A Doctor for Keeps - Lynne Marshall

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his memory all the way back to when he’d been eight. Ester Rask had run away and had never come back. So much of the story had eluded him all these years. Now he understood it was because she was pregnant. He’d never known that part of the equation before. He’d heard she’d died last year, seen how distraught Gerda had been when she’d come home from her mysterious trip to California just before she’d been appointed mayor pro tem. Yet she’d barely spoken about it, just moped around for months. At least Gerda had been able to see her daughter one last time—a sad consolation to a lost life together.

      Now, like a prodigal granddaughter, the woman named Desdemona had shown up.

      The downright sadness of all the lost family years hit him where it hurt most—in the gaping wound his wife had ripped open when she’d left him. As he clearly didn’t need to be reminded, Gerda wasn’t the only one moping around for months on end.

      He shook off the negative memories, choosing to focus on the stars outside his window instead of the ache in his heart.

      The strangest thing of all was, tonight he’d immediately reacted to Desi’s exotic beauty when he saw her under the soft glow of the porch lamp. But that was such a shallow response. He should ignore it. Yet, in the still of the night, under the gentle beams of moonlight, he couldn’t get her or those questioning, mistrustful brown eyes out of his mind.

      Tall and well proportioned, with extra-fine hips, she was a woman who’d fit with his big, overgrown frame. He grimaced. Why torture himself and think about women? After seven years of marriage, he couldn’t make his wife stick around. Not even for Steven’s sake. Why fall for their beauty when their motives cut like blades? He ground his teeth and rolled over, willing the young mysterious woman out of his thoughts and demanding his mind go blank so he could finally fall asleep.

      * * *

      The next morning, Desi threw on an old sweatshirt and baggy jeans and made her way down the creaky staircase of the ancient house. Gerda was already up and reading the newspaper, and jumped up from the table the moment Desi set foot inside the kitchen. They tipped their heads to each other in a silent greeting. Like strangers.

      “I don’t drink coffee, but I’ve got some if you’d like,” Gerda said, sounding eager to please.

      “Thanks, but if you show me where you keep it, I’ll be glad to make it myself. Sit down.”

      The thin and almost ghost-white woman pointed to the cupboards near the back door before sitting again. “Your mother always loved coffee, even when she was young. I used to worry it would stunt her growth, and she was only five foot three when she left.” Silence dropped like a forgotten net. But Gerda quickly recovered. “I know it’s silly, but I’ve always kept her favorite brand on hand, even now when I know she’ll never come—” The sentence broke in half as Gerda lost her voice.

      Desi rushed to her grandmother and put her hands on those bony shoulders, her own throat thickening with loss and memories of a family she’d never gotten to know.

      Gerda reached up and tentatively patted one of Desi’s hands with icy-cold knobby fingers. “I’d asked your mother to come home so many times.”

      “I know you did. Mom finally told me.” Mom had felt fragile like Gerda the last few months of her life. Desi could only imagine how hard it must have been for a mother to lose her daughter when they’d been estranged all those years. As for why her mother had never returned, well, that mystery wasn’t likely to be resolved.

      “Well, you don’t have to worry about coffee stunting my growth,” Desi said, deciding to change the subject. “I’m five foot nine.”

      Gerda offered a wan smile and Desi waited for her face to brighten, even if only a little, then she went back to making the coffee. Gerda sipped hot tea and ate a piece of toast with marmalade, putting the taste for toast and jam in her mind. Mom loved orange marmalade, too.

      Since Gerda seemed engrossed in the morning paper, and Desi wasn’t sure what to talk about anyway, she filled her coffee cup and wandered into the living room, to the gorgeous grand piano in the center of the room. She took a sip of coffee and carefully placed the cup on an adjacent TV tray containing a bowl of candy and a pile of colorful stickers.

      Lifting the keyboard cover, she explored the keys, enjoying the feel of the cool ivory beneath her fingers. She’d had to sell her mom’s piano when she’d sold the house in L.A. to pay for the medical costs. She’d put the remaining contents of that house of memories into storage, the piano and everything it represented in their lives being the biggest memory of all. Music, and her mother’s talent, had been their bread and butter, keeping them afloat through all the tough times. And there had been many.

      When Desi became old enough to work and was able to contribute toward house payments, they’d finally settled into their own home. Though she’d never been sure where the large down payment had come from, Desi had a sneaking suspicion her grandmother had something to do with it. Then her mother got sick. All those years in smoke-filled lounges had finally caught up with her. Four years of lung-cancer treatment and suffering for naught. Even after Mom had died, Desi was hit with huge medical bills.

      As she so often did when she felt sad or moody, like right now, Desi turned to music. Soon her fingers danced along the keys, as if having memories in their tips. Beethoven’s “Für Elise” filled the room with the rich tone of the grand piano. When she’d finished, she moved on to a Chopin nocturne. On and on she played, forgetting all her worries, losses and fears, until her fingers and hands were tired. She hadn’t played perfectly, far from it, but what could she expect for not having touched a piano in months, since she’d sold theirs? Still, it felt good. Invigorating.

      Desi sipped her tepid coffee then smiled, her mood elevated. She glanced up and found Gerda leaning against the kitchen door, tears brimming in her pale eyes.

      “Your mother taught you well,” Gerda said.

      Desi nodded. “She did. She loved music. All kinds. But you probably knew that.”

      “I taught her how to play, you know.” Gerda stood straighter. “She was such a natural.”

      The questions swimming in Desi’s head almost poured out of her mouth: Why did mom need to run away? Why did she rarely talk about you? Why did Mom insist it was just the two of us? What could have been so horrible for her mother to run away and sever all ties? But seeing her grandmother’s fragile state, the emotion she wore on the shabby midnight-blue bathrobe sleeve, Desi kept her questions silent.

      “Do you still play?” Desi asked.

      Gerda’s eyes brightened, and she proudly walked toward the piano. “I’ll have you know, besides being mayor pro tem of Heartlandia, I’m also the most sought-after piano teacher in town.” A mischievous smile stretched her sallow and lined cheeks as she sat on the other half of the bench. “For anyone under the age of twelve, that is.” That explained the candy and stickers.

      Gerda chuckled and it sent a chill down Desi’s center. Her mother had laughed exactly like that. Up close, though Gerda’s eyes were milky blue, they were shaped like her mother’s, and though Gerda’s hair was all white now, she could tell that it used to be blond, also like her mother’s. The two women fit together like misplaced puzzle pieces, and why wouldn’t they, since they were mother and daughter?

      Yet Mom had said very little about her family over the years. That was until her last days. All Desi knew growing up was the road and hotels and Mom. No strings. Just the two of them. Deep down Desi had always suspected it was because she was of mixed race that they’d kept to themselves. Though her mother had not once hinted at that being the reason. Being constantly on the road, with her mother working for a big Midwest hotel chain as the lounge entertainment, playing one month here, six weeks there, made it impossible to make friends or, evidently, keep in touch with relatives. Only on her mother’s deathbed had she asked for Gerda to come. And Desi had finally learned about the man named Victor Brown, the father she never knew.

      Gerda had started playing a song meant as a duet. Desi had been taught the same song by her mother

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