I smiled to myself. X had finally bowed to the inevitable and agreed to do “something romantic” with me tonight. This was good. It was doubtless unhealthy to conduct nearly one hundred percent of a relationship at work. I made him solemnly vow to forgo our usual lustful frenzy—um, physical contact—and have a sit-down dinner, complete with intellectual conversation, candles, and music of some non-Rage genre. X had complained briefly about this last request (“What am I supposed to play, Enya?”) but capitulated, although he did insist on takeout instead of a restaurant.
“Ethan? What are the OB guys saying? Any changes?”
“Um . . . they are . . . continuing tocolysis?”
“For Chrissake, Speedy, wake the fuck up. You might be a future flea, but you still have a day left on this service. Now is not the time to drop the ball. Did you read their note?”
Ethan, an orderly and methodical guy who would indeed be well suited to the cerebral world of internal medicine, fidgeted. X had nicknamed him Speedy because of his deliberate, thoughtful speech patterns and his habit of producing beautifully written, meticulous H&Ps. Despite the fodder he provided for the action-oriented surgeons in their highly macho environment, and his total lack of interest in pursuing surgery as a career, he was well regarded on the rotation; it was impossible not to like him.
“I’m sorry, Dr. X,” he apologized now, rubbing his little round wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m sort of fuzzy-headed today.”
“Okay. Read their note and get back to me immediately, if not sooner. I’m going to meet with Edict’s family, and we need to know what the endgame is here. Does OB want us to keep her in the trauma unit until they can deliver, or move her there once she’s stable? The last I heard from neurology, Edict’s brain scan looked unfavorable yesterday, but it’s early.”
“Yes, sir, thank you,” Ethan said.
X continued. “On to the floor patients. We’ll run the list and then you guys can go with Allison into the rooms. Clancy, you’ve got room 1016. How’s she doing?”
“LGFD,” Clancy answered. Ethan and I dutifully wrote this down.
“Clancy,” X said, irritated, “did you actually examine her?”
“What’s LGFD?” Ethan asked.
“Looks Good from Door,” Clancy said, abashed. “Uh, I’ll check again during rounds. Or,” he added hastily, registering a lethal glare from X, “maybe I’ll go right now.” He darted off.
“Don’t emulate Dr. Ellington, young doctors-in-training,” Dr. Kalena advised us. “He’s got issues.”
“We won’t, Dr. Kalena,” said Ethan.
“You can call me Allison. It’s fine,” she told us.
We looked at Dr. X.
“You can call me Dr. X,” he said. I waited until no one was looking and stuck my tongue out at him.
“Right,” he continued. “Moving on. Ethan, you’re up again. Did you get the drain pulled from room 1018?”
Room 1018, Mrs. Andreozzi, was an old lady who’d been beaten by a couple of trolls she surprised in the act of burgling her apartment. Rather than attempting to flee like any sensible senior citizen, she had leapt out at them with a Tarzan yell, striking one of them square in the face with a teakettle. Every time I looked at her, with her swollen eyes and her casted arms and her vivid purplish yellow bruised abdomen, I felt a strong urge to find those guys and take up the teakettle myself.
Ethan hung his head and groaned a little. “I’m sorry—again—but she won’t let me do anything. Every time I go in there, she tries to order breakfast from me. She refuses to believe I’m not from the cafeteria.”
“Speedy, that’s ridiculous. Just tell her you are the medical student. Or hell, say ‘doctor’ if that makes her feel better.”
Ethan looked even more miserable. “I’ve tried, Dr. X. I brought her some coffee the first day she was on the floor, and now she recognizes my voice and refuses to accept that I’m not food services. I don’t think she can see anything.”
“Ethan, Ethan. You have officially crashed and burned this morning,” X groused. “All right. We’ll all march in there and reassure Mrs. A that you’re legit.”
We plodded en masse down the brightly lit hallway connecting the TICU to the regular hospital floor, picking up speed as we passed the nurses’ station. The floor was laid out in an open-ended loop anchored by the family waiting room so that if you didn’t project a harried and intimidating air as you went by, you were likely to be besieged by hordes of anxious relatives.
