by B. B. Hamel
“Nah. Look, if Dr. Hood is so good, they’ll bring him back. And if they don’t, he’ll land somewhere else. So maybe you can go with him, right?”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me before. This whole time, I was thinking like this was the end of the line—if Piers was gone from the hospital, then I’d never be able to work with him again.
But that wasn’t true, of course. If he went to another hospital, maybe I could move my residency there. I might have to begin over again or something—but that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
It was a poor, weak hope. I tried to picture what Piers was feeling, but that only made me angry. I hated the way he seemed so down and unwilling to fight, like he’d given up entirely after one single setback. Things hadn’t gone perfectly, so he was finished.
I saw a spark last night. He was looking at lawyer. He was willing to meet with Rees.
But then it all went away again, and he left me alone there.
I didn’t know what he wanted. Even if he was going to stop trying to keep his position at Westview, and he was going to let Caroline and Gina pin the Tippett thing entirely on him, that didn’t mean we had to end whatever relationship was starting to blossom between us. I knew he felt it as much as I did, and that had to mean something.
I didn’t know why he was so willing and able to walk away.
I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking about him, and about what we could do together, if given a chance. I imagined all the different ways we could stick it to the hospital, had these stupid, elaborate fantasies where I found some proof that Caroline had faked it all, and made her come beg for my forgiveness, before I still ruined her anyway. Despite my fantasies though, nothing changed, and I was still powerless, and angry, and running out of time.
“I don’t know if that’ll happen,” I said.
Milo kicked his feet out. “I don’t know you or Dr. Hood all that well, but it seems like the two of you made a good team. You could always try to talk to him about it, you know?”
“I could try,” I said, “but he’s an asshole, remember?”
He snorted a little. “Okay, that’s fair. But then again, I’ve been hearing rumors that he’s been extra nice to the nurses and the staff these past few weeks, so maybe he’s turning a corner.”
I wished I could tell him that his whole attitude change was a ploy to try and buy him more time, but that wouldn’t help our case at all. “I’ll get over it,” I said, “sooner or later.”
“Let me know if I can help.” He squinted over at the other guys. “In the meantime, we should probably go join them and see what they’re up to.”
“Probably making some elaborate plan where a very simple solution would be better.”
“That’s true, but then again, elaborate plans can be so much more fun.” He stood up then looked back at me, motioning with his head. “Come on, we could use your input.”
I reluctantly joined them. The other guys allowed us into the huddle and together we talked about the puzzle, and for a little while I forgot about Piers.
But not for long. As soon as I stepped back into the hospital, I started thinking about him again. So much reminded me of him, the smell of the place, the sights and sounds. We talked about it all, and it felt like a part of whatever relationship we’d been growing.
The day continued, then waned, and when I left, I felt some strange sense of certainty.
Shit was hard enough without giving up something I liked, just because the world wasn’t perfect.
I took out my phone and called him. It rang, and rang, before he finally picked up.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re off duty.”
“I want to come over.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to come over,” I repeated. “You’ve been to my place. Now I want to see yours.”
A short pause on his end. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Give me your address.”
“Lori—”
“Give me your address,” I said, getting annoyed.
He let out a sigh, but he gave it to me.
I hung up and marched my ass over there.
He lived near me, which was surprising. He must’ve known it, but hadn’t said anything. His building overlooked Rittenhouse, the type of place with a lobby and a doorman. I gave my name up front, then rode the elevator up toward the top floor. He had a corner apartment, and he answered on the third knock, wearing a tight black shirt and navy joggers.
“Good evening, Dr. Court,” he said.
I pushed past him into his place. The floors were dark wood, the walls covered in colorfully framed movie posters. Thrift store coffee table, a big leather couch, and a guitar perched in a corner. It was an extremely masculine space.
Beer cans and a liquor bottle covered the coffee table.
I frowned at him as he leaned up against the marble kitchen counter. “Welcome to my home,” he said.
“You’re drunk.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” I found a trash bag under his sink then started collecting the empties. There were a lot more than I expected. “You’re really drunk.”
“What else am I supposed to do with my day?” He sat down on the couch with a huff.
“Stay there,” I said. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
He didn’t argue. The refrigerator was depressing though. I managed to find some eggs, green onion, some Romaine lettuce, and made a little salad, scrambled some eggs, and put them into small tortillas. He watched me the whole time with a curious look in his eye, like he wasn’t sure if I was real, or if I was a figment of his imagination.
I wasn’t sure if I was real, either. It all felt like a stupid dream, and at any second, I’d wake up.
He ate sitting at the table. I watched him, then started to clean the kitchen. It was a mess, because of course it was. We didn’t talk, and the only sound was the TV, tuned to Law & Order: SVU. Nothing was better for ambiance than the cold, hard hammer of justice.
