“Congratulations, Doc.”
The fuss embarrassed Susan. She had never liked being the center of attention. Smiling, bobbing her head, cautiously working her way to the unit door, she turned to face them all. “Thank you so much. I’ll try my very best to live up to your expectations.” She wanted to deflate the excitement, to remind them she had gotten lucky. Both patients had had hidden medical diagnoses that, once exposed, made their treatment so much easier. But doing so might denigrate the residents and attendings who had come before her, those who had not made those same medical diagnoses. She reached for the door handle, knowing she would find it locked.
A male nurse named Jordan unlocked the unit door, while the other staff discussed the dispensation of banner and balloons. They could not allow balloons on the unit for fear some patients might pop them to torment others who had phobias, nightmares, or delusions.
Susan headed for the charting area, surprised to receive smiles and applause from the remaining staff as well. She nodded at everyone she saw, then attempted to duck into the staffing area. Before she got there, a small child latched onto her leg.
Susan looked down to see Sharicka. She was not surprised to observe that someone had bent the balloon rule; Sharicka clutched the string of a crimson balloon filled with helium, and she enwrapped Susan’s leg in a deathless embrace. “Dr. Thuzan!” she sang out, with just a hint of a lisp. “Sit with me. Pleeease.”
Susan could not resist the childish tones and apparent sincerity. She sat in one of the plush chairs in the television room, ignoring the movie that seemed to have most of the patients mesmerized.
Sharicka climbed into Susan’s lap, snuggling against her. “You never told me you were my doctor.” She popped a thumb into her mouth, speaking around it. “I was scared I didn’t have a doctor no more.”
In her days observing the young girl, Susan had never seen her suck her thumb before. She wondered what it meant: Was it a conscious or unconscious action, a deliberate ruse, or expression of emotion? Did a four-year-old even have the mental connections and experience to play such intricate games with an adult? “You have a doctor, Sharicka,” Susan said with proper adult reassurance. “I’ve just gotten so busy with other patients, I haven’t had time to get to know you.” She did not mention her silent observations. She did not want to cue Sharicka.
“I heared ya fixed ’em.” Sharicka snuggled even closer. “I wants ya ta fix me, too.”
The baby talk annoyed Susan. She had overheard Sharicka enough times to know she had a more than competent vocabulary.
“Can ya fix me?” Sharicka gazed into Susan’s face with adoration, her eyes so sweet and dark, Susan could not help smiling.
“I don’t know. I’d need your help, Sharicka.”
The little girl’s eyes transformed in that instant. Susan could not have explained the change in any logical or biological manner. It seemed as if the sockets sank to a slant as she watched them, and a bonfire smoldered, deep and unreachable. Those eyes speared through Susan like a physical weapon, painful, terrifying, inhuman. She shivered involuntarily.
Then, just as quickly, they reverted back to the same innocent child eyes Susan had melted for earlier. “I’ll do whatever I gotta do, I pwomise. I’ll take all my meds. I’ll be gooder than good.”
Susan tried to convince herself she had imagined the strange distortion in Sharicka’s appearance. Nothing scientific could explain it, and she believed only in the real and earthly, the provable. Nevertheless, she wanted to get as far away from the child as possible. “That sounds wonderful, Sharicka.” Susan half rose, sliding the girl toward the floor.
Sharicka drew up her feet, refusing to stand. “I want to stay here with you, Dr. Susan.”
“I’m sorry,” Susan said firmly, sliding the girl onto the couch cushion. “I have work to do, but I’ll check on you later.”
Sharicka allowed herself to be placed, though Susan thought she caught another glimpse of the strange light in her face, those weird demon eyes. Repulsed, Susan turned away and headed back toward the staffing room.
The instant Susan entered the staffing area, Kendall caught her arm and guided her to a far corner. “So,” he said, “how was your date with the dreamy eunuch?”
Still focused on Sharicka, Susan was caught off guard. “What?”
“Your date,” Kendall said impatiently. “With the handsome surgeon you castrated.”
Susan finally got it. “I decided he was worthy, so I sewed ’em back on.”
“Really?” Kendall sat, resting his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand. “A surgeon worthy of procreation? You’d better not tell his associates. They’ll throw him out of his residency.”
Susan knocked his arm away, and Kendall had to twitch backward to keep his chin from hitting the table. “Now who’s being a jerk?”
“Me,” Kendall admitted. “But at least I’m not pompous.”
Susan wondered if Kendall reduced everything in his life to a joke.
Kendall changed the subject abruptly, speaking in low tones that did not carry. “Your brilliance is garnering some attention, Calvin.”
Susan did not know exactly how to answer that. “I got lucky with a couple of patients. I don’t understand why everyone’s making such a circus out of it.”
“Because it’s the PIPU.” Kendall looked around to make certain no one had drawn near enough to eavesdrop. Several of the other residents were in the room, reading palm-prosses or dictating notes. Monk Peterson looked at them several times, but no one else seemed to notice them. “Children aren’t hospitalized in locked units unless it’s absolutely necessary. These are the worst of the worst, the sickest of the sick. If they come here, they stay no less than a month, and it’s more often for years. You sent home a lifer and a potential lifer in your first week. That’s nothing shy of mind-blowing.”
“I got lucky,” Susan reiterated firmly, hoping she had just gotten the last word.
“You got brains,” Kendall corrected. “And a skill with old-fashioned, low-tech observation. You used them. That has nothing to do with luck.”
Susan shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just did what was best for my patients, and that’s all any of us wants or tries to do.”
Kendall would not let it go. “Yes, but you’re the one who succeeded. I think that’s great. The nurses love you. Dr. Bainbridge is proud to have you on his service; it makes him look good, too. But some of the other residents . . .”
Susan cringed, certain she did not want to hear what came next. “Our colleagues? What about them?”
“Some of them are jealous.”
“They needn’t be.”
“But they are.”
Susan glanced toward the residents again. They remained mostly in the same places. Only Monk looked away when she caught his eye. She saw a vague impression of a daggered glare before he returned his attention to his screen. “So, what do you want me to do about it? Deliberately mess up?”
Kendall chuckled. “Of course not. You should do exactly what you’re doing, Calvin. Don’t ever let other people’s negative emotions stop you from going on to great things. I’m just warning you to be careful. Not everyone has your best interests at heart.”
“Yes, it is,” Kendall agreed wholeheartedly. “And who understands that better than psychiatry residents?”
Susan flushed. She did not understand it. Perhaps Remington had a point; she did not belong in psychiatry if she found herself flummoxed by something others saw as basic human nature. Yet, even as the thought arose, she found herself intrigued by the reaction Kendall had described. She wanted, in fact needed, to comprehend it; and that only proved she had chosen the right career path. “Why do you suppose they would feel that way?”
Kendall sat, placing both hands loosely in his lap. “If you’ll pardon my psychoanalyzing our colleagues, it’s not that uncommon a reaction for people whose self-esteem derives from being the smartest person in the room. When they get dethroned, they feel uncomfortable and displaced, and it’s not unnatural to harbor anger against a usurper.”
Susan wondered why it never bothered her. She had always felt awed and safe in the presence of genius.
