BAILEY

Josie doesn’t believe me when I say it, but I actually love my job as a surgical assistant. It feels like the path I would have chosen even if life hadn’t forced my hand. Sure, some parts get tedious—pulling instruments, prepping sterile fields, cleaning the OR—but the rest of it is awesome.

This work isn’t for the faint of heart. I’m Dr. Lopez’s right-hand woman during his surgeries. I’ve seen more blood and guts than a medic on a Civil War battlefield. I’ve watched patients code, surgeons breakdown, device reps faint, and instruments go missing.

The case we have this morning starts as they usually do, with Dr. Lopez and me fighting over which playlist we should stream over the speakers.

“You’re seriously going to pick oldies again?” I groan. “Don’t you see you’re walking right into a cliché?”

He grins. “I operate better when I’m listening to The Eagles.”

“Uh huh, so it’s just my imagination that I saw you shaking your hips to Maroon 5 last week?”

The anesthesiologist clears his throat as a gentle way of forcing Dr. Lopez’s hand.

“Fine. Why don’t we just let the rep decide?”

All eyes shift to a young guy standing in the corner of the operating room. His eyes widen in fear. He exudes nervous energy from every pore. He doesn’t want this responsibility. He’s here because he’s a glorified salesman. He wants Dr. Lopez to continue using his company’s insanely expensive spinal implants, and from the look of sheer terror on his face, he assumes one wrong song choice will get him kicked out of the OR.

“Uhh, I like The Eagles too,” he says, his voice wobbly.

Dr. Lopez throws me a conspiratorial wink. He really shouldn’t mess with them like that, but I know it’s too hard for him to resist.

It’s truly his only fault.

He’s a rare gem, and I fully realize how good I have it with this job. Surgeons are notoriously difficult to work for. They tend to have egos, attitudes, or god complexes—sometimes all three. Shiver. Dr. Lopez isn’t like that. His default mood is jovial. His scrub cap is adorned with smiling cartoon dogs. He takes a vested interest in his staff. He’s also old enough to be my grandfather, something he routinely tells me when I give him a hard time.

“I need the eight-millimeter spreader,” he says to me later, during the surgery.

I shake my head. “You always have me start with the eight on cases like this, but then you end up using the six, so I’m handing you the six. Let me know if you still want the eight.”

I catch the audible intake of breath from the device rep. No doubt he’s expecting Dr. Lopez to blow up at me for having the gall to question him. Any other surgeon might, but Dr. Lopez nods and takes the instrument.

I’m left with a big, cheesy smile hidden under my mask.

I’m good at my job.

I love my job.

I love my boss.

“Oh,” Dr. Lopez continues offhandedly, “would you mind coming to talk to me in my office this afternoon? After lunch?”

I have a good feeling about my meeting with Dr. Lopez. After I finish eating my sandwich, I dab, dab, dab my face with a napkin, swish around a little mouthwash, and then fire my finger guns straight at my reflection with a wink.

“This is it,” I say aloud, eyes aglow with possibilities. “Dr. Lopez is going to give you the raise you’ve been waiting for. He’s going to make it rain hundred-dollar bills, and Josie isn’t going to have to eat a tuna sandwich tonight. Nope. This calls for something fancy. STEAK. Okay, we aren’t that rich. Maybe some chicken that’s in the bargain bin because it’s one day shy of going bad.”

“Lady, are you almost done?”

Oh, right. I move aside and let the custodian push her mop past me. I want to ask how long she’s been standing there, but then she tells me the supermarket down the street is running a sale on beef. I should feel embarrassed, but who cares?! A RAISE is in my imminent future.

When I arrive outside Dr. Lopez’s door, I rap my knuckles across the thick oak in a cheerful cadence and then wait for his cue to enter.

“Come on in, Bailey!”

“How was your lunch?” I ask as I walk in, prepared to dabble in a little bit of small talk in the event that it will pad my raise just a teensy bit more. Hell, I’ll sit here and listen to him painstakingly describe his last round of golf if it means I don’t have to crack another can of shredded fish in this lifetime.

