Acute Reactions

by Ruby Lang

  Ian grimaced and debated what to tell his friend. “I’ll still be going in for them for a while.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s good to…not be allergic to dust. And cats,” he said.

  “O-kay,” Gerry said. “You’re not planning on opening an antiques store soon, are you?”

  Luckily, a knock sounded on the door and a fresh crisis blew in. As he and Gerry raced up the stairs, Ian berated himself for not admitting to his friend that he had enough of a crush on Petra Lale to keep going back for more of her medicine. Then again, the less Gerry knew about some things, the better.

  At the end of the night, Ian stuffed his soiled shirt in his backpack and checked his pockets for his iPhone. After a terse farewell to his staff, he set out into the humid air.

  His apartment was only a few blocks from the restaurant. When he had first started Field, he lived by the airport with four roommates and three messy dogs. On nights when he couldn’t be bothered to drive home, he would spend the night on the cramped floor of his office. Now he lived alone in a nice enough apartment. He should have loved the high ceilings and the big windows that faced the sun. But he was never there during the day, and at night, when he returned, he found the dark and silence depressing.

  He had no family left. His mother passed when he was a teenager and his father died on a night very much like this one, when Ian was in his twenties.

  Gerry was right. Ian wasn’t one to abandon the plan. But he’d started this relationship—all of his relationships—hoping it would be serious. Yet he still felt alone. Part of it was that he worked a lot. But then, he worked because he had no one else. He assumed that when he met the right person that he’d be able to relax—that he’d want to enjoy that feeling of togetherness that he’d never had.

  Ian sniffed the air. He was in the mood to make reckless decisions. He could avoid his apartment if he walked toward the water to Chinatown. He could go to a bar and drink. He could get into a fight, steal a motorcycle, TP someone’s lawn so that he wouldn’t have to be lonely and vulnerable for another goddamn night. He could abandon the weeks he’d spent cultivating one girlfriend so that he could pursue this indefinable and possibly imaginary thing with a gray-eyed woman who stabbed him with two needles every time they met.

  He paused as a taxicab discharged a passenger in front of him and with a start, he realized that it was Petra Lale. It was as if his loneliness had conjured her.

  “I am never, ever wearing shoes again,” Dr. Lale was muttering as she bent to adjust the strap of her shoe.

  The jolt of seeing her under streetlamps, instead of the harsh fluorescent glare of her office lights, made his heart race. Deference for her healing skills was not at the top of his mind right now. She was wearing a short trench coat and high, very wobbly heels. She had nice, if unsteady, legs. He wanted to close his fingers around her ankle and slide his thumb up. He tried to cover his lechery with fake heartiness. “Petra Lale, MD,” Ian said, as she turned slowly. “Are you drunk?”

  Her head whipped up. “Ian.” A pause. “No, I’m not. I swear, it’s just that I’m not used to these stilettos. I can’t move more than six steps without feeling like the Little Mermaid after she grows feet.”

  She seemed even more twitchy than usual. She smoothed down her coat and shifted to one foot. “Hans Christian Andersen wrote a very tragic story,” she said. “Not as pathetic as the evening I just endured at the hands of my esteemed colleagues, but sad nonetheless. In summary: not drunk, just hobbled and defeated.”

  She gave him a collapsed smile. Ian was concerned. “What was so terrible?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, “I just spent the night networking.”

  He laughed. It was the first time that had happened this evening, he realized, and it felt very good. “Oh come on, it couldn’t have been that bad.”

  She peered at him, her face still scrunched up. “It was exactly as horrible as that. I know I shouldn’t say this, but I kind of hate doctors, even the ones I’m friends with. A whole roomful of them, drinking dirty martinis, talking about emergency sedation, and trying to one-up one another is some kind of hell. I’m just not built for that kind of jousting, especially when they’re all trying to act nonchalant while bopping their heads to Coldplay. You’ve heard me talk. I get nervous and spout obscure facts about T cells and Serbian inventors. It’s not like I dazzle anyone with my jokes and good looks. Not like you,” she added quietly.

