Perfectly Reasonable

by O'Connor, Linda

  Trace had a half-hour break to eat lunch, which the school provided. It wasn’t a bad spread, but there weren’t many hearty appetites.

  He stood off to one side and ate a roast chicken and cheese sub. Carefully. Last thing he needed was a grease stain on his tie. As he finished, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face. “Russ, how’s it going?” Trace asked, stretching out his hand.

  Russ leaned over and shook it. “Not bad, man. Not bad. Haven’t seen you for a while. You’re not hanging in the Sci-Fi lounge any more?”

  Trace grinned. Those were the days. “On to bigger and better things.”

  “More comfortable chairs in the math department?” Russ asked.

  “Absolutely. And highly caffeinated drinks in the drink machine.”

  “How do they keep that a secret?”

  “We write a complicated math equation on the exterior. Drives mere mortals away.”

  Russ laughed. “I would be among them. Running, not walking.” He crumpled up the paper wrapper from his sub and tossed it in the trash. “So you’re thinking of medicine. They could use more math brains like you,” Russ said.

  “I’m hoping. Are you interviewing anywhere else?”

  “Brighton last week and U of S in two weeks’ time.”

  Trace nodded. “Nice. Congrats. How does this compare to Brighton?”

  “They’re all about the same. Smile, nod, try to keep the ‘how the hell is this relevant’ look off my face. Play the game.”

  Trace grinned. Russ would make a great doctor. “Good luck with it.”

  An elderly woman with a clipboard walked into the room and called their names to begin the next round.

  Russ reached out to shake Trace’s hand. “Hopefully I’ll see you again on the first day of classes.”

  Trace shook his hand. “Save me a seat in the front row.”

  They followed the woman out into the hallway. Russ was shepherded to the personal interview, and Trace followed the group for the MMI. There were five stations, each ten minutes long, with two minutes to read the scenario and eight minutes to interact with an actor patient.

  Trace stood outside the door of the first room and read the instructions.

  You have one dose of a life-saving drug and two patients who need it. One patient is the two-year-old child of a physician and her husband. The second patient is a sixty-seven-year-old scientist who developed the vaccine for HIV.

  In the next eight minutes please initiate a discussion with your colleague about whom you will choose to treat.

  Trace took a deep breath. Okay. Think. What would Margo want to know?

  The practical stuff. Do both parties want it? Any other options? Could the child take a lower dose and they share it? Could they get more drug from another country? How sick are they? His heart rate slowed as he came up with reasonable ideas.

  When the chime sounded for him to enter the room, he walked in with a smile and introduced himself.

  And the fun began.

  He asked his practical questions and when the chime ended the interview, he thanked the ‘colleague’ and wondered how the hell anyone would make a decision like that. Both patients needed and wanted it, there were no other options, and both should get it. There would be no good ending to that story. Set it aside, he told himself, hearing Margo’s voice. He did the best he could, and it’s done.

  He walked over to the next room and read the scenario.

  There are two parts to the next section. You will share your decision with the two patients involved. In the first interview you will speak to the mother of the two-year-old child, and in the second interview you will speak to the scientist. You may only give the drug to one patient. Each interview will be eight minutes long.

  Holy shit. Trace felt sweat run down his back between his shoulder blades.

  He hadn’t made a decision. He had gathered information. How could he choose to end someone’s life? And tell them to their face?

  Thirty seconds. Shit. Who gets it?

  When the chime sounded, he wiped damp palms on his pants and walked into the room to greet ‘the mother.’

  The next sixteen minutes were the longest of his life. His mouth was so dry, he stumbled and stuttered. He felt the sweat on his brow and feared it might drip off his chin. It got worse when the patient looked sympathetic. He was pretty sure that wasn’t a good sign. That’s when he perspired through his suit jacket.

  Shit. Guess he could kiss medicine good-bye. That was dismal.

  He floated through the last two scenarios. Couldn’t even recall what he said, what he did.

