Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

buckets. A man in a white lab coat and blue jeans sits on one of the wooden chairs, thumbing something into his phone.
    I cross to the French door and push it open. “Dr. Armitage?”
    The man startles, and only then do I realize he’s smoking a cigarette. I almost laugh when he makes a feeble attempt to conceal it. He stands and drops the cigarette, sets his foot over it. “Oh, hello.” Hand extended, he starts toward me. “You must be Chief Burkholder.” He glances down at the butt. “I guess I’m busted.”
    “It’s not against the law to smoke,” I say.
    “Well, it should be. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. You’d think I’d know better.” He chuckles. “Stupidest damn habit I ever started.”
    We shake. His grip is firm, but not too tight. The lack of calluses tells me he doesn’t do much in the way of manual labor. He maintains eye contact with me, his expression intelligent and full of good humor.
    “Never too late to quit,” I tell him.
    “I plan to.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “As soon as the divorce is final. Which should be any day now.”
    I nod. “Sorry.”
    “Ah, it was my own doing. All work and no play made me a pretty bad husband.” Shrugging, he motions toward the door. “I’ve got about five minutes before my next appointment. Would you like to sit out here or would you be more comfortable inside?”
    “Outside is fine.”
    “It is a nice day, isn’t it?” He settles back into his Adirondack chair.
    I sit opposite him and take a moment to look around. The yard is small and fenced with white pickets. A big maple tree shades the corner where an old-fashioned swing set sits. A basketball hoop and backboard has been installed in a gravel area, the mesh net swaying in the breeze. It’s the perfect retreat for kids and stressed-out parents. “This is a nice facility,” I tell him.
    “I love this clinic. I love the people—the Amish in particular. I love this part of Ohio.” He grins. “Even the long winters. For the first time in my life I can honestly say the work I do is important—and not only to me.”
    “It must be very gratifying.”
    “It is. Immensely.”
    “I remember reading about the grand opening of the clinic,” I tell him. “I understand most of your work involves genetic disorders.”
    “Almost exclusively.” He smiles. “Though I’ve been known to treat a sore throat when indicated. Through the work done here, we’ve identified some genetic disorders that are almost unheard of elsewhere in the world.” That he uses “we” instead of “I” tells me he’s a modest person, content to share his achievements with his colleagues, the mark of a man who loves his work and whose mind enables him to see not only the big picture, but the end goal.
    “The Amish are unique in that the gene pool is relatively small,” he adds, leaning forward and gesturing. “Most of our patients are special-needs children. We’re talking quality of life disorders. Cohen Syndrome. Ellis-van Creveld syndrome. Dwarfism. Founder effect inheritable diseases mostly.”
    “Founder effect?”
    “Disorders that can be attributed to a limited gene pool,” he replies. “We’re working with community leaders on a way to broaden the scope of that pool, and I think we’ve had some success. My colleagues have been in touch with the bishops of church districts in other states. Colorado and upstate New York, mainly. To a lesser degree, Indiana and Illinois. We’re trying to get a relocation-and-exchange program up and running, which is difficult because the Amish are so family oriented. And, of course, the church districts have different rules.” He leans closer to me. “But, if we can overcome those things, if we can get young men and women of marrying age to emigrate to out-of-state Amish communities, marry, and have children in their new locale, we could broaden the gene pool and, in effect, eliminate some of these genetic disorders. Of course, only time will tell if—” He stops himself short. “Sorry. Once I start talking about my work here, it’s hard to shut me up. Used to bore my wife to tears.”
    “Sounds fascinating.”
    “Or maybe you’re just too polite to tell me I’m boring you to death.”
    I smile, find myself liking him. “It’s good to be passionate about your work.”
    “Some might argue that I’m a little too passionate.”
    It’s obvious he’s married to his career—and that his soon-to-be ex-wife had had to compete. I