It was true that Mrs. Andreozzi might have limited vision, as her eyelids were gargantuan, swollen to probably ten times their normal size. Still, she perked up at the sounds of footsteps, casting a delighted smile in our general direction.
“Hello, Mrs. A. It’s Ethan,” said Ethan cheerfully. “I’ve brought some doctors in to see you.”
“Well, hello yourself, sonny boy,” she chirped back. “Did you get those scrambled eggs done yet?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t get those for you, because I am the medical student. This is Dr. Xenokostas,” he said, gesturing. “He’s going to talk to you about removing your drain.”
“Why, it is so nice to meet you, Dr. Xenokostas,” said Mrs. Andreozzi, turning and addressing the floor nurse, who had wandered in behind us.
“I’m actually over here, ma’am,” said Dr. X. “Would it be all right if Ethan took this pesky drain out of your belly?”
“My goodness, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Andreozzi, flustered. “Do you think he should be doing a thing like that?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Andreozzi, he is very, um, qualified. He does this a lot.”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, I think I’d feel a teeny bit better if one of the medical folks could do it.” She lowered her voice and said in a confiding tone, “He’s not even a very good cook.”
Bemused, X sent Ethan an apologetic look. “Well, how about one of our other students, then, Mrs. A? Zadie Fletcher is here too. She can take care of it for you.”
“Oh my dear. That would be wonderful.” Mrs. Andreozzi beamed, swiveling this time to address her IV pole.
Val, the charge nurse from the TICU, poked her head in the door.
“Excuse me, Dr. X,” she said. “Edict’s family is back.”
“Right. I’ll come talk with him, but see if you can get Lara Danielson from OB here too, and one of the neurosurgery guys. Zadie, get this drain removed for Mrs. Andreozzi. And, Speedy?”
“Yes, Dr. X?” said Ethan, smirking slightly.
“Order Mrs. A an ophthalmology consult.”
—
We split up, X heading back toward the TICU to talk with Edict’s father.
After the removal of Mrs. Andreozzi’s drain, I wrote a note in the chart and waited for X.
“Jesus, last night was a bloodbath,” X said, appearing at the nurses’ station. We walked back down the hall toward the TICU. “Those are two cases I’ll definitely remember—a pregnant gunshot victim and a near beheading by a piñata.”
“How did her dad take it?” I asked.
“Not well,” he said. His face rearranged itself into a blank mask. “I gave him my call room, actually, so he could try to get it together without twenty strangers watching.”
“Oh no,” I replied, casting about for something to distract him from the pain of relaying so much grief. “Well, Dr. Markey was right. You were brilliant in the OR yesterday.” After Lima’s case had ended, Dr. Markey had praised Dr. X for his tenacity and skill.
“Are you thinking of going into vascular surgery?” I continued.
“No. I’m doing an HPB fellowship next year. I thought you knew that,” said X, jerking out of his reverie. “At Duke.” At my befuddled expression, he added, “Hepatopancreatobiliary. That’s liver, gallbladder and pancreatic surgery.”
“I know what hepatopanc— I know what that means,” I sque
aked. “I didn’t know you were leaving though. Will I . . . see you next year?”
“Next year is a long time away, Z,” he replied carelessly, but then, noticing my crestfallen face, added, “But I hope so.”
There was an awkward pause.
I stole a glance at him. His eyes closed briefly and his jaw twitched. He was clearly exhibiting symptoms of a universal male malady, namely, the panic that occurs when confronted with the prospect of discussing the relationship. Nevertheless, this was overdue; we had been dating for nearly a month. I took a deep breath and plunged in.
“I don’t want you to be acting under the misimpression that there is some sort of serflike droit du seigneur situation going on here.”
“Some . . . serf du what?”
“I’m not a . . . hospital booty call,” I said.
“Oh. Certainly not.”
“I mean, it’s not like I’m some fawning nurse’s assistant or something.”
A trace of a smile had emerged on his face. “Well, I am Chief X. It wouldn’t kill you to fawn a little.”
“I did say you were brilliant in the OR,” I reminded him.
