In Stitches

by Anthony Youn

  As I drive, I consider my options again, for the millionth time.

  Pediatrics? My father’s voice blasts through the car’s speakers: Tiny people, tiny dollah! I love working with Dr. Pyle, but I’m not cut out to be a pediatrician.

  Surgery? I hear my father’s voice again, but this time he’s pushing me: One proceejah, big dollah! But the road to specialized surgery is so long, grueling, and intense. I’m not made that way. And clearly, I’m not orthopedic-surgery material. General surgery? I refuse to end up like Dr. Z or Dr. A, fifty-five years old, sleeping in the hospital, stumbling out of the call room at three o’clock in the morning to deal with a trauma. I will burn out if I don’t first flip out.

  Obstetrics and gynecology? No.

  Internal medicine? I can’t see myself spending my life investigating the secretions of the pancreas. As fascinating as that may be.

  Psychiatry?

  I’M COMING HOME WITH YOU, PRETTY BOY!

  Tim, have fun.

  I don’t see myself in any of these fields. I feel stuck.

  I suppose I could go into family practice. It’s so easy. Three-year residency, and the last year is a walk in the park. You’re essentially done in two years, no pressure, and you’re left with a ton of free time. I like to dabble. I can get more serious about my guitar, maybe join a band. Maybe I’ll even get an MBA on top of my MD. True, you don’t make a lot of money at first, but my other interests could lead to more money coming in. When I measure money versus lifestyle, money doesn’t always win. Why not take it easy? I think I’ve found it. Family practice. Perfect for me.

  Great. I have a plan.

  I’m going into family practice.

  I know that my father desperately wants me to become a surgeon. Sorry, Dad. I’m a grown man. I make my own decisions. This is my life.

  Isn’t it?

  WE’RE AT HIS tennis club, batting balls back and forth. It’s been a while since I picked up a racket, probably not since high school. I played so much back then that I could hit winners with my eyes closed. No more. Today I’m a hacker. Balls slice off the rim of the racket, squirt out of bounds. I whack my forehand with so much power that balls sail over the back line and bang off the back wall, or I turn my wrist too far over and balls whap into the net. My dad, quicker and stronger than you’d think, takes his tennis seriously. He lunges at balls you swear he’ll never get to and returns them with nasty topspin. He’s ferocious. With him, there’s no such thing as a simple volley. You always have to be on top of your game. We don’t keep score, we just hit. Words to live by.

  I remember once when I was a kid, twelve or thirteen, my dad asked me to hit some balls with him one Saturday afternoon. I didn’t refuse—I’d learned that lesson—but I volleyed with no enthusiasm. I jogged after balls he lobbed, I didn’t run. I served lazily. I hit a few underhand. I didn’t want to be there, so I didn’t try.

  After one rally in which I whiffed at a ball and then laughed, my dad stopped and stared at me across the net. He snorted. He picked up a handful of balls, turned his back to me, and began hitting balls to himself off the back wall. He hit the balls to himself again and again as if I weren’t there. I stood alone on my side of the court and waited for him to return to volleying with me. He never did. He hit a bucket of balls to himself, then turned and walked to the car. I ran alongside him. He didn’t speak to me until the next day. I learned two quick lessons. First, no matter what you do, do it well, with enthusiasm and heart. Second, respect your father.

  Now, over ten years later, we hit to each other. I’m in every rally, or trying to be. I’m stinking, but I’m trying. He knows I am.

  “You rusty,” he says, not unkindly.

  “I know,” I say. “Frustrating.”

  “No time to practice. This good, though. Good workout.”

  “Yep.” I grunt through a serve, which finally zips into the corner of the server’s box and past him for an ace.

  “Ah!” my father yelps, points the racket at me happily.

  “Dad,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about general surgery.”

  “Good field,” my father says. “Transplant better. Or vascular surgery. Or neurosurgery. Or cardiothoracic surgery. Or colorectal surgery—”

  “I know. And I like surgery. It’s just that—” I can’t finish.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been seriously thinking about family practice.”

  “Family practice? Instead?”