When he finished, he joined me in the kitchen, and helped finish straightening. I brushed up against him several times, and it was like a dance, a domestic approximation of a mating ritual. I wanted to tell him how badly I needed him in my life, even if he wasn’t my teacher anymore, but I kept my mouth shut. He was too drunk for that conversation, anyway, and I didn’t even know if I ever wanted to have it.
I steered him to the couch and sat him down. “No more drinking.”
He smirked. “Unless you’re staying over, I don’t know how much of a say you have.”
“You want me to stay over?”
“If you do, I can promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
I was tempted. But again, drunk.
“Maybe tomorrow, if you stay sober.”
“You’re coming back?”
“Someone needs to feed you and make sure you stay alive.”
His smile slowly disappeared. “You’re not my girlfriend. You don’t owe me anything.”
I curled my toes and took a breath before answering. “I know that,” I said slowly. “But without me, you’re going to spiral into self-pity and alcoholism, and honestly, that would be a fucking waste of your talent.”
“Ah, thank you,” he said, smiling again. “I knew you cared. About my talent, at least.”
“Don’t be a dick. Seriously, don’t.” I walked toward the door. “No more drinking.”
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, darling.”
“I guess you will.”
I went to leave, but he called my name, and I paused, looking back.
“You showing up was the highlight of my day,” he said, eyes looking tired and glassy—and yet still handsome, despite everything.
I felt a little thrill, and hid the smile by leaving, and closing the door behind me.
He was a goddamn mess. Without his job, I could only imagine what he was going through. He spent his whole life in that hospital, and basi
cally treated this apartment like some place he had to go to between shifts. Surgery was his entire life—and now, his life was crashing down.
He needed me, like I needed him—and maybe even more.
26
Piers
I woke up hungover again, but at least the sweet memory of Lori cooking me dinner and making sure I didn’t drown myself still lingered in the back of my mind like a soothing balm.
Even if I knew it was wrong to want her to keep coming back.
I showered, made coffee, and was tempted to break into the bottle of vodka I had hidden in my closet—but decided against it.
Drinking wouldn’t solve my problems. I was being pathetic, and I knew it. I was wallowing in my anger and self-pity, all because I didn’t have any other direction in my life. I’d spent so long becoming a surgeon, then defining myself through my work. Without it, I didn’t know what I was, or what I’d do.
But Lori showed me something by coming to my apartment, despite everything.
She gave a shit about me, and maybe I could give a shit about myself, too.
I turned on the light in the small office I had next to my bedroom. I barely used it, since I spent all my time in the hospital, but now I went through my filing cabinet and began to amass a pile of patient charts and folders that I’d kept over the years.
I was meticulous about my charting, to the point that I made backup copies, just in case something happened at the hospital. My patients came first, always before my loyalty to the institution. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the most recent charts—these covered my early career, up to about a year ago, when I started to keep everything in my office at the hospital. Which meant Gina and Caroline had all of those.
Still, it was a good thing I started out so intense about my paperwork, because buried in the relatively large stack I had balanced precariously in front of me on the kitchen table were several very rich and very old patients that might be my ticket back into the administration’s good graces.
Or might be my ticket into a job somewhere else in the city.
I wasn’t sure which I wanted yet, and right now, it didn’t matter.
I sat and thought of Lori. She wanted to fight, even if it seemed like fighting was worthless. She believed I could be better, and rise above it all—to the point where she was willing to keep coming over, even when I thought it was done.
Once again, she showed me that I had to be better.
I spent all of the morning and most of the afternoon skimming through those files. I was looking for a particular kind of patient: someone wealthy, and someone that might need my kind of services. I whittled it down to a slightly smaller stack of files of potential candidates, then I began making phone calls, one after the other.
The first ones were unbearably awkward.
“Hello, yes, is this Mrs. Mayer?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice a smoker’s croak. “And who the heck is this?”
“My name is Dr. Hood. I’m a surgeon at Westview General. I was wondering if you’re in need of any procedures.”
A long, painful pause, in which I’m pretty sure I died a few times. “Are you calling to ask me if I need surgery?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Or if you’re looking for a new surgeon or a new doctor.”
“Do you do this a lot?” she asked. “Randomly call people, asking if they need surgery?”
“No, ma’am,” I said.
“Then why are you doing it now?”
“New thing, ma’am.”
“Right. I don’t need surgery.” And she hung up.
It went about the same for the next few calls, and I quickly realized why doctors didn’t do this sort of thing.
It was unquestionably weird, calling people up and asking if they needed surgery. Most of the time, patients had no clue whether they needed a surgeon or not—but I still had to try. It felt like I was breaking some kind of rule, or maybe bending my ethics a little bit, but I knew that if I was going to improve my current position, I had to do it with a roster of new patients that needed my services. It wasn’t enough that I was one of the best—I had to bring in money on top of that.
Money ruled everything, even medicine.