  When it was over, he sighed deeply. He needed a drink. Water and sugar for now. Something stronger later.

  Next up was the personal interview.

  Put it behind you, Trace. He looked around at the other devastated expressions and took some consolation that it wasn’t just him. They all sucked. They must have put all the B-list players in the same pool.

  Move on, he told himself.

  Focus on what’s next.

  A doctor and a second-year medical student sat across from him. They introduced themselves briefly and then turned to him.

  “Tell us a bit about yourself,” the doctor said, with a smile.

  Thank you, Margo.

  Trace talked briefly about his undergrad degree, graduate work, his tutoring, the research he was doing, and his experience volunteering at Breaking Bread. “I’ve organized a ball hockey tournament to raise money for Breaking Bread. Three weekends from now. There was a lot of interest, and we had to cap it at sixteen teams. But it would be nice if it became an annual event and grew,” Trace finished.

  The medical student grinned. “I’ll be there. We entered a team.”

  Trace smiled. “No kidding? That’s great.” He nodded. Small break there.

  The doctor was very interested in Trace’s research. She had a project of her own on the go and asked Trace about multivariate analysis of variance versus analysis of variance with Tukey’s HSD post-hoc testing. The great thing about knowing the ins and outs of statistical analysis was simplifying it. And generally nobody’s life was at stake.

  At the end of the interview, Trace smiled, shook their hands, and thanked them.

  Done and done. At least the interview went better than the MMIs. So if he wasn’t totally sunk with his MMI score, he may have a chance.

  He shook his head. Was medicine really like that? Did doctors have to make those tough decisions? He hadn’t thought it would come up that often, but really, organ donation, blood transfusions, limited drugs, all the extra care people had to pay for, it probably wasn’t as rare as he imagined.

  No wonder Margo had a hard time. She’d care too much. She had such goodness in her, was beautiful to the core. It would break her heart to make a decision like that. And break her spirit.

  And who would she talk to about it? Another doctor, probably. She’d need someone with a similar perspective.

  He’d be useless. He couldn’t even get through the interview. Hell, with actors. He was sweating bullets, and it wasn’t even real.

  Thank goodness she chose painting. Because if she ever decided to go back to medicine, that would be the end of any relationship with him. She’d need a doctor.

  He owed Margo a bucketload of thanks and an apology. If only he could rewind the clock and take back what he’d said to her when Ottie was sick. Throw a little empathy out there.

  How could he make it up to her? His body stirred at the thought of another Friday night.

  He should probably start with an apology.

  Chapter 37

  Margo breathed in the fresh clean air of spring. Perfect day for Trace’s ball hockey tournament. It was warmer, and the weather forecasters were pretty sure the last of the winter storms were finished. She hoped so. She was so ready for brighter clothes and fewer layers.

  She threw her purse and jacket on the front seat beside her and settled into her car. Her car. With a brand spanking
new paint job and shiny new windshield. It was so good to have it back. The Spark was great, but there was nothing like zooming around in her zippy little Mini-Coop.

  She made a left-hand turn.

  The last two weeks had been quiet. Painting was slow. The hotel job had finished, and the new homes weren’t quite ready, so she and Chloe had a few days off.

  Lots of painting-on-canvas time. Lots of thinking time. She’d even talked to her mom. Surprise, surprise. Not sure what had changed, but she decided not to analyze it and instead just enjoy it.

  The big news? She had decided to go back to medicine.

  Her gut clenched, and she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Obviously still a frisson of doubt there, but … she missed it.

  Family medicine was a two-year residency. She’d invest the time and energy to get her license and then see. If she still had doubts, she could paint, or even practice medicine part-time and paint. Combine the best of both worlds. She rested her hand on her stomach. Even though there was a tiny bit of terror mixed in, too.

