Sturgill

After Joanna leaves, I do not feel quite myself. The only other appointment is Mrs. Randall coming in for her osteoporosis medication, which only takes a few moments. She is pleasant and pretty, the kind of woman who probably sought my father’s care rather frequently.

Now, well into her seventies, she tolerates me fondly as though I am a child. She’s beyond needing too much feminine care, though of course I would be happy to oblige if she asked. She has never asked.

For some reason, as soon as Mrs. Randall is gone, I am beyond irritable. Jen takes the patient folders from me with a grimace, obviously sensing my foul mood. She hurries away to the medical records station, keeping her head down.

Am I that obvious? I wonder as I change clothes in the back room. Can she tell that Joanna distracted me?

Apparently the answer is yes. Which makes me wonder, why?

As soon as I get outside, I realize a trip to the beach is going to be fruitless. The wind has shifted direction and waves on the Gulf are only suitable for surfing occasionally. They are generated a few hundred miles away, instead of a few thousand miles away like they are on the east side of Florida. On our beaches, a westerly wind wipes the waves right out.

Still, I could use a change of scenery. I let my feet just carry me down the well-worn path, past Main Street and out toward the line of palms. I can smell the ocean, the ozone, and here the seagulls cry.

As soon as I see the water, I realize I was right. The sea is very calm. That’s the reason we sometimes call it the “Lake of Mexico.” It may be an ocean, but it doesn’t always act like it.

Surfing would have driven her from my mind, definitely. Instead, she keeps ping-ponging around the inside of my brain.

That first image of her: sitting primly in my office, twisting her fingers in her lap. That really caught my attention. Something about it felt so right, as though she was a missing piece that had finally found its way back home. And yet, she was frustratingly out of reach.

Even her name is a dodge. Joe? Does she seriously expect people to refer to her by that name? Joanna is a perfectly beautiful name. Lovely, even. Joe is a pretentious moniker for a feminist phony in a novel. I’m not calling her that.

This is so unlike me. Professional distance is something I have never struggled with. Seeing the way that my father treated my mother, held her above every woman in the world even though he also had to care for an entire town full of other women, that set the stage for me. Professional distance is what kept their marriage together.

But as soon as Joanna was on my exam table, I was curious about her. Did I need to do a full pubic exam? Well, it’s the safest thing. And in executing the exam, I am certain that she is holding unhealthy amounts of stress in her body. Was my interest in her sexual health completely therapeutic? I think it was. I’m certain it was.

Of course I have never offered that therapy to anyone as a first-time patient. That might not have been completely wise.

She did respond to me, I’m certain of it. The way that her breath trembled over her lips as I examined her breasts—that was unmistakable. The way her pulse raced, also unmistakable. Not unusual, certainly. It’s an unconscious response.

The fact that I failed to give her an orgasm? That is… annoying.

Very professional, I tell myself. Being annoyed with a patient for failure to climax.

White seabirds sway over the water, diving in to catch fish in their beaks. Without a surf, visibility is so much better for them and they congregate by the dozens, screeching to each other as I trudge along the sand. The beach is almost empty except for a few older couples and a man with a metal detector slowly working his way along the sand. Everyone smiles at me, and I do not feel like smiling back.

It doesn’t take long for my ocean walk to seem fruitless and I turn around and head back to the office. In fact, today seems a good day to go get a glass of bourbon with the old-timers, maybe drop by and see my father in the assisted-living facility. He normally expects me on the weekends, but at this point I’m not sure he always knows the difference anyway.

“You’re back quickly,” Jen says cautiously when I return to the office. I simply grunt in response.

“It’s really nice outside,” she says carefully. “Would you mind if I close up for the day? I’ve got some things I could be—”

“That’s fine, Jen,” I growl. “Have a nice afternoon.”

I hear her take a breath as though she’s going to say something else, but thankfully she just retrieves her purse from under the desk and heads out the front door. I can certainly close up the office when I’m done, and I don’t mind being alone. I rather prefer it.