  It feels as if the temperature has suddenly dropped thirty degrees.

  “Also. In addition. In addition to general surgery. Keep my options open.”

  “Family practice, you make no money.”

  “I know. But the lifestyle is good. I think, you know, it’s what I want.”

  The words hang out there, refusing to fade. My father tips his cap. The bill falls over his eyes. He scratches the back of his neck furiously. He pulls his cap back in place and walks to his position at the baseline.

  “Your serve,” he says.

  THE REST OF the evening is chilly. We sit at dinner, the three of us, Dad, Mom, and I, passing one another bowls of food my mom has made, the only sounds the slurping of soup and the clicking of chopsticks. My mother tries to get the conversation rolling. She asks about my roommates, my house, and casually wonders if I’ve been seeing anyone.

  “No,” I say, staring into my soup. “Nobody.”

  Yeah, that’s all I need on top of the family-practice disaster. If I ever bring up Amy, mention that I have a girlfriend—a white girlfriend—I might as well start interviewing for another family.

  “Plenty of time for girls after finish school.” My father’s mantra since fifth grade.

  “You do have to concentrate on your studies,” my mother says.

  “Oh, I know Tony,” Dad says, smirking, about to tell the punch line to an old family joke that nobody finds funny, least of all me. “He gonna marry a blondie.” He roars at his own joke.

  Of course, it is no joke. It’s a thinly veiled threat.

  So, how am I doing this weekend? Let’s check my vitals.

  I’ve rejected surgery.

  I have a girlfriend.

  Who is not Korean.

  But hey, at least she’s not a blondie.

  I’m on life support.

  I CAN’T SLEEP. I lie in my bedroom in my parents’ house, the bedroom where I grew up. My mom has left everything in place here, like a room cordoned off in a museum—my books on the shelves, flanked by high school awards and trophies, my posters on the wall, clothes I will never wear still hanging in the closet. It’s my room, but it feels as if it belongs to a stranger.

  I bring my covers up to my chin, toss and turn in my twin bed, more uncomfortable even than my threadbare mattress on Flower Street. Maybe it was a mistake to come home. I felt homesick, yet whenever I come home, I regress. I’m a third-year medical student. I’m going to be a doctor, but within five minutes of being home, I become twelve. I want to please my parents, I want them to be proud of me. But at a certain point, you have to grow up. You have to make your own decisions. I’m sorry if my father is disappointed. I will have to accept that. And when I finally tell them about Amy, they’ll have to accept that, too. If it means they kick me out of the family, so be it.

  Two A.M. Still wide awake. My ankles hang over the bed. I’m tangled in my covers. I can’t find a comfortable position. I feel claustrophobic in my own room. How did I sleep in this bed for so many years?

  Three A.M. Finally starting to fade. Each one of my father’s surgery suggestions dances in front of me, pounding like a drum—transplant surgery, vascular surgery, neurosurgery, cardiothoracic surgery, colorectal surgery.

  I lose myself in my father’s voice. My eyes slowly close. I start to float away—

  I hear something at my door.

  A scraping. A clawing. The door creaks open. My eyelids flutter. I’m coming out of the twilight state between dreaming and being awake.

  Someo
ne is coming into my room.

  I half-open my eyes and catch a glimpse of the clock: 5:13 A.M.

  “Move over.”

  My father. Standing over me. He’s fully clothed. His breath, warm and smelling of green tea, brushes my face. “Move over,” he says again. “Daddy needs to talk.”

  Obediently, I scoot to my right, sliding over as far into the wall as I can. My father lies down next to me, his weight making the twin bed sag. He folds his hands on his stomach. He says nothing. We both stare at the ceiling.

  “Tony.”

  I swallow. “Yes?”

  “Daddy has been . . . thinking.”

  I wait.

  “If you want to go into family practice, it’s okay. Daddy understands. You do what makes you happy.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “Daddy just wants you to be happy.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  “You go broke. You probably have to move back home. But.” He sighs, sniffs. “That’s fine. If it’s what you really want, it’s okay.”

