Grumpy Doctor Read online

  2

  Piers

  The bar was crowded as I hunched over my drink, wondering what the hell I did to deserve this fate.

  Franco smirked at me over his whiskey. “I hear you got assigned a resident. How the hell did that happen?”

  “You tell me.” I leaned back in the booth and swirled my beer. Franco was an old friend from back in my medical school days, and we didn’t see each other all that often anymore. He worked at another hospital across town. We met up at some rundown shithole spot around the corner from Westview. The floor was sticky, the tables looked like they were made from plywood, and absolutely horrible jazz blared from the speakers, but the drinks were cheap and there weren’t any other doctors around, so it was perfect.

  “It can’t be that bad. I mean, you got, what, one? I got a whole damn gaggle of them.”

  “You’re used to it.”

  He barked a laugh. Franco was a big guy, bearish and broad, with hairy arms and fierce dark eyes. I liked him well enough—he was one of the few doctors I could stand. All the rest were pompous bastards.

  Sort of like me.

  “I’m used to it because that’s what working at a fucking teaching hospital entails, man. You’ve been lucky.”

  “Lucky, or very good.” I shrugged a little.

  “That’s right, Mr. Magic Hands.”

  I grimaced. “Don’t bring that up.”

  “All right, fine. I know that’s a sore spot, so I won’t joke. But come on, it’s one resident, and I heard she’s pretty good. Graduated top of her class from Penn.”

  I glanced down at my drink. As soon as Lori had left my office, I spent all morning Googling her. Franco was right, she was good: smart, well connected, on her way up in the world. She also happened to be very, very attractive. Long, thick dark hair, startlingly green eyes, amber skin, lips that made me want to shake her father’s hand.

  But the real reason I accepted the situation was her reaction to me. Most people I’ve met over the years sort of curl up when I’m a little aggressive with them. They don’t want confrontation, and they certainly don’t want it with the up-and-coming young surgeon. Except she didn’t seem to care about that, and was actually pretty pissed off.

  I liked that. Showed a little spark.

  I still didn’t want anything to do with her, but I knew Gina would be up my ass if I kept fighting it, so fine, all right, I’ll teach the girl.

  I won’t make it easy. But I’ll teach her.

  “Her cousin’s on the board,” I said. “That’s how she ended up with me.”

  “Lucky her then.” Franco raised his glass. “Here’s to new residents and a good year.”

  I grunted, clinked his glass with my own, and drank down my beer. “I should get going. Got an early one tomorrow.”

  “You making the girl come in on your hours?”

  “Absolutely.” I slid out of the both and stood. “She’s got to learn.”

  “Poor girl,” he said, shaking his head. “I got these. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I waved and headed out, stepping into the early Philly evening rush. I drifted into the crush of people heading home from work, surrounded by business suits, briefcases, backpacks, men rushing with their heads down, the tick-tock of high heels as women elbowed their way through crowds. I loved this city, even all its squalor and its poverty. Philly had something New York never would: grit and determination. New York was all spread out, broken down into boroughs, but Philly was a walkable city, compact, shoved in between the Delaware and the Schuylkill. I liked the beat-up storefronts, the groups of kids sitting around Rittenhouse Square, the buskers in the park playing guitars, juggling, singing, anything for tips. I even liked the homeless guys, especially the ones that heckled people. I always gave them cash when I could.

  My condo was on the top floor of a building overlooking the Square. I rode the elevator up, unlocked my front door, and tossed my bag onto my kitchen table. It landed on top of a magazine and knocked it onto the floor.

  I stooped to pick it up. It was Time from a few months back, and my own damn smirking face stared back at me, with the big, bold headline beneath: DR. MAGIC HANDS WORKS MIRACLES.

  Embarrassing. I threw it back onto the table.

  Gina pushed me into that one. Some reporter from Time had heard about my track record and wanted to do a story on me, and I turned it down initially. Gina said it’d be good publicity for the hospital, and great for my career, so I gave in and went for it.

