The Winter People by Bret Tallent

started.  But a storm had started inside as well, the storm
that is memory and self recrimination.  It was the storm of failure and self
doubt.  Of should have's and could have's and if only's.  Tom was embroiled in
a storm of his own.
    It started with
his intern-ship.  There were pills to help you make it through the long hours. 
There were pills to help you get to sleep, then pills to help you wake up. 
Have a drink to help you relax, and another to help you forget.  Everybody did
it, or so it seemed to Tom.  After all, they were physicians.  They knew what
they were doing.  They could handle it.  He could handle it.
    Then they went
their separate ways.  They found their niches in the medical community, found
their hospitals or practices.  But the problem went with them into their new
lives.  It followed them like a loyal dog.  In a profession with one of the
highest drug and alcohol abuse rates, Tom was a victim.  The drugs hadn't
followed Tom to his residency, but the alcohol had.  Only now, after the death
of a patient and ten years of counseling, could he admit that he had a problem.
    But that didn't
help the patient, Tom thought bitterly.  That didn't help his wife who had to
put up with him, and had stayed by him through it all.  That didn't help him
much either.  It didn't make anything any easier.  Maybe it shouldn't, Tom
thought.  Maybe the pain of living with it was his just deserts.  Maybe he was
getting off easy.
    After all he was
sober, for twelve years now.  Lucy was still with him.  He was retired now, at
the hospital's request, and could enjoy his and Lucy's remaining years.  The
cabin was almost finished, and . . . and . . . and he was miserable.  He'd
thrown away everything he had worked for, washed it away with one more for the
road.
    Tom Willis wanted
more than anything to help people.  Tom Willis wanted to make a difference. 
Tom Willis wanted to be the surgeon that gave hope and life.  Instead, Tom
Willis was the surgeon who killed his patients.  "I'll give ya' some hope
alrighty.  Then I'll take your life! For services rendered," he thought,
cynically.  "Dr. Tom Willis?  No, no, no.  I'm Dr. Death.  That's retired
Dr. Death, don't ya' know?  Do it right, and they let (make) you retire.  Do it
right, and nobody knows but you and a handful of hospital
administrators."  Tom wondered then, if any of the other patients he'd
lost over the years were his fault?
    Tom's eyelids had
grown heavy as he lay back in the recliner and relived his woes.  He hadn't
even noticed it; he just started drifting in and out with his thoughts.  Before
long, he fell asleep.  But his thoughts continued, changing from recollections
into nightmares.  As the storm outside was building, his own storm had reached
its climax.  He had the dream again.
     
    ***
    The fading autumn
light cast a red glow through the thinly veiled window.  Bathed in the pastels
of a Denver sunset sat a figure much too tiny for the hospital bed on which she
sat.  A woman nervously flipped through channels on the old set hanging from
the corner of the room, waiting for the doctor to arrive.  As Dr. Tom Willis
entered the room, he paid little attention to the sunset, or the size of the
bed.  His concern was for his patient, Jamie.
    "Mrs.
Gibbs," Tom acknowledged her with a nod and moved straight to the bed. 
"Hello Jamie," he said, kindly.  "I understand you've had a
rough time of it this evening."
    Nodding, her mousy
little voice squeaked out, "It's my tummy."  Jamie looked up at Tom
then and his heart melted.  Her big brown eyes were sad and pleading.  The
brightness of her face was clouded in pain and sweat had matted her blonde hair
to her forehead.
    "I know
honey," he consoled, "I'm going to take care of it for you." 
Mrs. Gibbs had come up beside him but he only barely noticed.  He took Jamie's
hand and talked directly to her.
    "You have
acute appendicitis.  Do you know what that is?"
    "A