Dr. Bad Boy

by Ainsley Booth

  Blair’s on the phone, so I slip past him and pull up my calendar on my computer. In theory, my phone syncs to the network, but in reality, I don’t trust it.

  I have lunch with a colleague. I fire her a quick email telling her I need to cancel. We were only going to the cafeteria anyway. Then I block off the rest of my afternoon and put a note on it that residents can still page me.

  I point at Blair’s computer on my way past him again and he waves.

  When I reach the top of the corridor, my phone vibrates. A text from my assistant.

  B: Don’t forget you still need to eat something. Cancelling lunch doesn’t mean cancelling eating.

  M: Thanks, Mom.

  I stop at the coffee shop and grab a bagel. I eat it in the call room before meeting Ethan’s family in the imaging department.

  I catch up with them just as he’s being rolled into the CT scan machine.

  “Hey, Dr. D,” he says, his eyes closed.

  “How’d you know it was me?” I ask.

  “My eyes aren’t all the way closed.”

  “All the way, Ethan.”

  “But—”

  “Rest, kiddo. Rule number one today.” And tomorrow, and the day after…

  We back away to the parents’ nook, and I pick up on that same tension between his parents again. They’re not touching each other.

  It’s none of my business.

  So I try not to notice when she bites her lip and gives him a sideways glance.

  Or when he stiffens, like she’s pushing his last button without saying a single word.

  I’m grateful when she shifts her attention to me, snapping herself together like Commander Mom. “How long is he likely to be in hospital this time? And what accommodations are we going to need to ask the school for? Should we be thinking about home schooling for the rest of the year to let him heal?”

  “We have a team that you’ll meet either later today or tomorrow. All concussions fall under the umbrella of acquired brain injuries, and there’s a group of physicians and allied health providers that assess each case and work with parents to decide the optimal treatment plan.”

  She frowns. “We didn’t see them last time.”

  “No, Ethan bounced back really quickly and his care was easily handled by the paediatric residents. But this time we’re going to want to be extra careful.”

  His father’s the one to respond first. “He’s fine, though, right?”

  It’s the second time he’s asked me that. He didn’t accept my first answer and he’s not going to like anything else I say, either. But I can’t look this man in the eye and tell him his son is going to be okay, because I don’t know that to be true.

  I hope it with all of my being, but I don’t honestly know.

  “Because we’ve got a shipment of calves coming in day after tomorrow.”

  My brain stutters over what I just heard. I slowly look up. Fuck. I know this guy has a farm to run, and he’s probably doing it all himself. And he’s worried about his kid. Right? He’s gotta be worried about his kid.

  But if his God damned business matters so much, maybe he should have been more fucking mindful about—

  I cut myself off. Even in my head, that’s not appropriate. It is none of my business how this family functions—or doesn’t—outside of what’s safe for their children. And I know that it wasn’t his decision for Ethan to go sledding.

  But right now, I’m so close to punching something it’s not safe.

  “We’ll know more after the scan. And he’s awake and cracking jokes. That’s an excellent thing.” I yank my pager off my hip and stare at the dark screen for a second. “Excuse me.”

  I step into the hall long enough to calm myself down, then I check in with the radiology technician. Over her shoulder, I look at the imaging and swear under my breath.

  He’s got a brain bleed. It’s small, but visible. An acute left frontal subdural hematoma.

  I lean over and press the intercom. “Doing a great job, bud.”

  He gives the camera a small smile. His eyes stay shut.

  The tech pages the neurology team, and it doesn’t take long to decide to move into the OR immediately.

  This is where my role ends, at least temporarily. I should get back to my office. Finish those assessments. But as Ethan’s stretcher slides out of the imaging machine, as he goes to sit up and two adults need to hold him down, because no, he can’t move…

  I find myself glued to the spot.

  I can’t leave him.

  I text Blair to tell him I’m scrubbing in to the OR. Even if I’m just observing, I’m not leaving Ethan alone. After the surgery he’ll go to the paediatric ICU. I’m not on call there, and I’ll just get in the way if I linger.

  And I look across the room at his parents, guilt slicing through my gut. I have no idea what they’re dealing with. If they fought this morning. Maybe fought over Ethan going to school, or taking his snow pants. Maybe one of them wanted him to stay inside at recess. So many ways I should be able to identify with them instead of against them.

  I’m a good doctor. Great, sometimes, because I’m tireless and smart and I don’t let much get by me.

  But the part of me that should be empathetic towards parents is broken. I try to double down and make that up to my patients in other ways, but on days like today, it’s a real struggle.

  I wear surgical scrubs so rarely that I haven’t tried my scrubs card at this hospital. It doesn’t work. A senior resident takes pity on me and gives me a clean pair. I change in the call room, then head to the OR where Ethan’s being prepped. I let the neuro team handle telling the Boltons about what would happen.

  But I stopped in the waiting room and told them I’d be in the room the whole time. I couldn’t look his father quite in the eye as I did it, though.

  So I make that up to him, at least in my mind, by making sure that I watch every single step of the procedure.

  The surgeon carefully visualizes the bleed, repairs the tear, then places a drain before stepping back so a resident can do the last few steps.