“Lunch was good.” He smiles at me from behind his desk and tells me to have a seat.

I have such a strong urge to flail with excitement that I have to stuff my hands under my butt. Dollar signs float in the dead space between the top of his head and the bottom of his fancy diplomas. He starts talking and I can barely pay attention as I start to rack up future purchases in my head.

I’m going to buy a new pair of tennis shoes. Josie is finally going to get a new winter coat. Maybe, maybe I can swing for a washer and dryer so I can stop carting our clothes to the laundromat.

“I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a surprise,” Dr. Lopez says, tugging me out of a vivid daydream in which I was smooching the front of a newly delivered washing machine.

“What? I’m sorry, I missed that last part.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t think you caught any of that, did you? Bailey, I’m retiring.”

Retiring.

I sound it out slowly in my mind. Reeeettttiiiirrriiinnnggg.

The word spins me around like a whirlpool, which makes sense because that was the brand of washer and dryer I was considering.

“Retiring? From what, golf?” I sound hopeful. It’s a possibility. He sometimes complains about his lower back after he plays too many rounds.

“No. No.” He stands and walks to his window so he can stare out at the sprawling metropolis below. I swear I hear his bones creak as he walks. He’s always been old, but since when is he old? “I’ve been due to retire for a few years now and I’ve put it off, but Laurie has had enough. She wants to spend more time with our grandchildren and travel while we still can. What’s the use of socking away all this savings if we aren’t even going to use it?” he jokes, reciting the argument he’s probably heard on repeat for the last few years.

“Can’t you delay it just a little longer?” I ask, pleading. “You’ve only been practicing for what, thirty years?”

“It’ll be forty next month.”

FORTY?! Jesus. Get the man a cane already.

I’m shaking my head and my hands aren’t under my butt anymore—they’re tugging at the collar of my scrubs, trying to give my airway an easier go of it.

This can’t happen. I just need him to stay long enough for me to grow my nest egg into a nest chicken. I need that down payment for a house, dammit—and if not that, at least enough for Josie and me to move into a slightly bigger, nicer hovel, one with a reliable dishwasher and a shower that doesn’t spurt brown poop water onto my head after a hard rain.

He sighs and turns back to face me. “I knew you’d react this way. We’re a good team, Bailey, and rest assured, I’m not going to leave you without options.”

I perk up, my panic attack momentarily taking a back seat. “Options?”

Maybe he’s going to write me a check. Maybe he feels bad for abandoning me like this. Maybe he’s always thought of me as the daughter he’s never had (he has three very lovely daughters) and he’s going to name me as a beneficiary in his will. That’s when I remind myself that he’s retiring, not dying. Jesus.

He nods. “Yes. Options. There are four other spinal surgeons at this hospital.”

“Yes…” I confirm slowly, my brain still having a hard time catching up.

“So all we need to do is hook you up with one of them. I’ve put in a good word around the office. They’d be crazy to turn you away.”

Images of each of the four other physicians pop up like little thought bubbles. There’s Dr. Goddard, who is perpetually red-faced and puffy. He only hires young, pretty females. His nurses look like they’ve all competed in the Miss USA pageant. I pop his bubble.

Dr. Richards is okay, a little stuffy and boring, but I wouldn’t have to worry about him hitting on me. He’s closest to Dr. Lopez in age and has a good reputation around the hospital. He’s a definite possibility.

Dr. Smoot (yes, that’s his real name) is another good choice, though I’ve never once heard him speak. He’s extremely thin, skeletal even, and apparently only listens to classical music while he operates. He also only takes on geriatric cases. Talk about a good time. Old geezers splayed out on the operating table while Beethoven blasts overhead. Still, I can’t be picky, because the last remaining surgeon, Dr. Russell, is not an option at all.

I know his current surgical assistant, Kirt, and I knew the last one he had too. Oh, and the one before that and the one before that. I ate with every single one of them in the employee lounge. I became friendly with them, listened to their woes, nodded and frowned as they described the horrors of working for a surgeon like Dr. Russell. I watched them cry, grown men and women blubbering like their lives were ending all because of something he said to them during surgery.