  I wished I hadn’t. For a while afterwards, it wasn’t so bad, and getting recognized in the street was fun.

  But then I operated on Nil Tippett, and it was like my whole life changed afterwards.

  I went through my evening routine. Dinner alone, an hour of television, an hour of reading, then bed. Lights out at exactly ten.

  I stared at my ceiling, thinking about Lori.

  I didn’t know what I was going to do with her. I wasn’t in any state to take on a resident, not right now. Maybe last year, when things were still going well, or maybe a year from now, after I got a chance to pick myself back up. But a month after losing Nil Tippett felt too soon.

  It felt like I didn’t deserve to teach a damn person.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  One lost patient in my five years as an attending was damn good. Especially considering Nil was eighty, and the surgery was a risk to begin with.

  Even still. One dead patient was one too many.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  And saw Lori’s face again.

  “Good morning,” I said as my new resident came into the lobby of Westview looking exhausted and slightly haggard, but awake at least.

  The sun wasn’t up yet. Most of Philly was still asleep, though not Westview. The hospital never slept, because medical emergencies never stopped. It was a twenty-four-hour job, and not for the weak. That was something I loved about it: the rush, the pressure, the intensity.

  I’d seen a lot of residents burn out over the years since I started, and I wondered if mine would go down that path.

  “Morning,” she said, sounding chipper.

  Maybe she had it, maybe she didn’t. I looked forward to finding out.

  “Walk with me.” I turned and stalked to the elevators.

  She kept pace. “I got shown around by Monica yesterday,” she said. “Just so you know.”

  “That’s good, since I wasn’t going to do it.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “I have your first task.” I got into the elevator, punched the third floor button, and let it ride.

  She kept looking at me. I wanted to ask her what was up, but I kept silent. I didn’t know what I was doing with this girl or why I was going along with it. Maybe it was easier, not fighting against Gina, although I’d been fighting her for the last five years. Maybe losing Nil Tippett had me rocked more than I realized, or maybe I just liked her.

  I couldn’t really tell.

  She was pretty though. She had on light blue scrubs and a short white jacket. The jacket length was a strange hospital tradition: the longer it was, the more senior the wearer tended to be. Attendings had the longest jackets, interns had the shortest. Med students didn’t get a jacket at all.

  I didn’t wear mine most of the time. When I went to see patients, I put it on, but usually I left it in my office. Doctors had an ego thing, loved to wear the stupid jacket, like it was the uniform that gave them power somehow. It was true that people treated you different when you had it on, but I couldn’t let myself go down that route.

  That damn article was bad enough for my ego. Got me all inflated, made me think I could do things beyond my ability.

  And a man paid dearly for that.

  The elevator doors opened and we stepped out. I took her down the hall, past the main surgery suites, and to a small supply closet. I flipped on the light and gestured. “Welcome to your new home for the day.”

  “Sorry, what?” She frowned at the room. Th
ere were racks of supplies lining each wall, and at the far end were a few industrial washing machines. The hospital had a washing room down in the basement that was fully staffed and ran around the clock, but this spot was for smaller loads that needed immediately attention.

  I pointed her toward a basket of scrubs. “Clean those. When you’re done, make sure all this crap is arranged and where it’s supposed to be. People are getting lazy around here and this closet’s looking like a shithole.”

  She gaped at me. “You want me to do laundry?”

  “Laundry and straighten up, yes.” I turned to leave. “Any questions, go ask someone else. You shouldn’t need to ask questions about this.”

  “Wait,” she said.

  I looked back. “Yes?”

  She gaped at me, gesturing around. “I’m a resident. Aren’t there… I don’t know, janitorial staff for this stuff?”

  “Of course,” I said. “And I’m sure they’ll ask what the hell you’re doing. Just tell them I’m making you clean.”

  “Piers. I’m not doing your laundry.”

  “I thought we talked about this already.”

