Chapter 1
BEN
“Yikes,”Imutterundermy breath as I get out of my warm car into the cold wind and rain of late autumn in Seattle. It’s still dark at this early hour, but even after the sun rises, this promises to be one of those days that make transplants to the Pacific Northwest break down and cry.
After locking my car, I hustle across the wet parking lot into the hospital wing that houses my office, as well as the few patients I’m currently treating. I spend most of my time these days on research, studying traumatic brain injuries, specifically CTE, which is the condition that can result when someone gets hit in the head a lot, people like athletes and military folks. Researching ways to keep people safe from preventable brain injuries is my passion, and I’ve spent the last couple of years working with a talented team of researchers, engineers and other smart people to come up with a new type of hockey helmet. I still love working with real people though, so I always have a couple of surgical patients under my care.
“Morning, Nadia,” I call to the nurse on duty, who gives me a bright smile.
“Hey, Dr. Benny. Go stash your coat and bag. I’ll do you a solid and grab your coffee for you. It’s too damn cold and wet out there to go without it this morning,” she says, sliding out of her chair and heading down the hall toward the small coffee station. The ward is dark and things are still quiet, making this my favorite time of day. Visitors and families haven’t arrived and most other docs don’t come in to do their rounds until later, so it’s just the nursing staff, the patients and me.
After hanging my coat in the small staff room, I find Nadia back at the nurses’ station which is adorably decorated for the holidays. Colorful string lights are attached to the edges of the counter, along with red, green, and gold ribbon. On one corner of the counter is a tiny Christmas tree decorated with mini surgical instruments and sterile gloves, strips of gauze as garland. It sparkles with blue and white LED lights, and at the top sits a sparkly silver star. In various doorways are mistletoe sprigs hung with red velvet ribbons, and on one wall, a beautiful miniature quilt is displayed featuring the Star of David and a menorah, which was gifted to us one year during Hannukah.
“The place looks amazing, Nadi,” I comment as she hands me a steaming mug of motivation.
“Thanks. I’m happy with it. You know I love doing that kind of shit.” She grins.
I chuckle. “You’re always trying to make everyone think you’re this total hard-ass, but I know the softie that lurks underneath.”
She winks at me and hands me a tablet containing the chart updates for my patients.
“How did things go last night?” I ask with a grateful smile as I take that perfect first sip. The tension in my shoulders releases a little as the caffeine hits my bloodstream.
“Very quiet, just the way we like it.” She smiles. “You’ll see it in the notes, but Mr. McHanna had his best night since surgery.”
“Thank god for that,” I say, good news about one of my favorite patients relaxing me further. “If he continues in that direction, maybe we can discharge him by the weekend, and his daughter can help him get settled at home,” I mutter half to myself as I glance over the detailed notes.
Nadia gives me a fond look, her big brown eyes crinkling up at the corners. “You know, Ben, you are the only doc I know who always remembers whether patients have help at home. It’s nice. The others all leave those pesky details to the social workers.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and her smile turns mischievous. “Now, don’t go getting all embarrassed,” she says. “I just want you to know we appreciate you, that’s all.”
“Oh, you know, it’s really only because I have fewer patients than the other docs—” I start to protest, but she waves her hand and gives me a dirty look over the rims of her bright pink glasses.
“Benjamin Jacobs, you need to take a compliment when someone gives it to you.” The look on her face is stern, but she softens it by shooting me a wink.
“Now, then,” she continues. “We both know I’m speaking the truth, buuuut… I do have a favor to ask you…” From the look on her face, I get the feeling I might not like what’s coming next.
I roll my eyes. “Ahh, now the truth comes out. Were you just buttering me up for something?”
She laughs. “Of course not—you know I’d never lie to you! But Ididthink it might not hurt to remind you of how amazing you are before asking you for a small favor…” She looks a little sheepish.
I give her the “hurry up” motion with my hands. “Alright, spit it out, then.”
“Well,” she begins. “I just got a panicked call from my sister, Irena. Dr. Madsen had to cancel his speech for tomorrow night.” She pauses, and suddenly, I know exactly where this is going.
“Oh noooo…” I groan.
Nadia’s sister, Irena, works for a nonprofit that supports research into brain and spinal cord injury, and their biggest fundraiser of the year is this weekend. It’s a big, fancy gala, raising huge amounts of money from Seattle’s wealthy and kicking off the holiday fundraising season. Their keynote speaker for this year is a prestigious researcher who also happens to be my old professor and friend, Dennis Madsen. His lab at Boston University is the world’s preeminent center for studying brain injuries, and my dream is to take over that lab and continue his research one day. I’m hopeful our newly developed helmet will help convince both him and his university that I’m the right candidate for his job, whenever he’s ready to retire.
“His wife had some kind of medical emergency,” Nadia continues. “But he recommended you as someone who could easily give the keynote address in his place.”
I’d been looking forward to catching up with Dr. Madsen at the gala this weekend. Our research team just finished negotiating a deal with Seattle’s new NHL team, the Sasquatch, to wear our helmets for a series of games around their Christmas break. The incredible tech embedded in the helmets records real-time data about how the brain reacts when players get hit. Dr. Madsen has been super supportive, and I’ve been wanting to update him, so I’m selfishly disappointed he won’t be there.
“Well, shit,” I mutter, trying to ignore the way my stomach tightens. I’d rather have brain surgery than make a speech in front of a large crowd of people. “Is Rosemary okay?” I ask Nadia.
“Yes, he told Irena she’s going to be just fine, but she’s going to need some support at home for the next few weeks, so he doesn’t want to leave her and travel across the country,” Nadia says, and I immediately feel a little better knowing Rosemary isn’t deathly ill.
Ireally, reallydetest public speaking. I chew on the inside of my cheek nervously. “Right, of course. It makes sense that he wouldn’t want to be so far away if she’s not well,” I mutter to myself.
