“Fine, go ahead.” She looked skeptical, but she was smiling.
“I’m going to let you off laundry duty,” I said slowly.
“Oh, really?” She leaned toward me, eyes wide. “Are you going soft, Dr. Hood?”
“Would you let me finish,” I said, glaring at her. “I’m not going soft.”
“Sounds like you are. I thought the laundry thing was a hazing ritual. Honestly, I got sort of used to doing it, and I like having all that time to read.”
“I can let you do my laundry forever if you really, really want to.”
“No, no, that’s okay. What’s the deal?”
“I’m going to let you off laundry duty if you promise to bring me coffee every morning. And not some cheap bullshit coffee from Wawa. I want the good stuff. Starbucks or better.”
She snorted in that cute way she did when she thought I was being a total dick, but still, she was smiling. “That’s not a great deal. Sounds like swapping one stupid task for another.”
“You want off laundry, this is your way out.”
“Fine,” she said, and thrust her hand toward me. “That’s a deal.”
I took it and shook. “Starbucks or better,” I repeated. “No garbage.”
“I know a good spot. How do you take it?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
“Easy.” She nodded to herself, and our hands lingered together a bit longer than necessary—before she pulled hers away and seemed to rub her palm with her other fingers absently.
“We should get back,” I said, and paid for the drinks. “Seriously, good job in there. I’m thinking about giving you more responsibility.”
That perked her up. “Really?”
“But you’d better not fuck up. If I have to fix your mistakes, you’re back to doing laundry in the hospital and getting dirty looks from the janitorial staff.”
“I won’t fuck up,” she said, tone serious. “I promise.”
I stood up and gave her a look. Strangely enough, I believed her.
We headed back to the hospital together, chatting aimlessly, and for the first time in a long time, I actually enjoyed talking to someone about nothing at all.
11
Lori
Piers sipped from his coffee cup and looked pleased as we walk together down the hall. Ahead, the patient rooms stretched out along the wall, their glass sliding doors and curtain-covered windows filled with so many different lives and different worlds. Sometimes I get a little overwhelmed, out on the floor, just picturing all the people that want to leave the hospital feeling better and happier than when they came in, and how much hard work it took to fix even a small number of them.
The nurses gave Piers a look as he walked past them. I smiled, but the girls didn’t smile back. I wasn’t used to that—usually, everyone was nice to the residents.
Except for when I was around him, apparently.
“This is Mr. Swanson,” Piers said, stopping outside of a room. “He’s in for a pacemaker, relatively standard stuff. You ready?”
I stared. “I’m going in with you?”
“Time you started seeing patients,” he said, and slid open the door without any more discussion.
I plunged in after him. Of course, I’d seen patients in med school, although always in a group and always supervised. I knew how to talk to them, understood how to be professional and succinct, but it was a different thing now that I was getting more and more responsibility. This man’s life could be in my hands, or at least a life like it would be.
Piers didn’t seem troubled. He went right inside, grabbed the chart, and stood looking down at Mr. Swanson with a small frown on his face.
Mr. Swanson looked back, and did not seem amused. “You realize I’m watching my favorite program?” he said.
I glanced up at the TV. Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives was playing. Guy Fieri took a bite of an absolutely enormous hamburger stuffed with what looked like every conceivable fried object imaginable, and he seemed to truly think it was taking him to Flavortown.
Piers only grunted. “Mr. Swanson, your chart looks good. We have your procedure scheduled for later today. I was wondering if you had any questions?”
“Oh, I’ve got questions.” Mr. Swanson shifted in his bed. He was a skinny man, dark hair, big nose, lots of hair poking out of it. He looked like he was in his fifties, maybe a healthy sixty, I couldn’t tell. “First of all, when am I getting that pillow I asked for? I asked for it ten minutes ago, still not here. It’s a pillow, not a hard thing.”
I stared at him, wide-eyed, then looked at Piers. I’d seen difficult patients before, and more of the doctors I was with dealt with them as gently as they could, but Piers was not known for his diplomacy. I braced myself for him to open up on poor Mr. Swanson.
Instead, Piers smiled. “I’m sure we can find you a pillow, although they’re kind of shitty.”
Mr. Swanson barked a laugh. “You’re telling me. Been lying on this thing all morning. Why’d they have me come in so early, anyway?”
“We needed to get you prepped. Drugs and such in your system. But mostly we like to torture our patients first. We’re a real sick bunch.”
Another barked laugh. “Damn right you are. This surgery, am I gonna feel anything? You know, during it. You’re gonna cut me open, right?”
Piers shook his head. “You won’t feel a thing. From your perspective, one second you’ll be in there, getting prepped, and the next it’ll all be over. You might feel groggy, like you had a really bad night’s sleep or something, maybe some post-surgical complications, but otherwise, no pain during.”
“That’s good at least.” Mr. Swanson sighed, stretched his legs. “Maybe I won’t feel this stupid, uncomfortable, scratchy sheet anymore, either. I don’t know how I’m gonna sleep in this place. You know it smells bad, right? Like body odor? And chemicals, so many chemicals, and there’s that nurse with the perfume? Big hair, lots of perfume, keeps coming in here and poking
