NICK
BEFORE
Connor is laid out in the dental chair when I come into the exam room. He’s flat on his back, staring up at The View on the ceiling-mounted TV, feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded across his abdomen. It isn’t just his predilection for being lazy that’s lured him to the TV, or the fact that some supermodel is the featured guest. Not today anyway. We both had patients scheduled for 11:00 a.m., both of whom failed to show. Two more flew the coop, is the way Nancy told us about it, while sipping from her mug. They were siblings, which made it better somehow, just one mother or father deciding to take their children’s dental work elsewhere, rather than two separate individuals beating a hasty retreat. There were any number of things working against us, but two in particular stood out: a surfeit of bad online reviews of late, which I was certain were all one Melinda Grey with countless aliases, and a new dentist in town, Dr. Jeremy Shepherd.
Dr. Shepherd was the kind of practitioner with top-of-the-line everything, lavish prizes for referrals, direct mail flyers that promised free new-client exams complete with X-rays, forcing my clients to jump ship. I couldn’t blame them. Word on the street is that he’s an upstanding guy, handsome, a philanthropist—he’s apparently done charity work in Africa with the Global Dental Relief, providing free dental work for hundreds of impoverished people, which is something I’ve always wanted to do, but never found the time. He has an orthodontist and an oral surgeon on staff so that they can serve everyone’s individual needs. There is no need to see a specialist elsewhere. And if a patient refers a friend, they’re entered into a raffle to win a Weber grill, black porcelain, sixty inches tall by sixty inches wide, with three stainless-steel burners and cast-iron cooking grates, along with all the fancy cooking utensils and an apron that reads BBQ Master to boot. I’ve been on their website, staring covetously at the grill. It was almost enough to make me jump ship, too.
Clara caught me one night staring at the grill online, coming up from behind, warm hands reclining on my shoulder blades as I quickly minimized the screen. It was months ago, when Clara was still comfortable and trim, and the baby inside her belly was only as big as a brussels sprout and not yet a honeydew.
“What’s that?” she asked, but I said nothing because by then it was gone.
“No, really,” she spurred, reaching over my shoulder for the wireless mouse, so that she could maximize the screen. Clara is many things—warm, kind, breathtaking—but she’s not dumb.
And so there it was again, staring me in the eye. That grill.
“You’re looking for a new grill?” Clara asked, sitting beside me at the table, hand now resting on my knee. “What’s wrong with the grill we have?” she asked, and I claimed that one of the burners didn’t work, and the flame took forever to ignite. It wasn’t true, of course—our run-of-the-mill grill worked just fine—but Clara bought it for the time being. And so there that night, with Clara by my side, I checked the price of a similar grill online, wondering if I could host a grill giveaway, too, and try to reclaim the patients I’d lost to other dentists around town. Maybe if I had my own grill giveaway for patient referrals, they’d return, like migrating birds returning to a nest year after year. But that was only a pipe dream, of course.
“Maisie in bed already?” I asked, hoping to derail or at least defer this conversation for the time being. I didn’t like lying to Clara.
“Yes,” she said, because I hadn’t yet raised my eyes from the computer screen to see that she wasn’t being trailed by a tired child. “She’s out cold,” said Clara, and then she returned her attention to the grill, hand on my knee, spinning tiny circles on the fabric, moving higher up my thigh. “Do we have the money for a new grill?” Clara asked, seeing the way my eyes scoured the website for a grill—those exorbitant price ranges filling me with inexplicable hatred toward Dr. Shepherd, who, like me, was only a man with a dream, and a better business sense it seemed. My body didn’t pay attention to the pursuits of Clara’s puttering hand, didn’t even notice. Any other day I would have noticed. But in that moment I was intent on only one thing: getting that grill.
What Clara didn’t understand was that this grill meant everything to me. That my practice, our family, our sustenance and livelihood all hinged on a Weber grill. It was hyperbole, and yet it wasn’t. My business was going to hell in a handbasket, and I had to figure out a way to make it stop. But I didn’t tell this to Clara, who had a brussels sprout in her womb and didn’t need to worry about anything more. It wouldn’t do any good for both of us to worry, and anyway, somewhere deep inside my mind I stupidly believed a grill could save me, could save us, could change the expected course of our lives.
