Page 68 of Private Pleasures

Dr. Sam Seligmann stepped into Nora’s room.

“Sam!” Nora threw back the coverlet and came from the bed.

“Elda stayed to tell me you were awake,” he said, “but sweetheart, you’ve been out like a light for eight weeks. Take it easy. Sit down before you give me a coronary.” He almost pushed her into the chair, his fingers reaching for her wrist.

“I’m fine,” Nora insisted. “I want to go home, Sam.”

“Yep, pulse normal.” He took the chart from the foot of the bed and scanned it, shaking his head. “Everything is normal,” he said, almost to himself. Then sitting himself in the second club chair, he told her, “All your vitals have been normal since you were brought into the hospital, Nora. But you were unconscious. Actually it was more like you were sleeping. Do you remember anything?” He peered through his glasses at her.

“I remember ordering a cable movie. That’s it. Oh, my God! I was supposed to sign the settlement papers. Jeff must be furious.”

“He’ll live,” Sam Seligmann said.

“When can I go home?” Nora demanded. “I feel fine, and I really do want to go home, Sam. And the kids must have been frantic all these weeks. I need to call the kids.”

“Frankly I’d keep you under observation for a couple of days,” Dr. Seligmann said, “but now that you’re conscious, I know your HMO will start screaming because they know that other than being out for these past weeks, you haven’t shown any signs of trauma or illness. I’m going to keep you a day, Nora. Just today. You can go home tomorrow, okay? But I don’t want you to do anything strenuous for quite a while, sweetheart, and I’m going to check on you myself twice a day.”

“You’re going to make house calls on me?” Nora grinned. “Why, you old sweetie, you have been worried.”

“Don’t tell on me.” He grinned back, then he grew serious. “Whatever felled you, Nora, I don’t want you to relapse by flinging yourself back into your life too quickly.”

“I don’t have a lot of time, Sam. I’ll have to sign that divorce settlement, and that means the house goes on the market April first.”

“I’m going to talk to Rick about that,” the doctor said. “Under the circumstances we should be able to get an extension. I mean would it kill Jeff to wait till May first?”

“I don’t know,” Nora replied. “He’s been carrying a bridge loan on that co-op he bought. Jeff isn’t a man who likes wasting money.”

“Listen, Rina says that Carla told her the girlfriend is paying the bridge loan. Your husband isn’t out of pocket a penny on this,” Sam Seligmann replied. There came a high-pitched sound, and he looked down at the pager on his belt, eyebrows lifting. “Excuse me, Nora, while I make a call.” He pulled out his cell and punched in the numbers. “Dr. Seligmann here. Yes. What? You’re kidding! I’ll be right there.” He stood up. “Gotta run. Stay here today. I’ll release you tomorrow, and I’ll be back later.”

He stood up, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and was gone.

Nora smiled to herself. Mr. Nicholas had been right. Everything was going to be just fine. The door opened again, and an aide came in carrying a tray.

“Dr. Sam says you get breakfast, Mrs. Buckley. Glad to see you awake. I’m Chrissy. I went to school with Jill.”

Nora smiled. “Of course, I remember you. Cheerleader, right?”

Chrissy nodded. “Yep. Then motherhood too early. I’m going to school now to get my R.N. My mom looks after Jason.”

“Dr. Sam sure left in a hurry,” Nora probed gently.

“It’s something big, but I don’t know what,” the aide replied. “My brother’s an EMT with the cops, and he got called out just after six a.m. Enjoy your breakfast, now.”

Sam Seligmann’s mind, however, was on the telephone call he had just received from his wife. “Come quick,” Rina had said. “The cops are all over Ansley Court, Sam. Heidi’s pressing charges, and Jeff is raising bloody hell.” He reached home in record time to find the street cordoned off. “I’m Dr. Seligmann,” he said, holding his ID out for the emergency worker to see. “I live here. Number 200.” He was waved through, and parking in his drive, he got out and ran across the street.

“Hey, Dr. Sam,” the cop in front of the house said.

“What’s happened,” Sam Seligmann asked.

“Looks like Mr. Buckley beat up the girlfriend early this morning, although he claims he hardly touched her. She’s over at the Johnsons’ now. Pretty kid. What she sees in him I don’t know, anyway he’s barricaded himself in the house. They’re trying to talk him out now. You don’t know if he has any weapons, do you?”

“No,” Sam said. “He’s not the type. Who’s in charge here?”

“Lieutenant Barker,” the cop said. “He’s the bald-headed guy over there with the pissed-off look.”

“Thanks,” Sam replied, and walked over to where the police lieutenant stood. “Lieutenant? I’m Dr. Sam Seligmann, Mr. Buckley’s neighbor. Is there some way in which I can help?”

“Can you talk that asshole inside outside, Doc?” Lieutenant Barker asked irritably. “Damn, this is no big frigging deal. The guy beat up his girlfriend. She’s pressing charges. I have to arrest him, and now he’s adding resisting arrest, and God knows what else, to the charges.”