I won’t do it. I will never work for him.

“Let’s start with Dr. Richards and go from there,” I say reluctantly. He nods and moves away from the window, and I finally work up the courage to ask the question I’ve been avoiding. “How long until you leave?”

“A few weeks.”

“Weeks?!”

I was prepared for him to say months. He’s worked here for forty years and he’s going to try to phase himself out in a few short weeks?

“What about your cases?” I ask incredulously.

“Haven’t you noticed I’ve stopped taking on new patients? I only have a handful of surgeries left.”

No, I’ve been busy crumbling under the weight of life.

“Laurie wants me out by Halloween at the latest. She wants to travel a bit and go see the grandkids over the holidays.”

How wonderful. Dr. Lopez will be carving pumpkins and decorating gingerbread houses, and I’ll be left here alone, without a new washer and dryer set.

“What if none of them want me on their team?” I ask, embarrassed that my bottom lip is wobbling just a little.

He shakes his head and rounds his desk. “Not possible. Let’s go. Dr. Richards should be in his office. No time like the present.”

Dr. Richards has a big coffee stain on the lapel of his white coat. His office is decorated with furniture from the 70s. Fitting, because I think that era was the last time he had a full head of hair.

We plead my case and he grimaces.

“Oh, wish I could help out, but I already have Marlene and Chris. They’ve been with me for nearly a year now, and Dr. Lopez, you know more than anyone that I can’t overlook that kind of loyalty.”

That’s what Dr. Richards says.

A big, fat no.

So we try Dr. Smoot. He’s playing classical music in his office while he finishes paperwork. His skin is so pale and his office is so dark, I’m not totally convinced he’s not a vampire.

After we lay out the situation for him, he slides off his glasses, folds them carefully in his hands, and then looks at us with a thin-lipped sneer. “Unfortunately, I’m not in need of a surgical assistant right now. Have you tried Dr. Richards?”

Yes, we’ve tried Dr. Richards, you pale, pale man!

I want to storm out of his office, but instead I thank him for his time and tell him I’m available if he is ever looking for an assistant. He smiles and I swear to God the man has overdeveloped canines. A shiver runs down my spine and I’m actually glad he doesn’t need me because I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable working for the undead.

“All right then,” I say, mock cheer clouding my face as I turn to Dr. Lopez in the hallway. My smile feels so tight, I know I’m not doing it right. My teeth are showing, but my lips aren’t tilted up. “Last one, right? Should we try Dr. Goddard?”

At first, he wasn’t even an option, but the pickings are getting slim, and it’s either him or…

I refuse to finish that thought.

Dr. Goddard’s office is filled with a chrome coffee table and fancy leather armchairs. There’s a large framed photo of him and the rest of his platinum blond brood smiling on a beach in coordinating white outfits. It would seem wholesome if not for the equally large framed photo of a red Porsche hanging beside it.

Dr. Goddard gives me a casual once-over when we walk in, and upon realizing I am A) female and B) under 75, his eyes light up.

“Dr. Lopez, what can I do for you?”

Nothing.

He can do nothing.

“Aw man, wish I could help,” he groans. “But I’m all set with my staff at the moment.”

Not even my boobs (the ones he keeps staring at) can convince him to give me a position. The fact is: none of the other surgeons are hiring. They have employees they like and a good team around them. I get it. A good, trained team makes for seamless, successful surgeries.

I was a part of a team like that just this morning. Now? I’m on the outside looking in, just a lowly surgical assistant without a surgeon.

“There’s still one last option, Bailey,” Dr. Lopez says after we leave Dr. Goddard’s office.

His tone betrays his lack of hope.

I hold up my hand.

“Not today. Let’s not discuss that one. Okay? Let me just wrap my head around the fact that you’re retiring and I’ll likely be out of a job, and then tomorrow, we can keep coming up with ideas.”

“I’m sorry.”