“What about something a little less fancy?” Clara asked, as I drooled over the stainless-steel burners and the cast-iron cooking grates. But I don’t want another grill, I nearly whined. I want this one.
It struck a nerve in me, that for as hard as I worked and as much as I sacrificed for my job and my patients, I couldn’t afford a grill, any grill, whatever grill I pleased. But it didn’t make me angry. Instead it left a void, and I found myself feeling desperate to fill it.
I gazed at Clara then, about to explain with logic and reason why this was the grill I needed to have, seeing for the first time what I’d been blind to see, as she nuzzled into my ear and whispered this time, lips pressed to cartilage so I could feel her words all the way down to my toes, “I said that Maisie is out cold.” Clara sat there beside me, hair falling shamelessly into her eyes, lips painted a bloodred, which for Clara only ever meant one thing, and as she breathed into my ear this time, “She’s out like a light,” I felt my hands rise to her, holding on tightly to what was already mine, terrified for the first time in my life that if I let go I might just lose her, too.
Clara meant everything to me, I reminded myself. Not the grill. Not the money.
Only Clara.
I grabbed ahold of her hands and drew her to me as Clara’s fingers worked their way down the buttons of my shirt with only one thing in mind, not caring for one millisecond that the blinds throughout the home were open wide, inviting neighbors to view the scene: the way I raised Clara onto the tabletop, leaning into her, relieved that Maisie still slept in a toddler bed then, with knob covers on her bedroom door handle. There was no way for her to come toddling into the kitchen to find Daddy trying hard to wriggle out of his pants as Mommy wrenched the shirt from her arms, dropping it like hot lava to the tile floors.
“Trust me,” I said, sliding my hands under the hem of a flouncy skirt, the one that vaunted Clara’s spun-out legs, which happened to be the first thing I fell in love with about her: those legs. Those persuasive legs, which she wrapped around me then as if she knew all along this hang-up I had with her legs. She did it on purpose: the skirt, the legs, Maisie in bed earlier than was the norm so she could catch me before my evening torpor set in, the three beers I’d already consumed starting to slow my movements, to have their way with my mind. She pressed her lips to mine, kissing me deeply and completely, as I buried myself into her, trying to think about Clara and only Clara. Clara wanted me in a way that only she had ever wanted me. She gave my life purpose and meaning.
I drew back and stared at her then with ambitious eyes, eyes that would convince her we had money to spare, my intransigent movements trying hard to elicit a sense of power and greed rather than what it really was: burgeoning despair. “We have money,” I whispered into her ear, and in reply she let out a long, euphoric sigh that had nothing at all to do with money. Nothing at all. I was the only one still thinking about the grill and money. “Plenty of money. Money to spare,” and for a bat of an eye I imagined Clara and me as Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson, making love on straps of hundred dollar bills.
But of course we don’t. We have no money. Not then and not now. Not enough, at least.
And it’s not just thanks to Dr. Shepherd, either.
In the last six months, four new dentists have moved into the area, and competition is fierce. Add to it the impact of social media, all these Moms of such-and-such groups on Facebook recommending doctors and dentists to their thousands of online pseudo-friends. Just one person has a bad experience at my office, and within minutes, three thousand people know about it. Clara follows these groups online, so it isn’t a groundless fear; it’s genuine. She showed me a post months ago, a mother complaining that my hygienist Jan was snarky with her child. The truth of the matter: she was, but she needed to be, as the little boy had a series of cavities lined up between his teeth and refused to sit still as I injected him with shots of Novocain. Jan wasn’t out of line, but she was firm. There were seventy-some comments on the woman’s Facebook harangue, all recommending new dentists around town, words like caring and compassionate peppering their replies, none of which pertained to me.
Clara and I dismissed it at the time, until the coming weeks when patients started dropping like flies.
Though I didn’t tell Clara about this. I didn’t want her to worry.
I also didn’t tell Clara that I sneaked into her Facebook account when she was fast asleep, and pulled up the same group account. There was a poll running, about which doctors and dentists the ladies of town most preferred. Of the twenty-plus dentists listed, I was ranked number eleven. This didn’t bode well for a successful business.
The top-ranking position went, of course, to Dr. Shepherd.