  She stopped at a red light and tapped the steering wheel. Really, she could have walked to the ball hockey tournament, but it crossed her mind that a car might be handy in case of an injury. Not that Trace had asked her, but if nothing else, she could offer to help with the first aid.

  Actually, she had debated whether to show up at all. It sounded like Trace had everything under control, from what she’d heard from Hattie and Ottie. They were brimming with excitement and couldn’t stop chatting about it.

  She, on the other hand, was less enthusiastic. It was a great cause. She knew she should support it. But she didn’t want to see Trace.

  Well, she did. But she didn’t.

  In the end, she decided to go, offer to help, and aim to stay out of Trace’s way.

  Trace. Her heart twisted. After his interview, he had sent flowers with a short note of thanks. The flowers had been beautiful. She’d babied them so they’d last and finally had to throw them out two days ago. But it had been weird reading the words on the card written in someone else’s handwriting. Instead of Trace’s voice in her head, someone else’s popped up between them. She sighed. That was silly, but she longed to hear him again.

  She pressed her lips together. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t texted. There was no excuse for her to see him now that his interview was done. He was playing the waiting game. She grimaced. Her too, but for a different reason.

  She was waiting to see if he would call.

  She pulled into the parking lot and her eyes widened. Trace didn’t go halfway.

  A huge tent, with a Breaking Bread banner, was set up in front of two rinks. The rinks were back to back and framed in knee-high boards around the periphery. Tall fences probably twice her height, towered between the rinks and behind the nets at the opposite ends.

  Had she really been worried that no one would go? The place was packed. Kudos to Trace.

  People milled about. Players registered at a table at one end of the tent. Teams of four in matching jerseys, with the goalies in full ice hockey gear, were waiting for their turn to play at the edge of the rink. Ottie, in his big top hat, sat on a high stool beside the registration desk, surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd.

  Opposite, Hattie was busy handing out hot drinks. “Coffee or hot chocolate?” Hattie shouted above the din of the crowd as Margo approached.

  Not waiting for an answer, Hattie handed her a cup. “Free coffee, courtesy of Tim Hortons. You here to help, baby girl?” she asked with a smile.

  “Absolutely.” Margo took a sip. “They donated this?”

  “Yessiree. Coffee and hot chocolate from Tim Hortons, sandwiches from A Slice Above, and free homemade cookies.”

  “Wow, a feast. What can I do?”

  “Smile and help me serve it up.”

  Tim Hortons dropped off half a dozen jugs of Gatorade for the players and had to refill the coffee twice during the morning. It was a big hit.

  They had a steady stream of customers. Their generosity was heartwarming, and Margo thanked every one of them for their support.

  And she watched Ottie. Every half hour, when the games finished, he hopped down from his stool and recorded the scores on a huge white board under the tent. The rest of the time, she could only see a sliver of his top hat in the center of the crowd surrounding him.

  “What’s with all the commotion around Ottie? What’s he doing?” Margo asked Hattie during a lull.

  “Signing autographs.”

  “Autographs?”

  “You’re not goin’ believe it, but Ottie played hockey with the Shields.”

  “No.” She turned wide eyes to Hattie.

  Hattie laughed. “Four seasons as a professional. No wonder he’s watching all them games. It’s his ole stomping ground. And look at the love they’re showering on him.”

  “Wow. He never said anything? He looks like he’s having a blast.”

  “His time in the spotlight,” Hattie said with a smile.

  As the morning moved into the afternoon, the sunshine came out, and the temperature went up. A slight breeze helped cool the players.

  By the time the teams narrowed to eight, then to four, and down to the final two, the tent and all the standing room only spots around the boards were full. Spectators cheered with each whistle. Young adults, families, and a few folks with a sprinkling of gray hair, crowded around the boards to watch the games. The fans were close enough to hear the players as they called out plays or banged their sticks for a pass. The four on four games were fast, with the players running and passing as they covered the rink from net to net.