  “Thank you,” I say again.

  He reaches over and touches my hand. “Daddy,” he says, his voice cracking, “is very proud of you.”

  17

  Mommy Dearest

  Nothing ever happens in pediatrics.

  Until one night.

  The night that changes my life.

  2:23 A.M.

  The time has been burned into my memory like a brand.

  I’m half asleep in the call room. My pager goes off. I swing off my cot and hit the corridor. Dr. Pyle, an odd look on his face, waits outside the call room. “We’ve got to roll,” he says.

  “Where?”

  “PICU.”

  “Pediatric ICU. Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Extremely.”

  He starts to jog, then in seconds, we’re sprinting. We arrive at the elevator. He wails at the buttons. “Elevator’s down in the parking garage. Let’s take the stairs.”

  We bolt toward the end of the corridor, hit the stairwell, take the four flights to PICU two stairs at a time.

  “What did the page say?” I gasp, falling half a flight behind Dr. Pyle.

  He hesitates. “Infant,” he says. “Attacked by an animal.”

  I stop for a split second at the landing.

  “You coming?”

  “Yes,” I say, and push myself to run faster.

  We reach the fourth floor, burst through the door from the stairs, and crash through the doors of the PICU. A nurse points to a corner room. For some reason, perhaps because of the number of people spilling out of the room, we ease our sprint to a speed walk, the soles of our running shoes slapping on the recently waxed floor. We squeeze by two women blocking the door, one dressed professionally in a pantsuit, incongruous at this hour, the other my age or younger, dirty-blond hair, tight jeans, tight top, face fiery and scraped, eyes glassy and distant. She’s possibly high. Several people crowd around an infant’s hospital bed, a pediatric surgeon, two nurses, a respiratory technician, a pediatric anesthesiologist.

  “Hey, Joe.” Dr. Pyle greets the pediatric surgeon. “What happened?”

  The pediatric surgeon backs away from the crowd around the baby’s bed. He speaks out of the side of his mouth as if he doesn’t want to be heard. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” He clears his throat. “Eight-month-old boy. Mom went out to a bar. Left the baby alone in their trailer with their pet raccoon.”

  I gasp.

  Dr. Pyle lays his hand on my arm. “Don’t tell me. No cage?”

  “Shoe box.” The pediatric surgeon pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He speaks to the floor. “She comes back and finds the raccoon eating the baby’s face.”

  I feel the floor sway. I reach out for the wall to keep my balance.

  “My God,” Dr. Pyle says. “How’s the baby?”

  “He’s going to live. Both eyes are intact. But the nose, one cheek, upper and lower lips, gone. They’re tubing him now. The plastic surgeon’s on his way. We don’t see any other injuries.” He pauses. “He’s lucky to be alive.”

  “Yeah,” Dr. Pyle says. “What kind of life is that going to be?”

  A rustle at the door, and the two women step in. The pediatric surgeon tilts his head toward them. “The mom and the social worker.”

  “I think I can pick out the mom,” Dr. Pyle says. “Is there a dad?”

  Joe shrugs. “I don’t know. Cops are on their way.”

  Dr. Pyle whistles softly. “Who the hell leaves her kid alone with a raccoon?”

  A commotion near the baby’s bed. The anesthesiologist finishes inserting a breathing tube and steps away. Dr. Pyle moves over to talk to him, leaving an opening to the bed. I edge away from the wall and step closer to the baby. I want to see. I take one more step.

  Dear God.

  The baby’s face has been torn off. There is a gaping hole where his nose used to be. He has no mouth, no lips. His gums appear through a gap in his flesh. His right ear has been ripped away, and half of his left ear hangs torn and jagged. His eyes, beautiful and blue, stare wide open. I stare into them and I say aloud, “Oh, God,” and a lump rises into my throat. I feel nauseated, and I stumble out of the room and into the hall. I bend to my knees and bury my head in my hands.

  In a moment Dr. Pyle squats next to me. “You all right?”

  I blow out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” I turn my head toward him, exhale again.