  He gave her a quick look. Her volubility was quickly chasing away his dark mood. “You have your own charm.”

  Another half smile. “If I were charming, I’d be telling you that you were charming, thus charming you. But I’m not and you are, and that’s why.”

  “Are you sure you’re not drunk, Doc?”

  “My point is that this sort of thing is probably effortless for you. You go out onto the floor with all that going on”—she waved her hand up and down at him—“and people just swoon at your feet.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you find me irresistible?”

  “No. I mean—no.”

  She looked at her feet. It was too dark to tell if she was blushing, but he was pretty sure that she was. Without the dignity of her white coat, she seemed vulnerable and human. Well, she had always been human to him, but now, even more so. It appeared that the good doctor was not immune to his attractions either.

  “It’s not all about looks and glibness,” Ian said. “And you can’t actually be telling me that you think you’re utterly without wits.”

  She brushed her hair aside and looked wry. “I know that I look acceptable and that I can engineer a proper turn of phrase,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply that you had nothing going on besides the lean and dangerously handsome thing. Obviously, you’re confident and successful. And you have a natural ability to make people laugh and set them at ease. It’s no wonder your restaurant does so well. I just don’t have that, especially lately. Maybe because I’m just starting out and the waiting room is empty. I guess when I begin to see failure on the horizon, I start to think that maybe there’s something fundamentally wrong with me.”

  “This isn’t about you. This isn’t something you necessarily have control over.”

  He took off his glasses and rubbed them. They were gazing at each other, and speaking more and more quietly. Cars drove by, streaking their headlights across her face. She looked unhappy and tired, and Ian felt the irrational urge to kiss the sadness away. More than a kiss. He wanted to take her into his apartment and strip the trench coat and dress off of her. He wanted to put her in his shower and wash her small body and lay her on his bed so that she could relax and sleep. In the back of his mind, Ian realized that his thoughts had gone entirely too far. This conversation had become personal and he had no wish to stop it.

  “When I first started out in the restaurant business,” he said, “I wasn’t this way at all. It’s a notoriously difficult field to survive in. A lot of people go into it thinking it’s going to be glamorous. They think it’s tablecloths and chocolate cake appearing from nowhere. I was twenty-seven and was still getting my MBA when I met Gerry, my chef and business partner. My father had died the year before of a melanoma. He was a geologist. He was really smart and interested in how everything worked and in learning about the world.”

  Petra touched him on the arm. He wanted to slide her palm up, across his shoulder to his chest. Her face was turned away slightly, as if she were trying to hear him better.

  “Anyway,” Ian continued, blinking, “his death spurred me to make my MBA project into a reality. It’s a terrible business to go into if you want a life of your own, but at the time, I just wanted to bury myself. Everyone thought I was a naïve, dumb kid, and they were probably right. I might as well have been chewing on a piece of hay while a banjo played in the background.”

  “And now you’re thirty-two and everyone thinks you’re the shit,” she said softly.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t
say that. If you’d seen me on plunger duty tonight, you’d change your mind. My point is that nothing comes effortlessly. No one is without doubt.” He rubbed his forehead. “Anyway, how did you know how old I was?”

  “I have your medical records.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. The air was stirring with something warm and humid. Rain was probably approaching, but Ian felt no urge to hurry home. “How old are you?” Ian asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

  “I’m thirty-one,” she said, almost shyly.

  “Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

  “Almost always,” she said. “But I guess I didn’t understand then how much of it would be paperwork and just calming people down.”

  She made a vague gesture toward the sky and Ian looked that way, as if he could actually see what plagued her, written in the dark clouds. One question and one answer wasn’t enough. He wanted to know things about her: where she had grown up, if she had brothers and sisters. He wanted to know whether there really was dust under her couch. He wanted to trace her jaw with his hands and press his thighs against hers and ask her in whispers, in her ear, and watch her curls spring back as he pulled them. Was it forging an illusion of intimacy with her because they shared pain and succor and breathing space once a week? Looking at her face streaked by streetlights, he could not believe that it was so. They watched each other too carefully.

