by AJ Rose
“Have a seat,” Craig invited, gesturing to the living room while kicking off his Vans. I smiled, remembering how he hated foot coverings of any kind and went barefoot at home no matter how cold it was outside. “Would you like a drink?”
“Bottle of water, if you have it?” I asked, choosing the couch. If I was lucky, maybe he’d sit beside me. “If you don’t, then I’m okay.”
He slowed on his way to the kitchen to give me a surprised look but didn’t remark on it. Long time ago, I’d have said a beer, just one, to prove to myself I could drink, and then stop. But these days, alcohol was not wise. Not due to any addictive tendencies.
He returned with two bottles of water, handed me mine, then curled up in one of the chairs more than five feet away. Well, so much for any chance of a casual touch. It was no less than I deserved.
“So, uh,” I started. Now that I was here, all the rehearsals in front of the mirror failed me. All the lines to begin this conversation fled my memory like so many rats in the beam of a spotlight. Instead, I stuttered out the first thing that came through. “How did you know I was there in the hall?”
He glared. Oh, this was going to be tough. “I’d know your cologne anywhere, though believe me, I wish I didn’t. Someone wearing it on the street is enough to yank me back in time. What is it you wanted to talk about? I’m teaching a class in a couple hours and if I’m going to eat, I don’t have much time.”
“You took up teaching? That’s great.” He rolled his eyes and took a big swig of water, irritation rising from him like waves of heat on a desert highway. He was about as hospitable too, so I took a deep breath and dove in. “I’m sorry, Craig. For everything.”
“Is this part of your twelve-step process or something?” he said coldly, his body screaming tense and unsympathetic, his legs splayed with careless bravado, though both feet were pointed toward the front door as if he were ready to bolt any second.
I looked at my worn cuticles, lacing my fingers around the bottle of water so I wouldn’t pick at them. “No, no program. Just an apology and an offer of an explanation.”
“Two years is a long time for me to hold out for an explanation. What makes you think I need one anymore?”
I swallowed the guilt and nerves and looked him in the eyes. What they reflected stole my breath, just like his paintings, but for horrible and stomach-turning reasons: fury, pain, barely concealed contempt. There was no joy in his face, and the room suddenly felt claustrophobic. I resisted the urge to get up and pace just to prove the boundaries of the space.
After a quick gulp of water, I set the bottle aside and rubbed my hands up and down my thighs to dry my palms. I had steady hands, or I wouldn’t have been surgeon material. I had been cool under pressure once upon a time. Growing up beside a grenade made me that way. I could do this much, even if the surgeon dream was now dead.
“Whether or not you need one, I think you deserve one.”
He paused, then said, “I’m listening.”
“I didn’t have the easiest childhood—”
“If you’re going to give me some bullshit about how your dad was a homophobe and you were afraid to be open because of that, then save it. Plenty of people have the same story and don’t cheat on their partners.”
The urge to correct him was strong, but I refrained. He had every right to be angry. Hell, it was a miracle I was even sitting here. If I got defensive, I’d never see the inside of this apartment again. Pausing to take a calming breath, I resumed.
“My dad never knew I was gay, but I think he suspected. When he bothered to talk to me at all, he generally did it to tell me to toughen up, quit being a fucking sissy, or go get him another beer from the fridge, since I was ‘his bitch.’ He was an asshole—and yes, a homophobe—but that was because he hated everybody, not gay people specifically. For me, he had a special hatred, since I’m the spitting image of my mother, who died in a car wreck when I was four.”
“Wow, finally gonna tell me about your family?” he asked sarcastically. “Except if you’re starting at age four, we’re going to be here a while, and I don’t have the time.” He stood and drained his water. “You know where the door is.”
“Craig, wait.” I hurried to my feet, ready to run after him if he walked off. He just flapped his arms in resignation and glared. “You’re right. It’s a long story, and I don’t have time to tell you all of it in one sitting. You’re busy, you’ve gotten on with your life, and I’m just someone you used to know, but please. Five minutes. If you can usher me out after five more minutes without a second look, then I’ll leave and stay away. But please… can I try?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and jutted his chin, but we hadn’t spent six years sharing a life without me learning his tells. His jaw ticked with tension, and the crease between his eyebrows was caused more by fear than anger. I didn’t have long, but he’d give me what I asked for.
“Go ahead,” he confirmed. His short temper gave me hope, believe it or not. He still felt something where I was concerned. I still hit him where he lived. Good or bad, he gave a damn about what had happened between us. If he didn’t, he’d have been polite to me, listened to my story, and then showed me the door with a shallow promise to keep in touch.
“Okay. First, poor childhood aside, you didn’t deserve what happened between us. I was a ticking bomb and, unfortunately, you were collateral damage. I’m sorry for that. Beyond sorry. But I have to ask. Have you ever been so sure you were a waste of space that you believed the effort people expended even being in the same room with you was more than you deserved? Have you ever believed that anyone you touched would become as broken as you?”
He narrowed his eyes, not in irritation, but seeing me, really seeing me since inviting me into the loft. He was listening.