In the middle of the night while she was sleeping, I managed to figure out how to hide these group posts from Clara’s newsfeed.
And now, standing there in an empty exam room, Connor asks, “What are you going to do about this, Boss?” as The View breaks for commercial and the TV screen fills with an ad for some revolutionary cleaning product, which promises to get through even the most uncompromising mildew and mold. Daytime TV. He sits upright in the chair, idle, waiting for me to reply. What are you going to do about this, Boss?
Boss. The very word galls me. When business is going well, Connor and I are partners, but when it’s not, I’m the boss and it’s my problem to solve. That’s why my name is on the front door. I cut the checks, I pay the bills. I’m the one who put my entire life on the line for this, the one who stands to lose it all.
I sit down on the hygienist stool and sigh. “I don’t know,” I admit, rubbing my forehead and asking, “What do you think we should do?”
He admires himself in the mirror. “That’s what I asked you.”
The problem with Connor is that he hasn’t changed a bit since he was twenty-three; he’s still the same guy I met in dental school, often moseying through the office doors ten minutes late, bleating about the enormity of his hangover and how much he had to drink the night before. He’s a loose cannon, which, at twenty-three, made for a good time, but at this point in my life makes him a liability. Our friendship has been petering out lately, many heated conversations ruining what was once a strong bond—another thing Clara doesn’t know about, because I don’t want her to worry, and also because Clara loves Connor almost as much as she loves me. Almost.
The days have begun stretching longer, whole chunks of time where Connor—Dr. C, as he’s favorably known by the clients and staff—and I sit twiddling our thumbs, watching daytime TV. I’ve dropped an innuendo here and there about how stupid it is having two dentists around with nothing to do. I’ve made comments about how these days, there’s really only enough work for one dentist, not two. I hoped that Connor would catch my drift and start looking for a new job, but so far he hasn’t taken the bait. Instead he’s said something useless like, “You’ll figure it out,” or, “I’m sure the answer will come to you,” and even though it frustrates me to no end, I’m not sure I have it in me to lay him off, if that’s what I need to do.
Clara adores him. Maisie, too. He’s on his best behavior any time he sees them, fawning over Clara’s latest hairstyle or Maisie’s new dress, presenting them with gifts. But Connor also has a temper and a habit of drinking too much. I could easily fire him for a whole host of things, but there’s a part of me that’s worried it might throw him off the deep end if I do. I’ve watched Connor give a crippling uppercut to some guy, all because he’d taken his stool at a bar when Connor was gone three minutes to piss. It had nothing to do with the stool itself, but the girl on the other side of it, five foot nine with long brunette hair, eyes like chocolate and a skirt so short she might as well have left it at home. Connor’s date who some other guy dared to flirt with while he was gone. At twenty-three, I might have watched on, applauding, but, now, instead I heaved Connor out of the bar before they could call the police.
He’s a loose cannon.
And I never want to be on the receiving end of that uppercut.
I brought Connor on board when business was booming and I had a ton of new clients, who I barely had time to see. I did it as a favor to him, and also to me. I’d tried expanding my hours to accommodate patients with long workdays like mine, but it took its toll. I was tired, grouchy and only saw Clara for about an hour a day when one or the other of us wasn’t asleep. I wanted better for our marriage. Her father had been a workaholic when she was a girl. Mine had, too. They were the kind of men who were home for dinner—sometimes—and around on the weekends on occasion. Clara and I hardly ate dinners together, and conversations were limited to the essentials: Can you pick up milk on your way home? Did you mail the mortgage payment? I didn’t want my children growing up wondering all the time when I’d be home, whether or not I’d be at their soccer games or school plays. I wanted them to know I’d be there.
And so I hired Connor, and we divvied up the work. Connor took half of the patients, and the practice continued to expand. Now, I could be home more for Clara and Maisie, and be the husband and father I always wanted to be.
Until Melinda Grey and Dr. Jeremy Shepherd walked into my life, whether purposefully or inadvertently. Then everything changed.
