Duby's Doctor Read online

  “You don’t know her name. But you have seen her? Have you seen her?”

  “Oui. I see.”

  “Here? In the hospital? Have you seen her here?” If this was true, Mitchell could blast Stone’s theories apart.

  “Oui.”

  “When?”

  “What?”

  “When? What time, what day, what hour? When did you see her here in the hospital?”

  In French he said, “I see her at night...”

  “At night!”

  “...when I sleep.”

  Mitchell’s excitement died. “In your dreams,” she murmured. “Of course. The girl of your dreams, what else?”

  She rose like an old woman aching in every joint. She placed the portrait in Jean’s hand, and he rolled it tightly. He clenched it. It was obvious to Mitchell that he cherished that picture. Without another word, Dr. Oberon walked away.

  CHAPTER 6 – BODYGUARD

  Two kinds of people strolled the lavish halls of the luxurious three-story shopping venue known as The Mayfair in Coconut Grove: (1) wealthy locals and (2) non-wealthy tourists.

  The jet set came in chauffeur-driven limousines with entourages of sycophants, bodyguards, and package bearers. They of the upper crust carried no cash or credit cards; their signature was good for any amount in any store at The Mayfair.

  The tourists came in rental cars or tour trolleys. They shopped with cash and credit cards (and limited budgets). They carried their own packages in plastic bags labeled “The Mayfair” in gold script. Vacation shoppers treasured the shopping bag as much as, or more than, they valued the purchases it held. Back home it would become the grocery bag, the mall bag, the lunch bag, or the library book bag, and it would be carried with the golden logo facing away from its owner, so that onlookers received the full Mayfair effect.

  While the tourists did not contribute greatly to The Mayfair’s bottom line, they did support other businesses in the Coconut Grove area. They visited the historic homes of Florida settlers, bought unique original arts and crafts in the boutiques, and sipped frozen margaritas in the sidewalk bistros. They bought gently-used designer clothing in the posh Episcopal thrift shop. They dodged cyclists, skateboarders, and exotic-dog walkers, and they even threw coins into the open instrument cases of musicians playing on street corners or in Peacock Park.

  So, as a people magnet, The Mayfair served a purpose in Coconut Grove, even though it did not necessarily serve the common citizenry. And for the ultra-rich, it was guaranteed to have the highest quality merchandise along with the most stringent security. Limousines did not even drop their passengers on the public sidewalk outside. At The Mayfair, chauffeurs used the exclusive underground garage and portico.

  For security reasons, Kyle Averell allowed his daughter, Carinne, to shop only at The Mayfair. He occasionally accompanied her, but even when he was absent, he made his presence strongly felt. On this particular afternoon, Carinne was joined by her tennis coach and paid companion, Trish, and her father’s most trusted bodyguard, Rico.

  Carinne lingered over a silk caftan by an Italian designer (whose villa was a landmark on Miami Beach). Judging from the price of the garment, which would never be worn outside of Carinne’s personal suite at home, the designer’s villa must be in need of some essential such as, say, a new chandelier for the fourteenth bathroom. Not that Carinne even glanced at the price tag. In fact, she wasn’t even really considering the caftan. She merely wanted to prolong her outing, and so she fingered the silk, held the colors up to the light, and thought about something else altogether.

  Tourists might exit The Mayfair and enjoy all the surrounding quirks and qualities of Coconut Grove, but for Carinne that was not an option. She was a valuable asset to Kyle Averell, and she was kept safe and secure in the same way he kept his antique porcelains, European sports cars, and uniquely fashioned diamond jewelry. He would as soon leave his wallet on the street as allow Carinne to stroll the sidewalks with heaven-knows-whom.

  Trish was usually patient with Carinne. Mr. Averell paid well for patience, discretion, and vigilance. The silk caftan perusal had gone on too long, however, and Trish was observant enough to know that Carinne was not even close to making a decision.

  “Go ahead,” Trish urged in a best-girlfriend tone. “If you want, get it. Rico can carry it.”