  His face has turned red. “In my twenty-five years of being a doctor, this is, hands down, the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

  I lower myself onto the floor. Dr. Pyle sits next to me. “There’s nothing we can do. The baby’s stable. The rest is up to the plastic surgeon. It’s all him now. So. Here’s what I’m going to do.” He studies my eyes as if he’s checking my vitals. “I’m going back over to the call room. I’m gonna try to get some rest. If I stay here, I’m afraid I’ll say something to that kid’s mom that I’ll regret.”

  “I wish you’d stay here, then.”

  Dr. Pyle pops up to his feet. He offers me his hand. I take it, allow him to help me up. “Take the rest of the night off, Tony. I’m dismissing you. Go home. Get some sleep in your own bed. Come back around six. Something else insane happens, I’ll page you.”

  I’m tempted, but only slightly. “I think I’m gonna stick around. I want to see what the plastic surgeon can do. Besides, the call-room bed is more comfortable than my bed at home.”

  His smile surprises me. “I thought you’d say that. I’ll page you if I need you.”

  The baby’s mom comes out of the room, fumbles in a large straw bag, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, jams one into her mouth, and heads toward an exit door.

  “I have to get out of here,” Dr. Pyle says.

  I FIND A spare folding chair and camp out by the nurses’ station. I catch a ten-minute power nap and awake at 3:01 A.M. to footsteps echoing in the corridor and a nurse’s voice: “That’s him. I’ve seen him on TV.”

  I look up to see a Ben Affleck clone with stubble, wearing starched scrubs and striding down the hall. He carries a small camera bag. He pulls up at the nurses’ station. “I’m Dr. Kanner. Room 411?”

  “I’ll show you,” I say. I offer my hand. “I’m Tony Youn. I’m the medical student on pediatrics tonight. Would you mind if I went in with you and observed?”

  He grins. “Nothing happening over there, so your attending stuck you with me?”

  “Actually, he sent me home.”

  Dr. Kanner raises an eyebrow.

  “I wanted to see what you can do here,” I say.

  “A kindred spirit? Welcome to the club, Tony Youn.”

  We start toward the corner room. As we walk, the door to the stairwell opens at the far end of the hall and whistles shut behind the baby’s mom. Even from here, fifty feet away, she lasers us with her eyes. She takes a step, teeters on what I see for the first time are precarious high hee
ls. She arrives at the room ahead of us, folds her lower back into the doorway, and presses her foot into the floor as if she’s crushing out a cigarette.

  “Mommy dearest?” Dr. Kanner.

  “Yes.”

  “Is she drunk or a complete idiot?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “I’m an experienced physician. It’s possible she’s both.” Dr. Kanner quickens his pace, pulls ahead of me. I don’t know why I’m surprised, but he offers her his hand. “Mrs. Ellison?”

  She hesitates, then extends three fingers with inch-long nails painted shocking pink. He tries to find a grip. She withdraws immediately as if she’s afraid she’ll catch something. “Miss,” she says, and sniffs. She speaks in a high nasally voice, a trace of a southern accent.

  “I’m Dr. Kanner, the plastic surgeon. I’ve been called in to look at your son.”

  “I figured. You been on TV, right?”

  “Couple times.”

  “I seen you.” She sniffs again, picks at something on her tongue. As she does, she sizes him up. She leans forward and reaches into the back pocket of her skintight jeans. She pulls out a photograph. “This here is Jerome two weeks ago. This is how I want him to look. Exactly like this. No scars. No nothing. Just the way he was.”

  “Well,” Dr. Kanner says, running a hand through his hair.

  “That’s what you do, right? That’s your job. I mean, you say you’re a plastic surgeon. Are you a good plastic surgeon?” She looks at me. “Or some kid just starting out.” Eyes roaming down Dr. Kanner’s entire body. “You look awful young.”

  “I should examine your son, see what’s going on,” Dr. Kanner says.

  He tries to step past her, but Miss Ellison reaches her arm across the doorway, blocking him at the neck. “You do this shit all the time, right? What do they call it? Face-lifts? You gonna fix my baby’s face, right?”