  “I went to med school.”

  I turned on her, jaw tightening. “And what? That means you’re too good for laundry now?”

  “I don’t—”

  “But you do,” I said. “You think you’re too good, but I’m here to teach you that you’re not too good. Nobody’s too good. So do the damn laundry and don’t complain, or we’re finished.”

  She glared at me, pure defiance. God, I liked that look. It was hard and full of anger, and I was almost tempted to give her a break.

  But I had a reason for this.

  New residents were cocky. They always were, especially the smart ones that did well in school. They came in here and had no clue how a hospital ran, but they thought they knew medicine, thought they knew their place in the world. Even with all that training, all that memorization, they still didn’t know a goddamn thing.

  I was like that. Hell, I’m still like that. My ego is a problem. I’m well aware of it, and I try my best to keep it in check—but that’s not always possible.

  She needed a reminder, right off the bat, that she didn’t know a thing.

  “Fine,” she said. “But I’m not going to be your little… your little bitch.”

  I barked a laugh. “Don’t worry. I have a method to my madness.”

  “Good.” She walked over to the laundry basket and dumped it over into the machine. “I can do laundry. I can shine your shoes. Anything else, sir? Maybe I can bring you some coffee?”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “Coffee would be great. Maybe you can serve it with a smile, too.”

  She glared at me. Beautiful girl.

  Dangerous girl.

  “How about I dump it in your lap?”

  “Then you can change my scrubs for me. I bet that’s something we’d both enjoy.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  Good, let her stew on that one. I waved and walked to the door, and left before she could respond.

  Dangerous, dangerous girl. I shouldn’t have said that last bit—I knew it was too far. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, and making any sort of borderline joke might mess things up between us. Then again, I couldn’t help myself. The look on her face was worth it. Almost, at least.

  I headed up to my office to prep for my surgery at eight, thinking about what I was going to do with that girl, and how I was going to get through the next year.

  As I went, I thought I caught sight of someone—a man in a dark jacket, lurking near the elevators in a baseball cap and jeans. A man I recognized, a man I’d been avoiding for a few weeks.

  But it must’ve been someone else. I took the stairs and pushed that out of my mind.

  3

  Lori

  He had me do menial, awful tasks for an entire week.

  Every morning, in at five. I’d bring him coffee so he couldn’t make me serve it to him like that first day. We’d walk to his office together, then he’d give me some task: polishing instruments, cleaning his rug, organizing his files, stuff like that. He even had me follow the other surgical residents one afternoon because he didn’t feel like dealing with me.

  I sucked it up and didn’t complain.

  Even when he made his snide comments about my connections, I still ignored it. I couldn’t help it that my cousin decided to pull strings for me—I hadn’t asked him to do it. I ignored his remarks about my work, and even ignored him when he complained about having to babysit me.

  The only thing I couldn’t ignore were the looks he gave me.

  Searching, piercing.

  He didn’t make any sexual comments, not after that first day. I thought he might’ve been embarrassed.

  But when he said I could help him change his scrubs, the image of getting on my knees to pull them down broke into my mind, and I couldn’t get it out of my brain.

  He drove me crazy. I despised him, and each day was somehow worse than the day before.

  And yet I kept coming in, and I never once complained.

  After a week, I staggered into the lobby at five in the morning like always, but found it empty. I stood there, a little confused, looking for Piers, but the place was deserted.

  I heard the sound of heels on the marble floor and turned as Chief Resident Monica came toward me. She looked exhausted, her hair messy and up in a half-fallen bun, her clothes rumpled, deep bags under her eyes. She forced a smile and held up a hand.

  “Hey, Lori, right?”

  “Hi,” I said. “Good morning.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not too bad.”

  She stood a few feet away, smiling a very forced smile. “Great, well, uh, so Piers sent me down to get you.”

