“Keeton. Tell me why I’m inspecting the bowels.”
I’ve watched with rapt fascination as Dr. Andrews removed the hernia, flushed the cavity, and the space looks almost pristine. He holds the patient’s bowel between two of the instruments, and with careful precision, he uses the grasping forceps to move it along, inspecting it thoroughly while making sure not to cause any harm.
“Looking for signs of ischemia,” I answer.
When he doesn’t nod, or ask any follow up questions, anxiety takes hold of me and I continue, “If you noticed parts of the bowel were blue-ish or black, or felt tough to the touch as opposed to soft and pliable, it’d be a sign that peristalsis has ceased.”
“And if I found any of those issues?”
“We’d attempt to salvage it. Apply moist warm packs, one hundred percent oxygen for several minutes, then reassess. Any nonviable bowel would have to be resected.”
He nods once, I think. A very slight bob of his head as he continues to inspect the bowels. “And what do you see with our patient’s bowels?
My eyes have been following Dr. Andrews’ movements, looking along with him for any possible signs of concern.
“They’re beautiful.”
“You sure about that?” he rasps as he continues his movements along the intestines.
I look again, knowing that this is a test. If I tell him I’m not sure, that maybe I missed a spot because I wasn’t paying attention, I’ve failed.
Lucky for him, I was entranced, staring at his deft hands as they worked, and I’m confident the bowel is perfectly healthy.
“Positive.”
Dr. Andrews gently feeds the bowels back into the cavity, ensuring placement is anatomically correct before pausing. He steps back and his eyes meet mine as he tells the rest of the staff, “Dr. Keeton will finish from here.”
Chapter Seven
Annaliese
“HasDadevermentionedhis friend Dr. Andrews?”
I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I pound on the side of the printer with my fist. Angry orange flashes blink back at me from all sides, indicating that my paper is jammed.
“I don’t think so,” my mom responds. “Then again, your dad and I haven’t talked much over the last ten years or so outside of conversations about you. But if he’s anything like your father, I can’t imagine he’d be too fun to work with.”
My eyes flick up to the clock and I curse under my breath. Our first case starts at 0730 this morning, and it’s nearing six. If this printer won’t spit out my report, I’ll be late for my meeting with Dr. Andrews. It wouldn’t matter to him why I’m late, but I know if I’m not by his side at six o’clock on the dot, he’ll likely growl at me in that weird way I’ve come to expect from him. And sort of come to like.
“Annaliese?”
“Sorry, what?” I tilt my head up, holding the phone with one hand and slamming my opposite fist down on the side of the printer; the orange lights flash to green as it finally starts to whir.
“What is this Dr. Andrews like?”
“Oh … he’s…” Fucking confusing is what he is. The first half-day we were together, he was an absolute dick. Snarky comments and hidden smirks at whatever condescending comments my dad made. He treated me like I was a high school student shadowing for the day.
Then he made a complete one-eighty and let me assist with the surgery he originally said I’d just watch on. Since then it’s been … cordial, just like he promised. He gives me a list of patients to see for the day and then we round together on trauma cases. I ask him questions, and he answers appropriately. It’s almost like we’re real colleagues.
“He’s … not what I expected.”
“Oh?” Her voice ticks up in curiosity. “How so?”
“Well he’s a lot younger than Dad, for one. He’s gotta be in his forties. He seems to worship Dad, which is gross. And to be honest, there are a few times already I’ve wanted to knee him in the nuts. He’ll be irritating as hell, but then he seems to change his mind about me at the last minute. It’s confusing.”
Each time Dr. Andrews found an opportunity to lecture me and to remind me that surgery isn’t for the faint of heart, I grit my teeth, wanting to keep my reputation somewhat wholesome and not castrate him. Every comment out of his mouth is like a broken record of something my father once said when I first told him I wanted to go into surgery.
I had expected my dad to be proud of me, to see a broad smile spread across his face at the prospect of us maybe working side by side one day, or for the moment when I call him for a second opinion on a case. I thought he’d want to share his years of experience with me, not his kiss-ass BFF Colt.
