Emory
“Every person has free choice. Free to obey or disobey the Natural Laws. Your choice determines the consequences. Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices.”
— Alfred A. Montapert
“DAMN.”
The coffee pot is empty.
I drop my head back, exhale at the ceiling and ask myself whether it’s worth the seven minute wait for a new pot to brew.
“Did I just hear profanity in the breakroom?”
I glance over my shoulder to find Dr. Ian Maverick staring at me with an amused look on his over-the-top good-looking face. And yes, his name really is Maverick.
“Ah, I’m so sorry,” I say, gushing my apology. “I was really looking forward to that cup of coffee.”
“Four more hours on your shift?” he asks, glancing at his watch.
“Yes. My seven a.m. cup has obviously worn off.”
“We better make some more then.”
I watch with some surprise as he picks up the glass carafe, rinses out the old coffee, then lets it fill with fresh water while he puts in a new filter. Once the carafe is full, he pours the water into the machine and sets the pot on its burner.
“You’ve gotta let the experts handle these things,” he says, turning a high-wattage smile on her. “I got through med school on Maxwell House.”
For a moment, I’m caught in the blinding headlights of physical attraction. Dr. Maverick has earned a reputation in psychiatric medicine that reaches beyond Johns Hopkins notoriety. I’ve found it difficult to meet eyes with him when we pass in the hospital hallways. He’s the doctor most whispered about at the nurses’s stations. And he’s not married.
Which by all laws of rational thinking makes no sense. Maybe it’s the long hours that have taken marriage off the table. Or the fact that he spends his days with people whose problems aren’t easily solved. If ever solved.
I stop myself there with a mental shake. Me. Second year psych resident. Nearly bottom of food chain. Him. Department head. Top of food chain.
“I’ll blame my verbal slip up on fatigue,” I say, noting my own breathlessness, “and hope that you’ll forgive the faux pas.”
“Verbal slip up?” he asks, as if he has no idea what I’m talking about.
Is he flirting with me?
Admittedly, my radar is rusty. I’m twenty-seven and haven’t had a boyfriend in three years. Two in total. And neither one lasted beyond six months. Medical school and Mia are all I’ve had time for.
“Mind if I join you for a cup?” Dr. Maverick asks. “I have an eight o’clock meeting so I have a little time to kill.”
“The fact that you made it means it will be drinkable, so how could I mind?”
He pulls two white mugs from the cabinet above the pot, then removes the carafe from the burner to let the coffee pour directly into each mug.
“I’m not a patient man,” he explains, turning a startling grin on me as he hands me the cup.
I forgo the cream and sugar, taking a quick sip from the mug’s rim and burning myself in the process. “Ouch,” I say, putting a finger to my now-throbbing lip.
“You could mainline it,” he says, smiling at me over the rim of his cup.
“If only,” I say.
“When I was in med school, I considered it.” He waves a hand at two leather chairs by the window. “Come and sit.”
“I should get back.” I’m aware that I’m standing somewhere near a line here, if not altogether crossing it. “I’m on call for the ER.”
“Five minutes. They’ll page you if you’re needed.”
Reason waves its flag again, but he is the head of the department, so who am I to argue?
I take the chair, my mug wedged between my hands, tempted to follow the path of small talk, then deciding against it. If there’s a reason he’s asked me to sit here, I’ll leave it up to him to get to it.
“What’s the most difficult case you’ve seen since you’ve been here?” he asks, sipping from his mug, staring at the skyline outside the large glass window in front of us.
“Um, that would be the naked man who insisted on doing cart wheels in the ER.”
“Ah, yes,” Dr. Maverick says, smiling. “Hypoglycemic, right?”
“Right. And he had no memory of anything that happened before we gave him the orange juice.”
“That one was a bit of a shocker, I have to say.”
“What’s yours?” I ask.
He visibly ponders, then, “A young woman who suffered from trichotillomania. She had the compulsive urge to pull out and eat her hair as well as her eyelashes.”
My eyes widen at this one. “What did you do for her?”
“The amino acid N-acetylcysteine worked wonders. And cognitive therapy. She’d had a traumatic experience during childhood where an adult caretaker had punished her for chewing on her hair by cutting off a chunk and making her eat it.”
My stomach dips a bit. Human cruelty still surprises me. Although I’m not sure why. I see evidence of it every day and its lasting effects. “I guess you’ve heard it all by now.”
“Actually, I still get surprised. That’s the thing about human beings. We’re all unique.” He takes another sip of coffee. “What made you decide on Hopkins? We were all glad you did, of course. You were one of our top pics, but I’m always curious as to what tips the scale.”
“Columbia would have been my other choice,” I say, deciding on honesty. “But I’m my sister’s guardian, and she’s finishing up high school in D.C. I didn’t want to make her move to another place where she wouldn’t have the friends she’s grown up with.”