I knew there was a problem when some medical malpractice attorney inquired about records for Melinda Grey shortly after we’d submitted her unpaid bills to claims. Months had gone by since that emergency tooth extraction. She never returned to me for follow-up care, nor did she pay the bills that Stacy sent her, not the first, the second or the final notices. And so Stacy sent it along to a claims agent to collect the couple hundred dollars we were due. This was protocol; it’s what we did when a bill wasn’t paid on time. But when a lawyer started fishing around for medical records, I wasn’t surprised. Sooner or later a complaint would arrive, asserting negligence.
I did my due diligence and discovered that Ms. Grey incurred a severe infection after that tooth extraction, one which sent her to the hospital with a face so swollen she could hardly breathe. Thousands of people are hospitalized for dental infections each year and, of these, a few dozen die. Thankfully Melinda Grey didn’t die, though her problem was exacerbated by the fact that she didn’t come in for her follow-up appointment or call me when symptoms began to appear: the discharge, the swelling, the pain. I would have put her on an antibiotic and cleared it up right away, but that wasn’t in Ms. Grey’s plan. She claimed that she didn’t know the risks involved with the procedure—proved by the fact that there was no informed consent on file—and that I was negligent by not prescribing antibiotics on the day the surgery was performed.
Other doctors might have prescribed antibiotics not because she needed them but as a precaution. But it wasn’t an egregious mistake; it wasn’t even a mistake. In my professional opinion, I did the right thing.
There was a part of me that knew what was coming all along, a malpractice suit, though I couldn’t bring myself to admit it to Clara, who, at six and then seven months into a grueling pregnancy, didn’t need to be bothered with bad news. There was also the fact that in some ways I was ashamed by the imminent suit, this assertion of negligence that marred everything I’ve tried to do, to provide the best possible care for my patients. I’d always tried to be a decent human being, but this suit made me less than that, turning me into one who was inattentive and sloppy. It made me look bad.
In the days and weeks that followed, I began prescribing blanket antibiotics to my patients anytime I so much as made them bleed. Evidence of my own guilt. When the time came, the offense would eat this up, I knew, but I couldn’t resist. The last thing I wanted was another one of my patients to end up in the ER with an infection headed to the brain, swelling that cuts off the airway.
Sooner or later I knew that Ms. Grey would sue me and that we’d settle, though the question of wherein the settlement demand would lie was something that started keeping me awake at night, little dollar signs floating before my eyes.
I lay in bed, estimating the cost of Melinda’s hospital stay, IV antibiotics, pain management, emergency room fees, not even taking into account pain and suffering. I wondered what her monetary demand would be, twenty-five thousand, fifty thousand. I don’t know. I have malpractice insurance, but wondered still what a malpractice suit would do to my reputation and practice. I saw Melinda’s face when I closed my eyes, her sweet, genuine eyes, and sometimes I wanted to strike her with a fierce uppercut. I’ve spent my nights thinking of that, me beating the life out of Melinda Grey, so that when I woke up in the morning I was exhausted from not sleeping and from all of the exertion, from pummeling the woman who’s trying to ruin my happy life.
I started Googling things. Strange things. I’m not sure why. Like how to get myself out of this mess. I came across some message boards, practitioners in similar positions that I now found myself in. Apologizing to the victim, some said, was paramount. Vital. I came across all sorts of statistics online that said malpractice suits were often dropped when a practitioner apologized for his or her error. But the fact of the matter was that I hadn’t made an error. And admitting that I had would make me look bad.
And so I started looking at other options, wondering what would happen if I’d have done away with Melinda Grey’s records when her lawyer first asked for them, if I’d have taken a match to the practice and watched the whole thing burn, records and all.
But it was too late for that now.
Other avenues of escape crossed my mind as well, like running away or faking my own death. It seemed extreme, and yet as I lay there in bed at night—Clara spread out beside me, me wishing the gentle purr of her breath would be enough to lull me to dreamland, as well—I pictured myself living in Dubai, on the coast of the Persian Gulf where, as far as I knew, they couldn’t extradite me to the United States. When the time came I’d send word to Clara, Maisie and the baby, and they’d join me in Dubai. How to do it, I didn’t know. It was all just a fantasy, one that grew more elaborate in time so that on those strung-out nights that I couldn’t sleep, I started thinking about just how I’d do it, how I’d disappear, and I came up with this: leaving my car abandoned somewhere, with blood at the scene. My blood. Not too much to bleed out, but enough to cause concern—and then catching a red-eye to Dubai.