  Carinne glanced over her shoulder to where the massive man waited against the nearest wall. She could not see his eyes, but she knew that behind his sunglasses he was watching her every move and the movements of anyone who came within yards of where she stood.

  She remembered a different day, months ago, when a Mayfair clerk had wrapped a parcel for Carinne and then asked, “Would you like us to have this delivered, Miss Averell?”

  Carinne had smiled, and a twinkle of mischief had danced in her eyes. “That won’t be necessary. Dubreau can carry it.”

  The clerk had looked skeptical. “Are you sure, miss?”

  “Absolutely. Dubreau doesn’t mind.” Carinne had taken the parcel, turned, and stacked it atop a pyramid of packages already in her bodyguard’s arms. “You don’t mind, do you, Duby?”

  The voice of a longsuffering, unseen man had vibrated from behind the packages. “Non, mademoiselle.”

  Carinne recalled stifling a giggle. She had often enjoyed testing the good-natured bodyguard’s strength as well as his patience. He had never failed a test of either.

  Trish broke into Carinne’s reverie. “Corinne Elaine?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I said let the chauffeur carry it for you.” Everyone knew Rico was no chauffeur, but one did not blather about bodyguards (or assassins) in public.

  “No. No, I don’t really want it,” said Carinne. “Thank you,” she told the attentive clerk.

  The girls drifted out of the dress shop and moved on through the mall. Rico shadowed them from a polite distance. Trish looked back at him frequently.

  “He is creepy, isn’t he?” Trish said with a theatrical shudder. “I mean, we know he’s with us. Everybody around knows he’s with us. Why does he stay so far away?”

  Carinne didn’t have to look to know where Rico would be. Dubreau would have been beside her, or right behind her. She hadn’t needed a hired companion when Dubreau was there. He was always close enough that she could whisper outrageous comments to him or hand him embarrassing articles to hold up for her perusal while he blushed adorably.

  “Daddy doesn’t like them to get too close,” she said to Trish. “It’s just as well. You think you’ve made a friend and they just disappear, poof, without a word.”

  A few days later Mitchell Oberon escorted an older man into the physical therapy department. He was her former medical school professor and mentor, Dr. Ehud Goldberg, and she hoped to impress him with her work.

  Mitchell was providing patient background to Dr. Goldberg as they entered the gym-like facility.

  “And the brain’s language center doesn’t appear to have been damaged as severely as we thought at first,” she was saying. “He still has no memory from before his accident, but his English seems to be returning – uh – somewhat.

  “Not to minimize the long-term effects of traumatic brain injury, but it’s the knee that I’m proudest of. I really appreciate your taking the time, Doctor. I don’t mind telling you, it was a real mess. Shot to pieces, literally. Anybody else would’ve amputated, no question. Wait ‘til you see it, only weeks after the final surgery. You won’t believe it.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Goldberg, looking past Mitchell and across the room.

  “What?” she said, turning to look.

  At the far end of the room, Jean moved trancelike through a complex martial arts kata. He was shirtless, in jogging shorts, and sweat glazed his skin. Except for the ace bandage on his left knee, and the many old scars on his body, he might have been Adonis, gliding through the fighting exercise as if it were ballet. Mitchell tried to remain aloof and professional, but it required a de
ep breath.

  “I haven’t seen scars like that since I was a medic in a combat zone,” the older doctor said.

  Mitchell called out, “Johnny, what are you doing?”

  Jean startled like a sleepwalker coming awake. “Nothing!” He stopped mid-exercise, stood straight and still, and looked at her warily.

  “It’s okay,” she soothed. “You’re not in trouble. Who taught you those exercises?”

  His eyes shifted as if searching for an answer, but he apparently couldn’t remember where he learned the workout. He shrugged. “They just came. They feel good.”

  Mitchell asked, “What about the exercises I prescribed for you?”

  Another shrug. “They didn’t feel so good.”

  “Uh-huh.” She had no response for that. “Okay. Well, this is Dr. Goldberg. He came by to see my knee.”

  Jean pointed to his ace bandage. “This is Michel’s knee.”