  She liked him. Maybe even as much as he liked her. He had a chance with her. That was all he needed to know.

  She opened her mouth as if to say something, but the rain that had threatened all night came down around them like streamers at a New Year’s party. She shook her head.

  Ask me, he thought. Tell me something. Keep talking to me.

  But she started to back away and he had to, too. Here, on the street, with her edges becoming soft and wet, he knew that he could not stay. He had to be content with calling out good night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You and Scott Santos,” Helen said. “Spill it.”

  They were drinking fancy juice drinks and eating tofu scrambles at Breakfast Bar. It had been Sarah’s turn to pick a brunch place, obviously. Petra stared at her nearly empty glass. The Kale Mary tasted tangy, salty, and delicious, but it had been expensive, especially considering it didn’t contain any alcohol. Absently, Petra grabbed the rest of the spelt and olive focaccia from the bread basket and wondered if it would be gauche to ask their waitress for more. None of the other patrons looked like they ate bread.

  “You didn’t agree to go out with him again, did you?” Sarah said. She pushed back her short, black hair.

  Petra shuddered. “Of course not. I was, as usual, aggressive and uncool. He was, as usual, gorgeous and obnoxious. I almost lost my temper and punched him. He triumphed and smoldered. End of story.”

  “Why did you even talk to him? Helen, why didn’t you stop her?”

  “Helen was occupied,” Petra said, shooting her friend a sharp glance. Sarah and Helen had been at odds lately, but neither seemed willing to explain why. “And I needed the patients. He pretended not to recall our fling, then he reluctantly agreed to kick a few my way, and then tried to pass off some sob story about how he envied me for opening up a solo practice.”

  Peppery Sarah leaned back. “It sounds like it went well,” she said. “You accomplished what you set out for that evening. I don’t know why you always put a negative spin on things that seem to be fine.”

  “He found me too combative.”

  “He actually looked interested when I came up,” Helen said, not looking up from beneath the brown fringe of her bangs.

  “I guess that’s true. He was also saying we should consider another go at it.”

  “He found you hot and he agreed to refer patients. Sounds like you won on both counts,” Sarah said.

  Put that way, it did make the evening seem better than she thought.

  “I also talked to Aditi Singh—”

  “She’s nice,” Helen said. They had done their neurology residencies together.

  Sarah glared at her.

  “She is,” Petra said, looking curiously at the two of them. “Plus, I caught Lee McDermott before he left.”

  “All in all, it sounds like you did well,” Sarah said.

  “Then why did Santos act like he didn’t remember that we’d gone out? Not that I care about him in particular, but it is pretty galling for him to pretend that I’m not memorable when clearly, I was.”

  “He was messing with you, Petey,” said Sarah. “You have to admit, you see why he did it. You make it so much fun by getting sputtery. It sounds like his recall was pretty much perfect.”

  Helen nodded and ran her long fingers absently up her drink. In med school she’d taken Petra in when her friend couldn’t find anyone to rent her a place. They had shared the one-room apartment for almost a year. With anyone else, it might have been hell, but Helen supplied silly paperbacks and cookies when Petra needed comfort and she let Petra clean—or not clean—in her own way. And because they were both studying and in different rotations, they didn’t have that much opportunity to get on each other’s nerves. Also, Helen could have slept through the Big Bang and not have noticed the universe forming around her. It was one of the foremost considerations when choosing a roommate, Petra had since decided. If the practice went under and she had to rent out her living room to a bunch of co-eds, she would make sure to find out if they were easy sleepers.

  “It’s hard to put yourself out there and ask people to think of you,” Helen was saying, “especially when you’re not used to getting attention. But it doesn’t mean that they think you’re weak or failing. It’s just all part of the system. They’ll expect you to send them patients with suspected diabetes, or irregular heartbeats. It’s like getting professors to write recommendations, or asking people to be your references.”