“Correct. I am brilliant in many situations. As you well know.”
“Yes, yes, your brilliance is acknowledged.”
His smile widened; then a slightly rueful look passed over his handsome face. “Every time I think I’m going to— Well, never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing. You are adorable. Do you know that?”
“Thank you. So are you. I just want us to be clear that this is going somewhere.”
The wistful look was replaced by seriousness. He stopped walking and leaned up against the wall outside the TICU. “Zadie, you know we have to keep this on the down low. Dr. Markham would have my balls removed and donated to the cadaver lab if there was even a rumor that I was fu—involved with a student on the service. I like living dangerously as much as the next guy, but. Well. You shouldn’t even bring it up with your merry band of girlfriends. You understand, right?”
“I’m off the service tomorrow.”
“And trauma surgery’s loss is internal medicine’s gain. I mean it, Z.” He chucked me under the chin, then glanced around and gave me a light kiss, followed by a wicked grin. “You’ve been an outstanding student, and I’d say that even if you hadn’t seduced and attacked me. Let’s get Edict taken care of. I’ll let you do the line and reintubation all by yourself, okay? Then I’ll help you with your intern chores, as promised. We can talk about the rest of this tonight.”
“Great!” My weariness fell away at the thought of two procedures, one of them brand-new. I’d been angling to get an intubation in before I rotated off the service.
“Let’s hit it.” He smacked the button on the wall to open the TICU doors. “Oh, and, Zadie . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“I recommend you wash up a bit. You have blood on your nose.”
Chapter Fifteen
THE ASS PHOTO
Zadie, Present Day
Another hot day. It was hard to dress professionally when you were melting. I had settled on a sleeveless pale pink rayon shirt that I dressed up with an enormous gold-and-tourmaline necklace. I didn’t wear a white coat since some children found them alarming, so my arms were on display. But that was okay because I’d been working out with Aaron, Emma’s trainer, once a week. He was a sadistic demon straight from hell. My arms were looking good, though. I’d never have achieved that on my own.
I dropped off Delaney at the early-birds room at preschool—they’d finally let her back in—and headed to the office. Parking was a bit tricky in this part of town. Dilworth was one of those boho districts where the zoning laws allowed businesses right next to a residence so that what looked like a homey arts-and-crafts family bungalow nestled among the trees was actually a tax attorney or an architect, or, in this case, a pediatric cardiology office. But the parking lot was tiny, so employees, including the doctors, were encouraged to park on the street, which didn’t exactly improve the chances of striding into work looking crisp and refreshed. I was already sweaty by the time I dragged myself in through the employee entrance in the back.
The door opened into a staff workroom, which had once been the kitchen of the dwelling. There were still a refrigerator, a microwave, and an immense old oak table in place. Everyone congregated in here before the official opening of the day, and as I stepped in, I found myself greeted by whoops and hollers from the staff. Today was Tuesday. I hadn’t been to work since last Thursday, and in the interim, the story of Buzzy’s poolside rescue had gone viral.
“All hail the conquering hero!” shouted Della Rae, the receptionist. “You done good, girl!”
Scattered applause. “Look here, Dr. Anson!” said one of the office girls excitedly, waving Sunday’s edition of the Charlotte Observer in the air. “You’re in the newspaper!”
“I cannot believe,” I said, snatching the paper, “that this is the picture they chose. For the front page.”
We all regarded it. The headline read, LOCAL DOCTORS SAVE CHOKING REAL ESTATE MAGNATE, with a subheading stating, EMERGENCY SURGERY PERFORMED WITH FORK AT COUNTRY CLUB. The large photo underneath it, which had undoubtedly been captured with a cell phone, had been taken from the vantage point of someone kneeling a few feet behind me. It showed Emma’s face, a bit fuzzily, frowning in beautiful concentration as she leaned over the unconscious man; in the foreground was a spectacular close-up of my bikinied bottom. I must have been hunched over Buzzy, with my shoulders lower than my hindquarters, because aside from my giant posterior, the only other parts of me you could make out were my forearm and hand jutting menacingly off to the side, clenching a fork.