  I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the anaesthesiologist gives Ethan’s next set of vitals. Stable. Rock solid, kid.

  There’s some teaching that’s still to be done as the nurses prepare him to move to recovery, and then on to what will hopefully be an uneventful stay overnight in the paediatric ICU before he’s returned to our ward tomorrow.

  But I’m done here now. I can breathe again.

  I scrub out and change, then head for the waiting room to sit with Ethan’s parents. But on my way, I stop in alcove and pull out my phone.

  I don’t care that it’s the middle of the week. The middle of the day. I don’t want to be alone tonight.

  34

  Violet

  M: I need you tonight.

  I should text Max back and remind him of the rules, but I’m not at the office, and even if I was, a text is pretty private.

  And honestly, I need him, too. It’s hard to go through the work week without seeing each other, although I’m paying for the weekends of fun.

  I’m bone-tired this week, and if I’m going to his place tonight, I’m taking a bag of stuff so I can sleep over and just go in to work from his place.

  I’ll sleep better in his arms, anyway.

  I’m so tired, I called my doctor’s office and they told me to come down for a quick check-up.

  “Ms. Roberts?” I glance as the nurse calls my name from across the waiting room. “Follow me this way. The doctor’s a bit slammed, so you might be waiting in the clinic room for a while.”

  I shrug. “Thanks for fitting me in.”

  She gestures for me to stand on the scale, then she takes my blood pressure. “What is your reason for the visit today?”

  “I’m exhausted. I recently started seeing someone, and I don’t know if it says something sad about my social life before, but I’m dragging through the work day. When I first moved here, she gave me a B12
shot a few times, and I wanted to talk to her about that again.”

  The nurse nods and grabs a sterile orange-capped jar, sticking my patient ID number on it before handing it over. “Okay. Pee in this for me. You can leave it in the bathroom there.”

  I roll my eyes. Every time I come in, they do a pee dip. Surely I should get a pass as a responsible grown-up who knows how to use birth control, right?

  I just stare at the doctor, because surely there’s some mistake. “No.”

  She nods matter-of-factly. “Yes.”

  I shake my head more aggressively this time. “No. There’s some mistake.”

  “I re-dipped the pee sample myself, Violet. It was a strong positive result. We can do some blood work or schedule an ultrasound to try and get you more accurate dating if you need it, but…you’re pregnant.”

  “We always use condoms,” I whisper, denial morphing into something else, something close to but not quite acknowledgement.

  She nods. “They’re good, but not a hundred percent. A small tear might be missed. Or if there’s any genital contact. And there are options to discuss if this is not a wanted pregnancy.”

  I blink down at my hands, resting on my lap. My naked ring finger. For two years, I wore a wedding band, and thought about when I might have a child.

  Then I got divorced and accepted a baby wasn’t in my imminent future.

  But options?

  I’m pregnant.

  With Max’s baby.

  There is only one option.

  I start to cry.

  The doc hands me a tissue, and waits for my hiccups to subside.

  “This isn’t always good news, and whatever support you need, I’m here for you. We can discuss this more now, or you can make another appointment if you need some time.”

  I shake my head. “I want this baby.”

  Through a veil of tears, I see her nod. “Then we can discuss prenatal care as well.” She pauses a beat. “Will you be telling the father?”

  Am I that obvious? I nod, harsh, jerks of my head. “He’s a…” Doctor, too. Fuck. He’s also a secret. Well, that’s going to have to change.

  One thing at a time.

  I inhale slowly, shakily, and let it out.

  I dab the tears away from my eyes and lift my face to the ceiling, willing myself to pull my shit together. “Yes. I’ll tell him tonight.” Another breath in, and out. “I’m not sure how it’ll go, to be honest, but he’s a good guy. We haven’t been dating that long, but…”

  I find myself spilling my guts to a doctor who’s got a busy clinic beyond that door, and I can’t even tell her anything specific. But I unload, and she hands me tissues, and doesn’t stop until I finally stop crying for real this time.

  “You’ll be fine,” she says, patting my knee as she stands up. “Your baby has an awesome mom, and that’s the most important thing. And you’ve got almost nine months to sort the rest out.”

  If only it were that easy.

  When I arrive at Max’s house, it’s empty. I check my phone, but there aren’t any messages from him yet. I curl up in the living room and flick on his television. It’s frozen on the recap from a basketball game that he must have been watching last night or first thing this morning.

  I hit play.

  It’s almost domestic. Almost normal. My doctor boyfriend is late coming home from dinner, and I’m curled up in his spot, under his blanket. When he gets home, we’ll make dinner together, even if it’s just reheating stuff delivered by a catering company.

  Then he’ll take me downstairs to his dungeon and flog my ass until it’s pink.

  Except first I have to tell him I’m pregnant, so that might put a crimp in those plans.

  I groan and tip my head back. Put on your big girl panties, Violet. I snort. Maternity underwear. God.

  Do they make those in silk and satin?

  Nothing more domestic and normal than a baby on the way…

  And just in time for Christmas.

  Each sharp, jabbing thought opens a new wound inside me.

