And for some dumb reason, I give him a thumbs up. A freaking thumbs up, as if he needs my confirmation that he’s able to start. I cringe internally, so happy he can’t see my mouth behind the mask.
But something about my thumbs up changes his posture. His shoulders relax, and he gently shakes his head as he turns to murmur something to the tech across from him.
“Keeton,” he calls out as he swivels his head back. “Go scrub in, I’ll need you to hold the scope.”
My chest tightens, so thankful he’s gone back on his word that I’m strictly watching this one, and I rush out the double doors to the scrub sink. My hands fumble when I rip open the bar of chlorhexidine soap, and I cuss under my breath.
Don’t ruin this, Keeton.
I know Dr. Andrews is waiting, but a proper scrub-in takes several minutes. I take my time to go through the motions, careful to clean my nails and skin to textbook perfection. With a clean towel, I pat dry my hands and forearms as I return to the OR. Kari, the circulating nurse, is waiting for me with a sterile gown. The corner of her eyes crinkle as she smiles at me, and a silent good luck passes between us as she helps me dress. When I’m ready, I purse my lips behind the paper mask to exhale a new set of nervous flutters, and I maneuver around the table to shimmy into the spot that was made for me next to Dr. Andrews.
He waits until I’m standing comfortably at his side before making his incisions. I’m mesmerised watching his hands hold each tool as a calm composure seems to wash over him. Each movement is perfection. Cool. Seemingly unphased, and I can tell already that I’m going to have a love-hate relationship with him. The staff work in fluid symmetry, ready with each tool before he can request it. Once his incisions are made and the laparoscope is inserted, he gestures for my hand. He moves a step to the side, and I reach for the laparoscope, watching while he inserts the remaining tools. Once he’s set up and the abdomen is filled with gas, he finally seems to release the tension in his shoulders.
“Kari,” he barks over his shoulder to the circulating nurse. “Music.”
Music,please. I correct internally, knowing that I’d be foolish to correct him out loud in front of the rest of the staff. I might already love to taunt him and piss him off a little when it’s just us, but he’s still a superior, and I won’t undermine his authority in front of everyone.
But when the music starts, the OR fills with a chorus of drums and incoherent screams. I flinch, just the smallest amount, but my movements cause the camera I’m guiding, which shows Dr. Andrews what he’s looking at, to wiggle. Something he picks up on immediately.
His hands pause, head whips up, and he glares at me.
“Sorry,” I whisper, “I just...” I look around to the other staff, wondering if anyone else is as put off by this music as I am. No one seems to notice, or maybe they’re as scared shitless of Dr. Andrews as it seems most people are.
“Is this really what you listen to? This angry boy playlist? Or is this a joke because I’m new?”
I swear I hear the scrub tech next to me snort, but Dr. Andrews doesn’t look at him, his eyes are still firmly burning into me.
“I mean, I just didn’t take you for this type, that’s all.” I nearly trip over my words, digging myself further and further into the depths of his shit list.
He watches me silently as the awkwardness stretches until I can’t keep his gaze. When I look at the screen across from us and adjust my stance, I center the laparoscope where it needs to be, and Dr. Andrews finally returns to his work.
“And what would be your ideal OR playlist, Dr. Keeton? Girlie-pop?”
Hewouldassume that’s what I’m into.
“No. I just think I’d prefer something that won’t give the patient anesthesia-induced nightmares. Maybe Survivor … Starship. Or even Cher.”
He laughs, loudly, his head thrown back as his shoulders shake. “Hey Keeton, 1982 called, and it wants its music back.”
Now it’s my turn to scoff. “I’ll bet you’ve never given Survivor a proper chance. Name one song, and tell me the exact reason you hate it, and I’ll shut up.”
His laugh fades, but the aftereffects linger; I can still make out the crinkles left by the corners of his eyes as he shakes his head. “I have better things to do than waste my time discussing your piss-poor taste in music.”
“Sounds like you haven’t listened to them before. Which means you can’t actually hate them.” If you were to ask me, it sounds like he’s saying there’s a chance.
His eyes squint in my direction, and I can see the moment this playful side of him disappears and his serious demeanor returns. “Enough playtime,” he barks. “Let’s focus on our case so we don’t lose track of our schedule.”
I nod, following orders as I return to my position.
We work in silence as Dr. Andrews dissects the first sac, moving with such swift, clean movements I can’t help but watch in awe. I really think I would have been satisfied just to watch him as an onlooker. Although I’d never tell him that.
I notice the subtle movements of his eyes. A glance at the scrub techs to ensure they are counting the instruments appropriately. His gaze flickers to the head of the table, where anesthesia sits monitoring vitals. It isn’t boredom or curiosity that has him looking, but it’s as if he doesn’t trust that the rest of the team can do their job appropriately.
He doesn’t make a show of it, doesn’t quiz the team as he quizzes me, but it makes me wonder why.
Why does an experienced surgeon like him, who has probably lost count of the number of surgeries he’s completed in his career, who likely works with the same rotating group of people … why doesn’t he trust his team?
Before I can dwell on his history on what makes him not seem to trust a single soul aside from my father, apparently, his eyes flick up, catching me staring.