  The last game was tied as the clock ticked down the final forty seconds. With only twenty seconds left, the more aggressive team pushed passed the defense and deked the goalie, sliding a backhand shot past his pads. A horn sounded with the goal, and all the fans in blue and white jumped and clapped and high-fived their neighbor. The players, winded and sweaty, grinned and slapped each other on the back.

  “Let’s get this done,” said the winger.

  They set up at the centerline until the other team brought the ball out from behind the goal line. Ten seconds later, the whistle blew and the game was over.

  The noise from the fans escalated until the players finished shaking hands.

  Trace took a microphone at the center of the rink and addressed the crowd. “Congratulations to the Sharp Shooters on their win. Well played. And of course, the big winner today is Breaking Bread. Thanks to everyone who helped out, made donations of food and drink, of their time and, of course, their money. Every little bit helps and will go a long way. Thanks to our special guest, Ottie Blakeman. I’ll invite him to center rink to hand out the medals to the winning teams. Thanks again everyone. We hope to see you here again next year!”

  Ottie stepped forward and handed out medals to the top three teams, with more handshakes and smiles.

  Margo and Hattie cleared the table. The leftovers were packed up for Breaking Bread, and the rental company was standing by to take down the tent.

  Just as they finished putting the last of the food away, Trace hurried past. “We’re all heading out for pizza at The Melting Pot. You in?” he shouted to Hattie and Margo.

  Hattie laughed. “Oh, no. These old bones have had enough. I’ll drop by Breaking Bread to make sure everything is under control, but then I’m home for a hot bath, a quiet night, and a deep sleep. Let me give you a hug.” She walked over and embraced Trace. “You’re a good boy. Today was a huge success.” She nodded over to Ottie. “In so many ways.”

  Trace leaned back and followed her gaze. “Do you think I’ll be able to pull him away?”

  “Might be the hardest part of the day,” Hattie said with a laugh.

  Trace looked over at Margo. “You’ll come, right?”

  Margo hesitated and then smiled. “Sure. That’d be fun.”

  Trace gave a thumbs-up. “Great. We’re meeting there in half an hour.” He
strode away, calling out instructions to the last of the crew as he went.

  Hattie turned to Margo. “You go and show that boy a good time,” she said with a firm nod.

  Margo smiled weakly. Hattie’s definition of a good time and Trace’s might be slightly different.

  Chapter 38

  Margo walked up to the entrance of The Melting Pot as Trace arrived.

  “Oh, hi,” Margo said, startled. “I thought you’d be inside already.”

  “I ran Ottie home first. He was losing altitude.”

  “What a day for him.”

  Trace nodded. “He loved it.” He held the door open for her. “After you.”

  They walked in and spotted the rest of the crew sitting at a table. Trace waved to them, grabbed Margo’s hand, and pulled her toward the table.

  Margo had met the others briefly during the day when she brought them coffee and cookies. The men had been organizing the teams and refereeing, and the two women had looked after registration and timekeeping. Trace introduced her again and held the chair for her to sit beside him.

  They ordered pizza and pitchers of beer and snacked on roasted garlic bruschetta while they waited. They were floating on the success of the day, and the conversation was lively.

  “How much do you think you raised, Trace?” Rob asked. He was the shortest of the bunch, and as a referee, had probably run eight times that of the players.

  Trace shrugged. “Dunno for sure, but I figure around six or seven grand.”

  Rob whistled. “That much. That’s impressive.”

  Trace raised his glass. “To all the fantastic help today. Couldn’t have done it without the team effort.”

  They clinked glasses and congratulated Trace for a smoothly run, successful day.

  The pizza arrived and they dug in.

  Conversations started around them, so Margo turned to Trace. “Thank you very much for the flowers, Trace. You didn’t have to do that, but they were beautiful.”

  Trace finished chewing and wiped his mouth. “You’re welcome. Thanks for all your help. It really made a difference. I could hear your voice throughout the day, whispering advice.”