I should be nicer to her, I know, but I need to ensure that she understands our relationship belongs strictly in the office. Though I have treated her in the past, she hasn’t asked again since that night she had a few too many drinks and found me at the taproom, watching a basketball game by myself as I sometimes like to do.

She climbed onto the barstool next to me, grinning. As soon as she started to push the hair off her face I could tell her movements were slow. She wasn’t in control of herself.

“Sturgill, how come you have never asked me out?” she asked me.

“Jen, that would be totally inappropriate,” I answered immediately. “You work for me, and I would never take advantage of that.”

“Then I quit!” she laughed, leaning over so that her breasts brushed the top of the bar.

“That’s your decision.”

“Oh, man, you are such a grump!” she slurred, dropping back into her barstool and taking a noisy slurp of her drink. “I just think we would make a great couple, you know? I mean, since we work together and everything? You like me, I can tell.”

At that point I reached over to the back of her chair and pushed on it to swivel her to face me. She raised her eyebrows in surprise but then grinned up at me, apparently waiting for me to say something to complete her fantasy. Instead, I had to let her down in no uncertain terms.

“Jen, I think I will only have to tell you this once,” I began, measuring my words to make sure she kept up, even in her inebriated state. “There is nothing romantic between us. There never will be. It is not an insult to you in any way. I am simply your doctor, and your employer. That is all I will ever be.”

As I spoke, I could see her expression change. She went from hopeful, to doubtful, to angry. By the time I finished my last sentence, her eyes were flashing furiously.

“You know what?” she hissed in a dangerous whisper, “you are an asshole. I am a lady, and I do not normally say these things, okay? But you, Sturgill Warner, are an asshole!”

And she slid off the barstool and clomped away, weaving slightly between the tables on her way back to her group of friends. Everyone else turned their eyes toward me disapprovingly, pursing their lips in silent judgments before resuming their conversations.

I am fairly certain that Jen is the one who started people calling me Dr. Stud. It is not meant as a compliment, I am sure.

But since then, she has maintained a cold professional distance, usually without any bitterness. She is careful around me, and I guess I can understand that is the best I can hope for. Other than finding someone much older, Jen is the best I can do. At least I was right, and I only had to tell her once.

The rest of the afternoon seems to go by slowly. I peruse medical articles online for a time and answer a few emails. My Peace Corps buddy in Costa Rica, Arthur, sent me a invitation to join him for the annual surgical event they have. They repair cleft palates in babies and children free of charge. It is a grueling few weeks, but a worthy cause. Repairing that birth defect changes the quality of life for those children in monumental ways.

I almost delete the email without responding, for the third year in a row, but then decide that would be rude. I participated years ago and found it rewarding, even if the surgical suites were somewhat primitive. Peace Corps memories are some of the best I have. I decide to send him a brief note.

“Thanks for the invite. I will have to get back to you on this. Hope you and the wife are doing great!”

When the phone rings, I almost ignore it, then remember that Jen has left for the day. I answer absentmindedly as I stare the email before clicking the send button.

“Warner medical,” I murmur distractedly.

“Oh, Sturgill?” Grant says, surprised. “Is Jen out? I just need her real quick.”

“Yeah, she left for the day. Can I help you with something?”

“I guess so… This prescription she called in? The Loestrin? Do you have a phone number for her? It’s ready and I want to close up.”

“You think the fish are biting?” I smile, bringing up Joanna’s file on the screen.

“They damn well better be,” Grant huffs. “I’ve got a new carbon rod to try out.”

I squint at the form, trying to find her phone number. “Grant, I don’t see it… She’s a new patient and it looks like Jen left that out or something…”

“Dang it, that figures,” Grant sighs dramatically.

“No, it’s all right,” I sigh, standing up. “I was just heading out anyway. I’ll swing by and pick it up so you can close.”

“Yeah? That would be great.”

“You bet. I’m a full-service physician, after all.”

Yeah, that’s what I am, I tell myself wryly. Just a regular old country doctor, making a regular old house call.