Last Dance, Last Chance

afraid, hearing sounds that woke her often. She had a job during the daytime in a plastic surgeon’s office, and that time raced by, but she dreaded the nighttime when she was home alone.
    Sometimes Debbie socialized with the other interns’ wives, but mostly she lived a solitary life in Baltimore. Anthony was studying when he was home—or sleeping. She had expected this—it was what they had both worked for; he was going to be a doctor, a surgeon, and all their sacrifices would be worth it. They lived on one salary and banked the other, saving for the future when Anthony would build his own practice.
    The early spring of 1986 brought both joy and sadness. Debbie was thrilled when she became pregnant, but she miscarried before the third month. “Anthony felt bad, too,” she recalled. “He was very comforting to me, and told me we would try again and it would be all right.”
    And it was. By July, she was pregnant again. Anthony teased her because they were both so busy he wondered how they’d ever had time for conception to happen, but they were both elated. This time, Debbie felt wonderful, and she continued to work while carrying the baby.
    Anthony had completed his first year of internship in general surgery and begun the second. He was sure that two years at St. Agnes would set him up nicely in his career as a surgeon. So was Debbie, although she wasn’t really aware of what was going on at St. Agnes. Living with a man as mercurial as Anthony was, and as brilliant, she had long since learned to make the adjustments necessary to keep him happy. She listened when he told her of his life at the hospital, but she didn’t question him when he didn’t want to talk.
    By March 1987, Debbie was more than eight months pregnant and a little nervous about being alone. One night when Anthony was at the hospital, Debbie awoke to a sound that wasn’t the usual creaking of their building. Her heart beating wildly, she crept to where she could peek into the living room. Someone was moving outside the sliding glass doors of their apartment. The doors had never fastened correctly, and suddenly one slid open. There stood a tall naked man inside her apartment, raving incoherently.
    She was terrified, but she remembered the gun Anthony had purchased. “I found the gun where Anthony put it in the dresser, and I held it on that man. That seemed to snap him out of his delusions, and suddenly he wasn’t talking crazy any longer.”
    She managed to call the police as she held him at gun-point, and they came and took him away. “It took three officers to get him in the car,” she remembered with a shiver. “I was really scared, but thank God, I didn’t go into premature labor.”
    A few weeks later, Debbie gave birth to her baby by cesarean section. On April 4, 1987, she had a son—just what Anthony wanted. They named him Raphael Frank after Anthony’s and Debbie’s fathers. He was a beautiful baby, and they were both enthralled with their dark-eyed child.
    Everything was moving along on schedule for them. Anthony was only a few months away from the end of his first two-year program, and he had decided to continue on at St. Agnes for another year. But he was stunned and then outraged when his contract was not renewed.
    “They only renewed one of the residents,” Debbie said, “and it wasn’t Anthony. He talked to an attorney to see if he could sue them, but he didn’t go ahead with it.”
     
    During this, the third year of their marriage, a tiny network of fissures appeared for the first time. Debbie noticed a number of hang-up phone calls coming into their apartment. One time, a female voice actually gave her a message to give to Anthony. “Just tell him ‘hello,’ she said.”
    Debbie was puzzled but not overly alarmed. Anthony was a very handsome man, and she knew women often got crushes on doctors. It was probably some woman who had come into the hospital. Still, she had a wife’s insecurity. She realized that she never really knew where Anthony was at any given time; that was just part of the nature of his career. She had always trusted him.
    Debbie had almost forgotten about the odd phone call, but then she answered another call from a woman. It was their last night in Baltimore, and Debbie was happy that they were getting ready to go home. This time, the woman’s message was for her. “Go look in the back seat of your car,” she said with a hard edge to her voice.
    Making her way out to the car,