  I’ve been summoned here for a dirty booty call, nothing more, and that’s on me, not Max.

  Nine months hardly seems like enough time to unravel the mess I’ve made. I pull out my phone and fumble my way to a due date calculator.

  August.

  If all goes well, my baby will be born the first week of August.

  I hear the quite growl of the garage door opening and put my phone away.

  One thing at a time.

  35

  Max

  I prowl into the house, my need for Violet trumping all else. I got kicked out of the PICU an hour ago, the trauma specialists pointing out that I had other patients to care for and they didn’t need me double checking their work.

  It took me forty minutes to wrap up the rest of the work on my desk and take a quick look at the notes for tomorrow’s clinic.

  Now my night is all hers.

  She’s in the living room. I hang up my jacket, set my bag on the kitchen counter, and start rolling up my sleeves as I approach her.

  She looks tired, too.

  Food, drink, a little hanky-spanky, and we can go to bed early. Naked.

  “Thank you,” I say as I tug her to her feet. “I know I broke your rules a bit.”

  “It’s fine. I needed to see you, too.” There’s a tremor in her voice. Maybe she had a bad day, too.

  I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her close. “We should do this more often. The mid-week thing. It’s nice. I had a weird fucking day. You ever have days like that? Where something that should be ordinary and normal just isn’t, because who the fuck knows why?”

  She nods slightly. “Yeah.”

  I rub my nose against her cheek. “You, though, kitten. You are perfect. Just exactly like this. So simple, you and me.”

  She stiffens, and I kick myself for pushing her.

  “Shhh, ignore me. I’m wound up.”

  “Oh. Do you want to talk about it? Can you talk about work?”

  I shrug. “Yeah. In broad strokes. You don’t mind?”

  She shakes her head.

  I tell her about Ethan. Nothing identifying, nothing I wouldn’t put in a journal article. Mostly I tell her about the frustration that sometimes bleeds into my normal ability to maintain professional boundaries.

  “You really care,” she says softly.

  I need a beer. I lead her into the kitchen. “Yeah. Although days like today make me grateful I don’t have kids.” I pop the cap off a beer bottle and hold it out to her.

  She frowns as she shakes her head.

  “Do you mind if I have one?”

  Another shake, and I pull her close again, giving her a kiss before I take my first sip of beer. She’s all tense.

  “I’m being an ass, just talking about my day. I’m sorry. How was your day?”

  “It was…I didn’t get much work done. But that’s okay.” She tilts her head to the side. “What do you mean that you’re grateful you’ve never had kids?”

  I shudder. It’s complicated, and not at all what I want to talk about tonight.

  “Don’t you love kids?” She gives me a weird look and I take another swig of beer.

  “I…care about children. It’s important to me that they be treated well, as fully autonomous human beings. Not after thoughts. That’s huge. They come first in my world.” Because I never did. Fuck. That’s not where I want my head right now. Or ever, with Violet. “And they’re genuine, you know? Kids don’t play games. They’re not selfish like adults are.”

  She pulls away from me. “Not all adults.”

  I shrug. The only one that matters for this discussion. Me. “I’m as selfish as they come, Violet. I’d be the world’s shittiest father.”

  “That’s not true,” she whispers.

  “We can argue about that another time. Have you eaten?”

  She shakes her head, then nods. “I’m fine.”

  “Which is it? Yes, you’ve eaten, o
r no, you haven’t but you don’t want to be an imposition?”

  She hesitates.

  “Come on, let’s heat up whatever mystery food got delivered yesterday.” I link my fingers through hers and pull her to the fridge. “Do you want stir fry, shepherd’s pie, or chicken curry?”

  “Is it shepherd’s pie or cottage pie?” she asks tonelessly. “Because technically I think shepherd’s pie has lamb in and what we call shepherd’s pie is just beef.”

  “Here, have a stir fry.” I take another sip of beer, trying to figure out where the conversation went off the rails. Who the fuck cares what dinner’s called? I grab the apparently-wrongly-named shepherd’s pie. “And you can taste this and decide what it really is, but I’m sure it’s beef.”

  She reaches past me, her delicate fingers wrapping around a bottle of sparkling water.

  “Violet?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She hesitates. “Nothing.”

  I open my mouth to call bullshit, but she presses up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips against mine.

  “Let’s eat dinner,” she whispers against my mouth.

  When she steps back, her gaze drops and I can’t catch her eye again.

  We heat up our food in silence.

  Eat together. Still quiet. We talk—about the shepherd’s pie, about the holiday party, but it’s all shallow.

  Polite dinner conversation.

  Each word a brick in a wall that I don’t see her building until we’re done eating and she’s across the kitchen from me, tidying up.

  Until there’s distance, and it suddenly seems huge.

  I need to regain control. I need to—we need to—escape, find that kinky happy place where none of this bullshit intrudes.

  I haven’t planned anything for tonight, obviously. And at any moment, there’s a chance my pager could go off, so I can’t do anything that’s too involved.

  A cane. Her ass. The arm of the sofa.

  I tell her what I’m thinking and she gives me a look I can’t decipher. “What if I say I just want to go upstairs and go to sleep?”