His words stab me in the gut. Poor Dr. Lopez. It’s not his fault this is happening. What is he supposed to do, work himself into the grave just so I can have a steady job? (Yes.) No. I don’t want that for him.

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. Tomorrow things will look better. I know it.” I start to walk away. “And hey, thanks for trying. It was worth a shot, right?”

I break the news that we’ll be living on the streets to Josie over dinner. We’re eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and baby carrots, a pitiful dinner by anyone’s standards. It’s not that I don’t make good money as a surgical assistant, it’s just not great money. Twice a month, my paycheck hits my bank account, and as soon as the money goes in, it goes right back out thanks to credit card payments and rent and health insurance and cell phone bills and groceries and, and, and…it’s not easy, but we’re making do. I regret having to use credit cards to get us through the lean years back when I was getting certified, but I didn’t have any other option. Josie’s with me because our parents passed away in a car accident.

Their death was sudden and unplanned. No life insurance policies. No wills. I finished paying off their funeral costs two years after we buried them. Side note: funeral homes don’t appreciate you suggesting you’ll just make the caskets yourself. (Those things are expensive!)

The reality that they are gone gone, not just at-work gone or out-of-town gone still sinks into me like a sharp dagger whenever I think about it, but guess who doesn’t have the luxury of grief? Raises hand.

It’s just me and Josie. All that matters now is that we have each other and I won’t let her down.

“I’ll find another position,” I promise. “I was totally kidding about living on the streets.”

She shrugs. “I think it’d be fun to be homeless. I’ve always wanted to live under a bridge like a troll.”

“Hilarious.”

“I mean it.” Her brown eyes are wide with wonder. “Think of how cool I’ll be at school when I tell everyone I’m a vagabond!” Then she tilts her head to the side and frowns as if realizing something. “It really does suck that you sold your car a while back. It was a clunker, but we could have lived in it if times got tough.”

I set my sandwich down and lean forward to ensure she’s really listening.

“Josie, we aren’t going to get kicked out of here. That was a bad joke. I’m going to find another doctor to work for. Now eat your dinner or no Grey’s Anatomy tonight.”

She stuffs the rest of her sandwich in her mouth in one fell swoop. Then she chugs her milk and sticks her tongue out like a mental patient proving they swallowed their medicine.

“Am I excused now?”

She doesn’t wait for me to reply, just scoots back and leaves me there to finish my meal by myself. I take a bite of the stale bread and convince myself I’m eating at a Michelin-starred restaurant. That’s not water, it’s champagne, and that line of ants trailing along the baseboard over there in perfect formation? That’s called having dinner and a show.

My brain breaks down my current predicament while I finish eating. I honestly have no clue what to do. If none of the spine surgeons want me, I could switch specialties, but retraining would take months, if not years, and I happen to like spine. I could switch to another hospital or move to another city, but I don’t want to have to pull Josie out of school and away from her friends unless it’s absolutely necessary.

I could potentially go back and grovel at the feet of Dr. Goddard, Dr. Richards, or Dr. Smoot, but honestly, I know they aren’t going to change their minds. If they turned me down with Dr. Lopez there to vouch for me, they really don’t need me.

I do the dishes, wipe down the counter, tuck away the loaf of bread, and set out ant bait. Then, as I’m walking out of the kitchen, I flip the light off, and there in the darkness, I finally allow myself to consider my last, desperate, really-not-an-option option:

Working for Dr. Russell.

The devil incarnate.

Everyone at the practice calls him that, but I was the one to draw that hilarious picture of him in the lounge. Kirt was crying and I felt bad for him because he’s 6’ 3’’ and built like a linebacker and I honestly had no idea so many tears could come out of a man that size. He was blowing his nose into a tissue I’d passed him and crying so hard I couldn’t understand him, so I added the devil horns and red tail to Dr. Russell’s headshot as a distraction. Everyone laughed and Kirt stopped crying, but I instantly regretted it.

Just the thought of Dr. Russell ever finding out about that picture sends a shiver down my spine.

No.

There’s no way I can work for him.

Maybe Josie’s right—would living on the streets really be so bad?