I nodded sadly. “If you’ve felt anything like that, then you’ll know about ten percent of how I felt about myself when we last spoke. I was beyond suicidal because my stain wasn’t only on my life. My very existence could ruin good people. I thought I was saving you from me.”
He detonated, arms flailing in an explosion of anger and pain and disbelief. For only the second time in our lives, he shouted at me. “By cheating on me? With that, that….” He couldn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. I knew.
“If letting you believe I’d cheated meant you didn’t go down hanging on to the deck railing of my sinking ship, yeah,” I said quietly.
He froze. “What do you mean, letting me believe?”
We stared at each other, his eyes wide with more pain than he would ever admit to, and mine full of hope that the chasm I’d created between us could be bridged with this truth. His breath ripped from him like he’d run up the stairs instead of taking the elevator, and I just took him in, wanting to go to him, run my fingers through his hair to get it out of his eyes, kiss the disbelief off his face. I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked at the floor instead.
“It never happened.”
“I know what I saw,” he spat.
“She wanted to. I said no. When you walked in, she was mad and saw an opportunity to hurt me by making you think I’d fucked her. In two seconds, I saw what it would take to drive you safely away from me, so I let her.” I needed him to understand, but a curl of something unpleasant unwound in my stomach, and I was actually glad he’d given me such a short time limit. I wouldn’t be able to handle this level of stress much longer, nor could I tolerate his anger at me without slipping into a situation I’d be forced to flee. I had minutes to calm him if this was to work without me needing to go. I had to make it count, so I locked my gaze to his and spoke plainly. “I never touched her except to push her away.” He flung daggers at me with his eyes, then turned away, clearly unsure of where to put his hands. He ran them through his hair, curled them into fists, rubbed his face, and flexed his fingers. But this was good. This was better than the deadness in his eyes when he’d come home that day two years ago. “Craig.”
He whirled on me.
“Get out,” he snarled.
“I still love you. And I never cheated, let alone with a woman.”
He shook his head sadly, voice incredulous. “You love me, yet you knowingly crushed what we had on purpose. You still let me believe it with no regard for how devastated I would be. Get out.”
I moved to the door, defeated and resigned, but also relieved to be escaping. I’d tried. It’s not like he wasn’t absolutely right about what I’d done. As I walked past the kitchen island, I spotted them: my notes, wrinkled but flattened out and kept together with the water-smoothed rock Craig always used to hold bills in one place before paying. Beneath an envelope with the logo of an animation company in the return address corner, my handwriting peeked out. He hadn’t thrown them away. Hope sparked feebly in my chest, warring with my nerves.
When I reached the door, I found the strength to turn back before opening it. “I didn’t crush us so I could save myself. I was saving you, setting you free, before I could obliterate what makes you a decent human being, Craig. I saw that happen to my dad the day he wrecked the car and killed my mom. I couldn’t do that to you, too.”
His face began to crumple, then smoothed out and shuttered. I didn’t wait to see if he had more to say, which would probably just be a more creative way of throwing me out. I left, shutting the door with a decisive click behind me. Yeah, I’d hoped we’d get back together, but it was clear we had a lot of work to do just to be civil, and I would need to build my own defenses and chip away at him a little at a time. I was willing to put in the work, absolutely, but he’d have to want me to, or I wouldn’t be able to push. It was pretty clear he didn’t want me to.
As the sting behind my eyes grew more difficult to fight, I punched the button in the elevator that would take me to the lobby, already feeling less anxious. Staring at my reflection in the glossy doors, I couldn’t help a little spate of self-loathing. Two years ago I’d fucked up the best thing that had ever happened to me, but it wouldn’t do me any good to wallow—I knew where that led. Taking a cleansing breath, I let it out slow, and with it, the despair of failing to earn Craig’s forgiveness. In truth, it had been stupid to think a single conversation would be enough, or that it would happen quickly. At least, I reasoned, I’d been able to clear up the biggest falsehood between us. I’d never cheated, and now he knew it.
Surgeons are thought of as gods among men, and never more prevalently than amongst themselves. When I walked through the doors of Elijah Hope Medical Center at 4:00 a.m., I was greeted by the Chair of the Department of Surgery, who was the Zeus of them all.
“Dr. Perry. Just the man I’m looking for,” Chief Allen Noble said warmly, putting a firm hand on my shoulder in fatherly camaraderie. I had stopped bothering to correct him on the doctor title. He insisted that since I’d graduated from med school, I’d earned it, even if I was employed as a physical therapist. “Have you got a minute to come to my office?”
“Of course, Chief. Always have a minute for you.” To an outsider, it may have sounded like typical kiss-assery up the food chain, but I was sincere. I didn’t care what the chief wanted; if I could deliver, I would. The man had saved my life, quite literally. I didn’t exactly report to him anymore, but I would always make time for him.
I followed him through corridors bustling with doctors and nurses, zooming around slow-moving patients walking halls, some gripping IV stands while others held tight to loved ones, the unflappable barriers to falls who offered confidence to the wounded, sick, and recovering. The heady perfume of rubbing alcohol and medicine sank into my skin, and a piece of my soul turned its face to the air and breathed. I belonged here. I thrived here. I had a family here, and people respected me. Even the people who had seen me fall. Especially those people. They were also witness to me getting back up and carrying on with the only life I could imagine for myself—even if it was a different version of the life for which I’d planned and sweated and bled.
