“Dr Stone will be taking over your case. He’ll be doing the last of your surgeries,” I say.
Her eyes are wild as her mother tries to reach for her hand.
“But you’re my doctor.”
“Honey,” Mrs Shaw says. “This is for the best. There’s only one surgery to go?—”
“Patrick is my doctor. I want him.”
Ethan leans forward. “Dr Cross is unable to perform your surgery. We’ve got the date scheduled, so to keep that, I’ll be stepping in. I understand this might be distressing, but I can assure you that you’ll be well taken care of.”
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t want to do it.”
“Dr Stone is my mentor. He taught me everything I know. You’re in safe hands.” I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile.
“But—"
“Emily. We really need to get you in as scheduled. Let us talk about it.” Ethan gives me a nod, and that’s the signal for me to step out of the room.
I’m out of here for the day—this was my last appointment. Knowing this was coming up, I made plans to take my mind off it.
I don’t visit my parents often.
When we first moved to Auckland, I lived with them, but when Dad retired early, they moved out west toward thecoast. It’s a decent drive out there—long enough that I don’t just pop out to visit.
But I told my mother I’d be there for dinner—I wasn’t sure how this afternoon would go and thought I might need some moral support.
I’m tired, but I’d like to see them.
When I pull into their backyard, it’s nearly 6.30 p.m., and the sun is setting.
The scent of roasting chicken floats out the open door.
Mum’s standing at the oven, peeping in when I step inside.
“Hope I’m not too late.”
She closes the door and turns toward me, smiling as she opens her arms. “You’re just in time.”
I hug her tight and kiss the top of her head.
Dad appears in the doorway, and I let go of Mum and make my way to him. He grabs my hand and pulls me in for a hug.
“Let me get dinner served and we’ll eat,” she says. “You must be starving.”
“I am now I can smell it. I haven’t had roast chicken in ages.”
Dad chuckles. “You need to come out here more often.”
Holding up my palms, I shift my gaze between them. “Okay. I get the message.”
It doesn’t take long before all the food is on the table, and we eat in silence. There’s a lot to say, but I think Mum and Dad appreciate that it’s been a long day for me and I just want to stuff myself silly.
There’s time for talking afterward.
Dad volunteers to wash the dishes while Mum and I sit inthe living room. The television drones on in the background while she picks up her knitting.
I don’t want to talk about today, but I do have other things I need to get out.
