“Who’s next? Please tell me it’s someone obsessed with 19th-century French architecture. I have a lot of opinions on Haussmann.”
LUKE
Preston is excellent in Psychiatrics. And it is annoying.
Two days after he began his duties there, I’m doing rounds on the seventh floor, and I stop outside the day room.
Preston is sitting at a table with Mrs. Higgins, a patient who has refused to speak to anyone for three days. She’s currently knitting aggressively.
“I understand completely,” Preston is saying, his voice low and soothing. “My mother also believes that silence is the ultimate power move. She once went a full week speaking only in French just to irritate my father, who only speaks English and ‘Finance.’”
Mrs. Higgins’s needles pause. She looks up. “French?”
“Fluently. Mostly insults,” Preston nods. “It’s very effective. But the problem with the silent treatment, Mrs. Higgins, is that eventually, people stop listening to the silence. They just enjoy the quiet.”
Mrs. Higgins frowns. She considers this. “So I should…?”
“Make noise,” Preston suggests cheerfully. “Complain. Demand better Jell-O. Or, tell Dr. Silva here what’s bothering you so we can adjust your meds and get you home to your cat.”
Mrs. Higgins turns to me. “My tea is cold,” she snaps. “And the pills make me dizzy.”
“I’ll fix the tea,” Preston promises, standing up. “Dr. Silva will fix the pills.”
He walks past me, winking. “See? No scalpels required. Just emotional leverage.”
I stare after him. I spent an hour trying to get her to talk. He did it in five minutes with a story about his mother.
“Show off,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
I finish my rounds and head toward the nurses' station to chart. The floor is quiet, the afternoon lull settling in.
I turn the corner and freeze.
Preston is there. But he’s not alone.
He is backed up against the medication cart. Standing infront of him, boxing him in with a clipboard and an aura of absolute authority, is Rosa Ortiz.
My mother.
I dive behind a linen cart. I know I’m a grown man. I know I’m the Chief Resident. But when Mama Ortiz goes into "protective mode," the only survival strategy is concealment.
“...Dr. York,” my mother is saying. Her voice isn't loud. It’s that terrifyingly quiet tone she uses when a resident prescribes the wrong dosage.
“Nurse Ortiz,” Preston replies. His voice is steady, but I can see his knuckles gripping the counter behind him. He looks like a deer in headlights, if the deer was wearing Ralph Lauren.
“You’re doing good work in Psych,” she says. “Mrs. Higgins ate her lunch. That was you.”
“I just… listened to her,” Preston says.
“Mm-hmm.” My mother steps closer. She adjusts the pen in her pocket. “You’re charming. You have the ‘gift of gab,’ as they say. You can talk a dog off a meat wagon.”
“I… thank you?”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She looks him up and down, her dark eyes sharp. “I have eyes, Preston York. I see things. I see how you walk around this hospital. I see how you look at the patients.”
She pauses for effect.
“And I see how you look at my son.”