Chief Noble was one of those. In fact, he was the first and—alongside Holly—most recent witness to my resurrection. So when we reached his office and he closed his door, bidding me to take a seat in one of the chairs before the frosted glass of his desk, I did so not with trepidation, as a worker might when their boss chose to speak to them alone, but with curiosity and absolute trust. Noble had earned that from me, at minimum.
“What can I do for you, Chief?”
He sat, looking distinguished as he gathered his thoughts behind a wide mouth and kind, intelligent, dark eyes. His close-cropped black hair was shot through with gray, and his ebony skin bore few wrinkles despite the pressures of being head of one of the busiest and best surgical departments in the country. He was a man with a cool exterior, self-possessed and levelheaded in every way, with no doubts how to run a successful surgical unit. He intimidated many people, and before he saved my life, I was one of them. Not as much anymore. I’d seen the compassion at the core of a very driven man, and he was truly a modern day hero, big job title or not.
“The announcement for the candidates chosen for Chief Resident honors will be made at the end of the week,” he began, leaning forward on his desk. “I need to ask you, here and now, if you will have trouble knowing this crop of residents is from your intern year and you’re now here in a different capacity, and somewhat subject to their instructions. No matter who is chosen, can you handle working alongside them?”
I breathed a long exhale before answering. There was one with whom I wouldn’t choose to work, but given her specialty was cardio, I doubted we’d have much reason to cross paths. When I’d returned to the hospital, thanks to many, many strings pulled by Chief Noble, I’d done so as a physical therapist. He had arranged for a tutor during my leave of absence, and because of permission from the New York Commissioner’s office, I’d been able to substitute my med school degree for equivalency and had supplemented it with tutoring of the specific class materials required. Because of Noble’s help, I’d been able to take the Physical Therapy Boards eighteen months after leaving the NYU surgical residency program. While the excitement of life-and-death surgeries had fueled me before, the pace and pressures of the job were more than I could handle. Keeping patients ambulatory and pain free seemed a good compromise when I’d done my job soul-searching. Helping people chase life rather than simply remain in it wasn’t too shabby a goal, either.
“Sir, you know there is only one doctor to whom I would be unable to report, and given I don’t even handle surgical instruments anymore, I think I will be just fine no matter who is chosen for the Chief Resident spots.”
“If you have a professional reason—aside from the personal falling out—Dr. Ballard should be excluded from the pool of candidates, I’d like to hear it. If she’s not good for the job, I don’t want to appoint her.”
It almost sounded like a done deal. But there was no way I was opening that Pandora’s box. Besides, it’d been two years. The dirt I carried was old. If she churned up new dirt, someone else could rat her out. I shook my head, tight-lipped. Dr. Noble sighed in frustration.
“Chief Resident isn’t just for the most talented surgeons with the brightest minds. The position also requires absolute professionalism, so for any resident chosen, they will be held to the highest standards of the entire surgical department, as well as those of one of the best hospitals in the country.” He narrowed shrewd eyes at me, waiting a beat. “Should Dr. Ballard be selected, she will be expected to conduct herself and her staff with the respect that has become a cornerstone of this hospital. And you will be expected to make me aware of any problems that arise, should your path cross hers in any way, even if it’s in the cafeteria and she says something inappropriate under her breath.” He finished his speech by pointing directly in my face.
“Yes, Chief.” I would be lying if I said I wasn’t bothered by the coddling. No one else— especially someone no longer in the surgical program—would be given the option of going to the head of surgery should they have difficulties with their former c
olleagues. They’d be told to suck it up and go through their own chain of command. But I tried to let it go. I appreciated being given a second chance, and if that meant I had to endure a little delicate handling until I’d proven myself again, so be it.
“Good!” Chief Noble said, rubbing his hands together. He moved as if to dismiss me, and I decided now was as good a time as any to ask the question, even as I stood to go.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Dr. Perry?”
My heart took up residence in my throat. I swallowed. “Why am I being given so much leeway? I’m not even a doctor anymore. I was gone for more than a year, and while I’ve been back six months, it’s clear I still have issues. Why am I getting the chance when there are so many candidates more qualified for my position?”
“You took a medical leave of absence, son,” Chief Noble said kindly. “During that time, you kept us posted on your situation, took your rehabilitation seriously, worked hard to fit your diagnosis into a new career, and every decision you’ve made since has been realistic and reasonable. You’re not hiding from your limits, nor are you using them as an excuse to give up. I assume that is still the case?”
“Of course, Chief. I’m just not sure what I’ve done to deserve so much of your help.”
Chief stood and rounded the desk, putting a hand on my elbow and squeezing. His tone changed from all business to that of the man who saw me through the worst time of my life.
“Dane, I pride myself on hiring the best doctors in the country. Now, we have plenty of residents who are technically proficient, haven’t missed a day or an opportunity to cut, or a chance to learn from their mentors, and they are to be commended. But many of them will be in for a rude awakening at some point in their lives.”