  “Really?” I tilted my head in confusion. “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, no, not at all, he’s just prepping right now and couldn’t come himself. I think his exact words were, ‘Hey, you, blondie, you’re the resident wrangler, right? Get your ass downstairs and find my damn resident.’ So here I am.”

  “God, I’m sorry. He can be such an asshole.”

  She laughed nervously. “I know, but he’s a genius, so what can you do? Anyway, I think he wants you in surgery three, so let’s go before he gets mad.”

  I followed Monica to the elevators, feeling confused. This hadn’t happened before. Normally, his first surgery wasn’t until eight, and I didn’t know what was different about today.

  But I felt a spike of excitement as Monica showed me to the surgery suite. I stepped into the prep room and peered in through the window as Piers stalked around the table, speaking with his nurses and the anesthesiologist.

  “Get scrubbed,” Monica said, waving. “And good luck.” Her smile slipped on that last word before she ducked out.

  I stood there feeling stupid for exactly five seconds before I threw my stuff down in the corner and started prepping.

  I knew how to do this. We’d gone over it a hundred times in school. Still, I wished someone was here to make sure I was getting it right. I scrubbed in, washing my hands and arms, then got my gown and hat on—then scrubbed again for good measure. I went into the surgery suite, feeling jittery, nervous, and scared, but full of excitement—I was finally going to get to watch Piers work, finally getting to stand in the room and assist. This was what I’d been training for, what I’d been waiting for this whole time, and I was almost brimming with energy.

  Piers gave me one look and all that energy flowed away.

  “You,” he barked at me, “in the damn corner. Do not speak. Do not move. You watch. You keep your mouth shut. As far as I’m concerned, you’re furniture, and if you make me realize you’re a real human being, I swear to whatever fucking deity you believe in, I will cut you. Do you understand?”

  Everyone stared at me. The nurses, the anesthesiologist. I felt blood rush to my cheeks.

  “Yes,” I said in a small voi
ce.

  “Good.” He turned away and began marshalling everyone like a general on parade.

  I did as instructed. I stood in the corner of the room, behind him and off to the side where he couldn’t see me, but where I could watch what he did. The nurses gave me sympathetic looks, and the anesthesiologist—a young guy with red hair and a kind smile beneath his surgical mask—gave me a reassuring wink. At least, I thought it was meant to be reassuring.

  I felt like an idiot.

  But soon the patient was wheeled in, and all my discomfort disappeared.

  I had no clue what procedure I was about to witness. I knew Piers specialized in cardiac surgery, but I hadn’t been told what exactly we were doing that morning, and nobody seemed inclined to fill me in. The man on the table was older, in his late sixties at least, a thin white man with stark black hair and bushy eyebrows, probably dyed. He looked nervous, but put on a brave smile, likely already on a drug cocktail, and Piers nodded at him, eyes intense and fierce.

  “I’ll see you soon, Mr. Short,” he said.

  The patient only smiled. The anesthesiologist took over from there, putting Mr. Short under. Once they confirmed everything was prepped and ready, the procedure began.

  I’d seen skilled surgeons do their work in med school. I sat in on several intricate procedures, and been impressed with the poise and ability of the men and women doing their jobs. But none of that even came close to what I witnessed with Piers.

  It was like watching a pianist at the top of his ability. Each movement was short, exacting, and elegant. His hands moved with incredible precision, and a heavy hush fell over the room as he worked. It took me a bit to understand what was happening, but it became clear that he was placing a stent.

  It was a relatively routine operation, though Piers somehow made it seem like a performance. The nurses danced around him, giving him what he needed as he went through each step, working by the book, but doing it in a smooth, fluid manner.

  There was a different between a deft touch and a heavy one. A mediocre surgeon could still do most procedures with little or no problems, but it was a whole different thing when a truly exceptional surgeon did his work. Healing times were shorter, complications were much rarer, and patient outcomes were almost always better. A surgeon could hack their way through a body, but a truly gifted technician navigated the human body with the lightest, deftest touch imaginable.