  “I thought as much,” Goldberg said with a smile. “And how do you like Mitchell’s knee? Does it work well for you?”

  “Oui, yes. Michel builds great knees – right, Michel?” Then he dropped into a stage whisper as if sharing a secret with Goldberg. “God’s knee is better, though.” He pointed to the unbandaged right leg.

  Goldberg chuckled. “Yes, well, God’s been in the business a little longer than Dr. Oberon. You’re French, aren’t you?”

  “Non, monsieur.”

  Mitchell looked embarrassed. She sent Dr. Goldberg an apology with her eyes. “Of course you are, Johnny,” she said with an encouraging smile.

  “Non,” he said, unconcerned.

  Goldberg patted Mitchell’s shoulder to let her know he understood brain-damaged patients. “Well, in any case, it was nice meeting you, John.”

  “Jean.”

  “Right. Jean. Nice meeting you, Jean-who-is-not-French. Keep up the good work.”

  “You, too,” said Jean, and returned to his kata.

  Mitchell ushered Goldberg out of the room.

  In the hallway, Goldberg asked, “What is he? Army Ranger? Navy SEAL? A mercenary?”

  “Uh, he’s a vegetarian,” said Mitchell. “I’ll get you the x-rays. They’re fascinating.”

  CHAPTER 7 – MOMMY

  That evening in the tiny, cluttered room that served as Mitchell’s office, she and Stone had reached a stalemate after an hour’s discussion. At least, it had begun as discussion. During the hour it had morphed into debate, then argument, and finally highly-charged silence.

  Mitchell’s pacing footfalls echoed in the tile-floored space.

  Stone slouched in a side chair, watching her.

  Mitchell’s shoulders drooped from having worked ten hours and sparred verbally for an hour more. “No, no, no, no, no, no!” she said at last, shaking her head while she continued pacing. “It just won’t work.”

  She stopped in front of Stone and looked into his face. “Look,” she said, “he’s a grown man. He must have been living somewhere.”

  Stone nodded. “And when this is all over, he can go back there. But right now, it isn’t safe. They’re sure to be watching his old place.”

  Mitchell began pacing again. Two steps east, pivot, three steps west, pivot, one step east. Again she stopped and addressed Stone.

  “But, he needs special attention,” she said. “He still has so much to re-learn. I work all day. I can’t be expected to deal with that.”

  “Lots of parents work.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t have two-hundred-fifty-pound preschoolers!” Mitchell almost resumed pacing, but she swung back toward Stone with a new thought. “Geez, how could I even afford to feed him? I’m on a salary, here. It might be different if I were in private practice – ”

  Stone answered before she could complete the sentence. “I’ll get his work accepted at a gallery in South Miami. His paintings will sell. You’ll get along.” He caught her eye and added slyly, “Maybe better than you think.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She scoffed. “I’m old enough to be his ... sister.”

  Two steps east, pivot, three steps west, pivot, three steps east...

  “Dr. Oberon, it’s been over two months,” Stone crooned soothingly. “He can’t stay here in the hospital any longer, and you said, yourself, he’s not recovered fully. Even if he weren’t in danger, he couldn’t live alone – ”

  “What kind of danger? You said as long as people thought he was dead, there’d be no danger.”

  “And that’s all the more reason not to expose him to society at large. We can’t take a chance he might be recognized, alive and well and presumably able to identify the people who tried to murder him.

  “Who knows what might happen if he were sent to some rehab facility with hundreds of people coming and going all the time? His picture was in the paper with his obituary. Sooner or later, someone is going to think he looks familiar. Sooner or later, somebody is going to look him up on Yahoo or Google or some such thing. He’s much safer in a private home with one trusted, familiar, trained medical person looking after him.”

  A horrible new thought sprang into Mitchell’s head. “Oh, no! My neighbors!” she wailed. She paced to her desk chair and dropped into it. “I can’t move some young stud into my condo. People will think we’re living in sin!”

  Stone actually laughed out loud.