I can see that my answer isn’t what he expected. “That’s a pretty enormous load of responsibility.”
I shrug. “I don’t see it that way. She’s my family, the only family I have.”
He studies me for a few seconds, visibly rearranging the pieces of information that have until now formed his opinion of me. “Does she have your drive and academic talent?”
“Actually, I think she got the brains in the family.”
“You’re modest.”
“Honest.”
Admiration flickers through his scrutiny, and I feel the moment his interest flares to something not appropriate for our positions. I’m conflicted in my response. This beautiful man, and he is beautiful, has noticed me. I’ve been turning away from potential relationships for so long now that my inclination is to douse the spark of this one before it ever has the chance to flame to life.
But I don’t. I don’t know why. Common sense mandates that I do. Workplace relationships are always a terrible idea, and in the case of him being department chair, well, terrible wouldn’t be a strong enough adjective.
I hold his gaze just long enough to let my recognition of the attraction register. The silence between us becomes full with awareness, and it’s then that my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen. “I’m needed in the ER.”
“Better go then,” he says, his smile again retreating to neutral so that I wonder if I had imagined the attraction.
I set my mug on the table in front of us, stand. “Thanks for the coffee, Dr. Maverick.”
“Thanks for the company.”
“Have a good night,” I say, heading for the door.
“You, too, Dr. Benson,” he says, his voice now brisk with professionalism.
Already, he has rethought the wisdom of that detour we’d both considered taking. A single moment of weakness properly rerouted by an ER page. No harm done.
Except for the fact that for the next few hours, I am certain I can still smell the faint scent of his cologne.
~
THE EMERGENCY ROOM page was for a sixteen-year-old girl who attempted suicide with an overdose of her mother’s sleeping pills.
These are the cases I struggle with most.
When you’ve seen first hand how easily life can be extinguished in a person with every desire to live, it’s difficult to accept the premise that it’s not worth living. Especially from someone so young.
Katie Dare is awake when I walk into the room. She takes one look at me, the white coat, the notebook under my arm, and turns her head to the wall. “I don’t want to talk,” she says.
“You don’t have to,” I say. “Is it okay if I just sit with you for a bit?”
The response surprises her. She lets her eyes meet mine for a moment, then turns back to the wall, her body stiffening with visible resistance.
I force myself to wait out her silence, sitting next to her bed in quiet acceptance of the conditions. A full ten minutes have passed when she finally turns her head back to me and says, “You’re wasting your time. Just because it didn’t work this time doesn’t mean I’m not going to try it again.”
“I understand.”
She frowns, locking her hands together across her abdomen. “What could you possibly understand? You’re a doctor, and you’re what? Twenty?”
I smile a little. “Twenty-seven, actually. But I get that a lot.”
“What?”
“The fact that I look younger.”
“Yeah. You look like you started med school when you were ten.”
I laugh. “Good one.”
My response again surprises her. “Isn’t it a little weird to be laughing at someone who just tried to commit suicide?”
I shrug. “What you said was funny.”
“I’m not funny. I’m the opposite of funny.”
“In that moment, you were funny.”
She stares at me, and I can feel her trying to figure out whether I’m for real or not. “I’ve been here three other times,” she says. “Why have I never met you before?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t on call those times. But I’m glad I am tonight.”
“You can’t help me. I don’t want help. I just want out.”
“I get it.”
“No, you don’t,” she snaps, lasering me with a look. “You don’t.”
“No,” I say, holding her gaze in a way that lets her know I’m not backing off. “I really do.”
“What? You tried to off yourself?”
I hesitate, and then, “I thought about it when I was a little older than you.”
She clearly doesn’t believe me. “But why would someone like you—”
“My parents were killed in a head-on with a drunk driver. I was eighteen. I’d had a fight with them right before the accident. Told them I hated them. That I never wanted to see them again. I never got to take that back. My sister was eight, and I was the only family left to raise her.”
The girl’s eyes widen. I’ve surprised her. “I’m sorry.”
“It sucks. I’ve had to live with words I can’t undo. For a while, I didn’t want to live with it.”
“Yeah.” She’s quiet for a bit, glancing off to stare at the corner of the room, as if she’s reliving something. Several minutes pass before she finally speaks. “My dad. He was a policeman. A really good one. One night, he was sitting outside this coffee shop, finishing the paperwork for the end of his shift. And these two guys . . . they just walked up to the window of his car and shot him. For no reason. They just . . . killed him.”
Shock skips through me. Words rise to my lips, but every one seems completely incapable of expressing anything remotely worthy of her pain. “Oh, Katie. I am so very sorry.”
She shrugs.
“Your mom—”
“Will be fine,” she bites out.
“Why do you think so?” I ask softly.
“Because she’s moved on. Turns out she didn’t really need either one of us.”