“You were on the news too, Dr. Anson,” enthused Carolyn, one of the echo techs. “And all over the Internet!”
“I know,” I said. I’d been deluged with e-mails from well-intentioned people sending copies of the Ass Photo from various Internet sites. The news stories accompanying the picture varied from the lurid (BuzzFeed: BATHING SUIT BEAUTIES DRENCHED IN BLOOD!) to the factual (NPR: EMERGENCY CRICOTHYROTOMY PERFORMED POOLSIDE).
“Did you really poke a hole in him with a fork?” wondered one of the younger office girls.
“No, no,” I said, resigned. I’d been getting this question, or some variant of it, a lot over the weekend. “We had a kitchen knife. And Emma, my friend, did the actual cric. I just assisted.”
“Looks like a fork there,” pointed out Della Rae, gesturing toward the newspaper.
“Well, I did have a fork. For retracting purposes only.”
“I bet he’s sooo grateful. Maybe he’ll give you a huge reward.” This from Abigail, my loyal nurse. “Have you heard from him?”
I had not, in fact, heard from any of the Coopers. This worried me a little, although I knew from Emma that during his revision procedure, Buzzy had undergone a laryngoscopy to retrieve what turned out to be a hunk of steak that had been obstructing his windpipe. He’d tolerated this well, and was recovering in the hospital.
While the rest of the world fixated on Buzzy, I fixated on Eleanor Packard. Since I hadn’t yet heard from Emma, I’d called an anesthesiologist friend at the hospital this morning in hope of an update, learning only that she remained on the ventilator.
My first patient of the day only wanted to talk about the cric (or rather, his mother did). It was an effort to redirect her to her son’s murmur evaluation. It seemed that there was no escaping this discussion; everyone, from the most remote cave-dwelling hermit on down to my ninety-eight-year-old next-door neighbor, had heard about it and wanted all the grisly details. I began to get a glimpse of how unpleasant it must be to be a celebrity.
At noon I took a break while the office closed for lunch. I’d been planning to walk down East Boulevard to grab a bite, since making the children’s lunches every morning
incapacitated me to the point where I couldn’t stand the thought of making one more, even for my noon meal. This was expensive, but a luxury I allowed myself. But today my cell phone rang right as I was gearing up to head out into the swampy midday heat.
It was an unfamiliar number. I hesitated a moment; sometimes parents of patients got ahold of my number—it was published in my kids’ school directories, so a zillion people had access to it—and I really didn’t feel like answering any unsolicited medical questions. Or any more fork questions.
But it was Emma, calling from work.
“Oh, Emma,” I said. “I’m dying to talk to you. How is Eleanor?”
“Sorry,” she said. “It was too late for me to call you last night by the time things finally calmed down, but her mother asked me to let you know. She’s in the pediatric ICU, and she’s doing well.” I listened intently as Emma ran through the specifics of the case, but my mind inevitably branched off toward Betsy. She must have been in agony. I made a note to try calling her again.
“Listen, Zadie, I should have told you Friday: he saw me.”
“Who saw you?” I asked, confused. She must have meant Buzzy Cooper. Had he been floating over us in one of those disembodied hovering-soul death experiences? Yikes.
“Nick,” said Emma. “Nick Xenokostas. He’s already started at the hospital. In fact, he was on call when Buzzy came in.”
“What?”
“Yes! And today I had a message. It says he wants to congratulate me on the . . . incident . . . and asks if we could meet.”
“Oh my gosh! He asked me the same thing. He called me and asked me to lunch. I haven’t had the chance to tell you about—”
“Did you answer him?”
“I texted him. My answer was: ‘No.’”
“That’s it?” Emma sounded amused. “You told him no. A one-word response. You?”
I arched a haughty eyebrow, even though Emma couldn’t see me, and responded with quiet one-word dignity: “Yes.”
She waited.
“Fine,” I snapped. “I texted he had a lot of nerve asking me to lunch, and I said I’d rather gnaw off my arm and eat it than ever have another meal with him. I said he shouldn’t bother contacting me ever ag—”
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