringed instruments playing Vivaldi echoes across the tile of the airport ticketing area, and this woman ignores the sound as she raises her voice to the agent, shaking her head of mussed brown curls while becoming more and more frantic by the minute. An airport employee wearing a white shirt and tie steps up behind the agent, obviously some sort of supervisor.
Fiona glances up at me with a look of interest and amusement. “What’s wrong with that lady, Daddy?”
Fiona’s too sweet and young to be acquainted with the common frustrations causing adults to feel frazzled over life’s minor upsets. She’s led a charmed life up until the year her mom was diagnosed, and even the ordeal of surviving cancer second-hand didn’t pull my effervescent daughter under. Maybe she’ll always be my buoyant girl, rising above the waves of life that threaten to pull the rest of us under.
“I really don’t know, but we’re all going to miss our flights if they don’t resolve it or move her out of the way.”
“Daddy,” Fiona scolds.
“Hmph.”
“You’d be the worst if you weren’t the best.”
“Thanks.”
The supervisor ushers the agitated young woman to another kiosk, and the line starts to move. The gentleman ahead of us sends a relieved, conspiratorial smile my way. I nod back to him. People spend smiles too freely, if you ask me. This situation isn’t cause for a smile. We’re merely getting onto a plane we purchased tickets to board. No cause for joy there.
Vivaldi strikes up again. Would she just answer her phone? Not that I don’t appreciate a well-written, well-played piece of classical music. I do.The Four Seasonsis actually my favorite piece. I always did enjoy it. Those days of music appreciation came to a screeching halt less than five minutes ago. From now on I’ll be forced to associate one of the world’s great Baroque masterpieces with this moment of delay and inconvenience, and the harried woman responsible for tainting an otherwise smooth send-off into our new life.
Frenzied girl finally pulls her phone out and looks at the caller ID. She holds a finger up to the man attempting to assist her and takes the call. The supervisor’s brows knit together. I gather he’s not used to being told to wait while someone answers a phone call.
Along with the rest of the captive passengers waiting to check their luggage, I can’t help but overhear one side of this woman’s phone conversation. If the frantic passenger in question weren’t nearly shouting, it would help us all to respect her privacy.
“Hey. Hi! … Thanks for checking. … No. I haven’t found it yet. … Don’t worry. It’s fine! I’ll be fine! … Yes. I’m sure. Don’t worry!”
She’s telling them not to worry? After the meltdown she’s been throwing in front of a captive audience of customers and employees?
“I’m going to be okay. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ll be stranded here and I’ll have to get a hotel, and then I’ll figure the rest out.”
What kind of situation would have her stranded?
The doctor in me tunes into emergencies by default. I’m a sucker for solving problems. It’s in my DNA. I had two parents who were physicians. I married another physician. It’s just what we do. But, I solve medical problems, not whatever this scattered, flustered young woman is dealing with. Definitely not this.
“Daddy, do you think she needs help?” my bleeding heart daughter asks.
“Maybe. But she’s a grown woman. She’ll make it through.”
Fiona looks at me like I’m a criminal. “Daddy. Is that what you will say when I’m stranded in an airport one day?”
Oh, for the love of Mike.