I hear the edge of anger in her voice and realize this isn’t a conclusion I’m likely to alter at this point. “So you think it would be easier for her if you weren’t here either?”
Katie shrugs, her expression stormy. “Then she could just get on with her new life.”
I give her conclusion some consideration. And then, “Have you ever wondered if she might be trying to be strong for you?”
She swings me a glance, immediately dismissing the possibility. “She’s strong for herself.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“She didn’t have to. I can see.”
“Tell me what you see.”
“She wants to go places. Do things. Be with other people.”
“Katie. People have different ways of coping. When it comes to grief though, none of us has any choice but to swim through it. There’s no going around it. You can put it off, but the only way to come out on the other end is to swim through the middle. If I had to guess, I would bet your mom doesn’t want to add to your grief by letting you see hers. That’s what I did for my sister.”
She studies me intently now, looking for evidence that I’m telling her the truth.
“I didn’t let her see me cry,” I say. “I saved that for nighttime after she was in bed. I wonder now if that was the right thing.”
“You were trying to protect her,” Katie says and then realizes what she’s said.
“Yeah,” I agree. “But maybe she needed to know I was sad just like she was.”
“You think I’m being selfish?” Katie asks quietly.
“I don’t think that. I’m sure your mom doesn’t either.”
“She’s angry at me.”
“If I had to guess, I’d say she’s probably terrified for you.”
“She’d be better off without me,” Katie says, turning her face to the wall.
I reach out and take her left hand between mine. I wait until she looks at me before I say, “Do you really believe that?”
Tears well in her eyes. She bites her lower lip, shakes her head.
“I suspect you need each other as much as my sister and I needed each other. And still do, in fact.”
We sit for a while, Katie holding onto my hand now, as if she doesn’t want me to let go. When the time feels right, I say, “Is it okay if I ask your mom to come in now?”
She nods once, and I get up to go outside the room and get her.
An hour later, I leave Katie’s bedside feeling optimistic that she will get through this because she’s opened the door and let her mother back in. I’m hopeful that they can hold on to each other. They’re going to need to.
I’m headed for the nurses’ station when my phone beeps. Mia’s picture flashes on the screen in a FaceTime call. I step into a nearby linen closet and answer.
“Hey,” I say. “Are y’all having a good time?”
“Hey, Em,” Mia says, her voice infused with laughter and cotton candy and the kind of teenage fun I’m happy she wants to experience. Witnessing Katie’s despair just now makes me realize how unnatural it is for someone their age to be filled with anything other than joy.
Grace sticks her face on screen and says, “Hi, Emory! Wish you could have come. The festival is amazing.”
“Glad you’re enjoying it, Grace. What’s the best thing so far?”
“The lead singer in the first band,” Mia pipes up, her sunshine blonde hair glistening under the festival lights behind them. “Oh, and the cotton candy. You should have come with us.”
Is the note of accusation my imagination? “You know I would have if I hadn’t had to work.”
“You always have to work,” Mia says with a blend of resignation and disappointment.
“Food on the table,” I say.
“Yeah, but you never get to have any fun.”
“I’m off this weekend,” I say. “Why don’t we plan something?”
“Like what?” she says, attempting not to sound too excited. I feel a stab of guilt for the fact that I’ve made such promises before only to get called in and have to cancel them. “We could go to Virginia Beach. Maybe spend Saturday night?”
“Really?” Mia ditches her indifference now. “That would be awesome. Can Pounce come?”
“You think he’d like the sand?”
“He would if I’m there. And I just got him that cool new cat harness.”
“Cats don’t like the beach, Mia,” Grace chimes in.
“My cat is no ordinary cat,” Mia defends.
“I will have to agree with you on that one,” I say. “What time will you be home tonight?”
“Is midnight okay?”
“As long as it’s no later. You have school tomorrow.”
“Will do, Doc.”
“I’ll be home about eleven-thirty,” I say.
“You don’t have to wait up,” Mia says.
“I will,” I say. We both know I have to know she’s home before I can go to sleep.
“Okay. Later, sis,” Mia says.
Grace pops back on the screen. “Bye, Emory! We won’t talk to strangers!”
“Good deal,” I say, smiling at her teasing. It’s the last thing I always tell Mia before she leaves the house to go out even though we both know it’s something of a ridiculous request in an age where they talk to strangers on their phones 24-7. “You two have fun.” I click off and put my phone in the pocket of my white coat.
I’m headed back to the ER when I spot Dr. Maverick walking toward me. He’s got an entourage of first-year residents in his wake, and I’m surprised when he stops just short of me to ask, “Your page turn out okay?”
“She will be. A bit of a journey ahead, but I think she’s up for it.”
He nods once, looking as if he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. “Good to hear, Dr. Benson,” he says, and then continues down the hall, the neutrality of professionalism notably back in place.