Eventually, by the time I got to the end of the stack, I was left with eight names. That was eight more than I expected to get, and I was pretty relieved to be done with what was the most painful experience of my life. I think I’d rather get a root canal without anesthesia than have to go through that again.
But it was done, and I had my list.
Not a huge list, but a list anyway.
I texted Lori next, and she got back to me right away with a phone number. No questions, no hesitation. I liked that about her. I steeled myself as I called the number, and paced across my living room until a voice answered.
“Hello?” Rees sounded somewhat annoyed.
“Hello, Rees,” I said. “This is Dr. Hood. How are you this afternoon?”
His tone didn’t. “I guess Lori gave you this number.”
“Yes, she did. I hope it’s okay that I’m calling.”
“What can I do for you?” Straight to business. I wasn’t surprised.
“I had something I wanted to show you,” I said. “I was wondering if you have any free time left today?”
“I have office hours now,” he said, sounding skeptical. “I don’t normally take meetings during them, but I will, if this is important.”
“I think it might be,” I said. “Would you mind?”
“All right then. You come to me, be here in an hour, and I’ll listen to what you have to say.” He hesitated, and I could feel his indecision weighing across the line. “I hope you thought about what we spoke of the other day.”
“I did.”
“Good.” He gave me the address. “See you in an hour.”
He hung up. I checked the time, grabbed the directions off my phone, and gathered up my things. His house was out in the suburbs, and I’d need the majority of that hour to get to him on time.
Rees’s house was a massive structure on the edge of Philadelphia County. The neighborhood was sparsely populated and clearly affluent: a large, black fence surrounded the entire area. An older woman sitting in a security booth buzzed me through, since apparently, I was expected.
I parked out front and walked up a set of stairs. Columns lined the front porch, and the door looked like it could accommodate an elephant. I rang a bell and knocked, and waited a minute before an older woman in dark pants and a white button-down answered. She smiled and gestured for me to follow her.
I gawked around me. I’d never seen so much wealth before: paintings, statues, vases, fresh flowers and plants, gold-rimmed mirrors, smooth marble floors, flawless walls, pristine light fixtures. It was a rambling house, big enough for ten families, and the older woman led me to a door at the very back, big and dark wood. She knocked once, smiled at me, then left.
I watched her go and realized we hadn’t spoken a single word.
“Come in,” Rees said from inside.
I pulled open the door and stepped into an office. A heavy, thick rug covered the floor, and huge bookcases flanked the massive wooden desk. Rees looked up with a scowl. He seemed busy reading the paper, which I guessed was what he’d been doing the whole time, since he was close to the end. He checked his watch and grunted as I closed the door.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said.
“It’s fine,” he said, although he sounded like it definitely wasn’t. “Take a seat.”
I sat, and leaned forward, holding the stack of files on my knees. He frowned at them, then up to me.
“I was doing some research,” I said. “Looking into past patients. I made some calls.”
“Did you now?” he said, frowning slightly, eyebrows raised. “And what did you find?”
“I found that they’re more loyal to me than they are to any hospital.”
He laughed, and seemed genuinely delighted by that. I
knew this was a risk—he sat on the board of Westview, and he could easily decide that the hospital was more important than however he might feel toward me through his cousin. Still I knew I had no other options, and I got the sense that Rees was a pragmatic man. I forced away any nerves, and tried to treat this like a normal procedure.
At least now, the only life in the balance was my own.
“That’s very interesting, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” he said.
“I have eight patients here.” I placed the stack on his desk, putting them down behind several small sculptures: a fertility goddess, a black Lab, a chestnut horse. Each file contained the most basic information possible, to avoid any potential HIPAA violations. “I know eight doesn’t sound like a lot, but these are eight very wealthy older individuals that are in need of services such as those I provide. These are eight former patients that would become new patients—and might be good streams of revenue.”
Rees chuckled darkly. “Strange, to talk about human lives as sources of income.”
“I’m aware, but it’s also how hospitals operate.”
“True.” He picked up the stack and weighed it. “You did this today?”
“Called every former patient I thought might be worth calling.”
“That must have been hard.”
I clenched my jaw and nodded once. The memory was still fresh. I hated putting myself out like that. “It wasn’t so bad.”
“What do you want me to do with this?”
“I’m not completely sure yet,” I admitted, and leaned back in the comfortable leather chair. “There’s a part of me that wants to be back in the good graces of Westview.”
He tapped the folders. “You think these patients can do that?”
“I think they’re a start.”
“You would need five hundred of these to make those vultures give a damn about you again.”
His words stung. I watched him open one of the folders and leaf through the pages. I felt myself beginning to unravel at the idea that all this was for nothing, that I was throwing myself out there again and again, desperately trying to win the approval of people that didn’t give a damn about me—but it wasn’t about Gina or Caroline. It was about that hospital, the one place I knew better than anywhere, and continuing to practice medicine the way I always had.