  “I hated doing that.”

  “But everyone does it and everyone needs it done. For instance, did you mind it when I asked you for a letter when I was buying a condo?” Helen asked.

  “No. It was easy because you’re a perfect person to live with.”

  “Exactly. So you shouldn’t worry about asking people to recommend you. It’s how the world goes round.”

  “Speaking of, did you get some of your patients to write reviews?” Sarah asked.

  “One of my patients told me he’d do it, but I haven’t seen anything,” Petra said, picking at her tofu.

  Ian Zamora. Last night, he had been warm and kind. At least, that was the illusion he gave. For a moment, she even thought there had been a pull of attraction between them. It hadn’t been the first time, either. Sometimes, she sensed that his stoicism during injections had just as much to do with her hands smoothing the curve of his arm as it did with the pain. She often caught him looking at her and his skin pinkened under the intimacy of her exploring fingers.

  Or maybe that was just his reaction to the shots.

  Still, their conversation last night was revelatory. Not that she wanted anything to happen—not that anything could ever happen—but after a night of steamrolling and sucking up, it felt nice to have a quiet, personal conversation with someone who didn’t seem to be inspecting her for weakness.

  In the morning light, however, she was not sure what had taken place. It helped that he had a slow smile that a woman could easily find herself falling for. He talked a good game, Ian Zamora, but he shouldn’t be trusted.

  She also found herself disappointed in him for having failed to produce a review. She had checked. Somewhat obsessively. And it wasn’t because she thought that he should be thinking of her as much as she seemed to think of him. It was beyond the feeling of desperation she felt for her practice. She felt almost betrayed by him, as if he had promised her something more than a careless paragraph on a website, and she were more than his doctor. He had said he understood the importance of a review. He even implied that it might not be entirely favorable. But when it
came down to it, he had written nothing, and she was now taking his memory lapse far too personally.

  She shook her head. She must have been imagining the tension between them last night. From now on, she should keep her distance. She’d administer the shots, tend to his itches, and send him on his way. She would be the perfect, polite robot professional. Inner Hippocrates gave her a “You go, girl!” cheer. If she encountered Ian Zamora on the street, she would remind herself that her white coat shielded her from private questions and revelations.

  She certainly did not have a crush on him.

  “Helen,” she said, feeling punchy again, “you and Mike Lockhart last night—what was that all about?”

  • • •

  Sarah’s tips seemed to be working, or maybe it was just dumb luck. Petra picked up a handful of new patients near the end of the month. She was still in the hole, but at least she wasn’t losing money as quickly as before. She stared at her bottom line again and glanced away from the big red numbers on her computer screen. There was just enough time to phone her mother. Petra preferred to discharge her filial duties from the safety of her office. It was a good way of limiting the amount of time she spent talking to Lisa Lale. She could always say that she had a patient.

  Lisa answered on the first ring. “How’s business?” she asked.

  “It’s great,” Petra said brightly. “I had some referrals, and even though we don’t get a ton of ragweed in these parts, I snagged a few sneezers.”

  “Will that be enough? You know, new small businesses go under at a rate of eighty-five percent per year.”

  Petra quelled her rising panic by trying to sound logical. “What does that even mean, Mom?”

  “It means you should be very careful with what you do with that money your father left you. Don’t go spending it all on encyclopedias.”

  “Mom, I was ten years old the last time that happened.” Petra would have given anything for her mother to be the kind who bragged about the fact that she was a doctor. But apparently to boast was to anger the gods. “How’s Ellie?” Petra asked. Her half-sister was in her first year at the University of Washington. She was Petra’s favorite way of deflecting attention from herself. In a perfect world, Ellie would have been a hell-raiser. Instead, she was polite and had very earnest ambitions of going into city planning. Ellie was tall and blonde, like Lisa. It was hard to believe they were from the same family.