  Mitchell felt insulted. “Would that be so hard to believe? Is it so unlikely that I might have a gentleman friend? Plain women have lovers just as often as pretty ones.”

  Stone raised a hand and shook his head. When he calmed himself, he looked into Mitchell’s shocked face and smiled. “You misunderstand me, Doctor,” he said. “You’re thinking your neighbors will be scandalized, and I’m thinking, ‘You live in Coconut Grove. You could move in with three sheep and a midget, and nobody in the Grove would bat an eye.’”

  Mitchell did not smile. She leaned across her desk and told him through gritted teeth, “You. Can’t. Make. Me. Do. This.”

  Stone’s smile remained solid. “I can arrange it so that every friggin’ tax return you’ve ever filed in your whole furshlugginer life is audited by the IRS’ equivalent of Darth Vader,” he said. “And your life could get unimaginably complicated. Bank accounts get frozen due to clerical errors. Cars get towed by mistake. Telephones ring at all hours of the night. Credit cards get declined. And, I haven’t even started to think creatively yet. Believe me. You’ll. Do. It.”

  Mitchell sank back into her chair, defeated.

  Stone stood up and loomed over her, satisfied with himself.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “It’s a boy.”

  Stone left the room.

  Mitchell’s head slumped forward into her hands.

  ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

  On a sunny morning a few days later, a happy group of nurses, aides, and orderlies gathered in a hospital corridor. They cheered when Jean emerged from his room followed by Mitchell.

  A small, mostly female, throng surrounded Jean, scooped him into a wheelchair decorated with balloons, and moved with him toward the elevators while offering farewells, phone numbers, and best wishes. Dressed in shelf-creased new Bermuda shorts and polo shirt, Jean had no luggage but carried his precious paints and sketchpads in a plastic hospital tote bag.

  Mitchell trailed the pack with only Nurse Erskine to console her.

  “I really appreciate your help setting up the spare room – the extra sheets and all,” Mitchell said.

  “No problem,” the nurse replied. “My grandchildren will never miss them.”

  Mitchell sighed. “I guess the first thing to do is find him a school.”

  Erskine nodded. “One with a good fine arts program.”

  “Mmm, eventually,” said Mitchell. “But first I need a place where he can learn to read and count.”

  On Day One of the school search, the headmistress of Happy Times Nursery School looked across her desk at Mitchell. Then she looked past Mitchell at Jean, his bulk spilling over both sides of a tiny wood
en chair from a preschool classroom. Then she looked out the window at the small children romping in the play yard.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We simply have no vacancies.”

  On Day Two of the school search, the headmistress of Sunny Side Nursery School peered over her glasses at Mitchell. She looked past Mitchell to where Jean was waiting in the car.

  “Is he retarded?” asked the headmistress.

  “No. He’s just ... big,” Mitchell answered.

  “I’m sorry, we’re just not equipped to deal with retarded children here.”

  On Day Three, at Granny Murphy’s Daycare Center, Mitchell and Jean entered the headmistress’s office. A voluptuous, flirtatious young headmistress rose from behind the desk and came straight to Jean. She leaned against him and stroked his arm.

  Jean smiled innocently.

  “Well, hello-o-o-o,” crooned the headmistress to Jean. “What can I do for you-u-u-u?”

  “Are you Granny Murphy?” Mitchell asked.

  “Mm-hmm,” said the headmistress, practically climbing on Jean.

  “Nothing,” said Mitchell. “There’s nothing you can do for us. Thanks.”

  Mitchell grabbed Jean and pulled him out the door.

  On Day Four, Mitchell’s car pulled up and parked at St. Luke’s Daycare. Mitchell and Jean got out and stood looking at the building. Mitchell took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and they started for the door.

  Minutes later, Mitchell and Jean waited in a foyer beneath a large painting of Jesus teaching children. A nun emerged from one of the classrooms and strode forward to greet them.

  Mitchell extended her hand. “I’m Doctor Oberon. I called earlier.”

  “Yes. I’m Sister Elizabeth,” said the nun. “Is this the student?”

  “Yes, this is Jean. Johnny, say hello.”