Ethan’s brow furrows. “I’m sorry, man,” he says. “When was this?”
“About a month ago.”
“What happened?”
“We wanted different things,” I say dismissively, and it’s the truth. I started dating Sloane Beaumont, a pediatrics resident, over a year ago during my fellowship in Toronto. She wasn’t happy when I took the job in Somerset (she wanted me to stay in Toronto), but we decided to try long-distance. Recently, though, Sloane made it clear that she wanted to get married, and I wasn’t sure I did. She also wanted me to do a Master’s degree, so I’d have a better chance of an academic job in a bigger city, and I was very sure I didn’t want that.
So after a particularly miserable weekend together, in which Sloane managed to drop the wordsweddingandmarriageat least once an hour, I told her I wasn’t sure I’d ever get married. I just wasn’t the marrying type. It wasn’t her, it was me. Sloane reacted to that about as well as you’d expect, I agreed I was a jerk for leading her on, and we decided to part ways.
“Who ended it?” Ethan perseveres.
“What does it matter?” Austin interjects. “It’s done.”
Ethan turns to Austin. “How about you, man? Are you dating anyone?”
Austin rolls his eyes. “Not right now. My dad convinced me to meet with his new PR hack, who told me my dating habits were jeopardizing my dad’s career.”
Austin’s father is a Member of Parliament, and the Cabinet Minister for Social Development. He leans to the left of the political spectrum, and I know he wishes Austin had chosen a more sympathetic field. Family medicine or pediatrics would have been ideal, but pretty much anything would have been better than plastic surgery.
But the criticism of Austin’s dating doesn’t make sense. Austin’s dated a lot of women, but as far as I know, he’s always treated them with respect. “What are they worried about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that the opposition will send a woman to seduce me and then tell the press about my kinky bedroom habits,” he quips.
“A honeytrap,” Ethan says with a laugh.
“Yep,” Austin says. “So I promised to put away thechains and whips until after the next election. I also told my dad that no one cares who his son dates, but he didn’t appreciate that. He thinks he’s got a shot to be prime minister someday.”
“Huh,” Ethan says. “Will you still hang out with us when you’re famous?”
“Only if you give up the perfume,” Austin replies. “But anyway, the PR guy suggested I ‘court a woman with a view to marriage.’ He even offered to find me a suitable young lady.”
“Like an arranged marriage,” Drew remarks.
“Lucky me,” Austin jokes. “And Dad claims to be a progressive. Believe it or not, I said no.” His phone buzzes with a text. “Pizza’s here,” he announces, tapping his phone to let the delivery guy into the building. Cheering erupts from the TV, and I glance over to see that the Blue Jays have hit a home run. Everyone seems to have forgotten my slip of the tongue, when I confused a patient’s mother with my girlfriend.
But I haven’t forgotten. My mind is still on Melissa.
FIVE
LUKE
One of the best things about finishing residency is that my workday no longer starts at six-thirty A.M. As an attending surgeon, I have my own residents now, and I can roll in at the relatively civilized hour of seven-thirty. I’ve never been a morning person, and the extra hour makes a big difference. I never realized how much I missed a good night’s sleep until I was reacquainted with one.
But the day after I operate on Melissa’s daughter, I’m awake before dawn. I know there’s no way I’ll get back to sleep, so I grab my laptop and log into the hospital’s electronic medical record. The last nursing note in Claire’s chart reads simply:Child resting comfortably. Mother at bedside.I bet Melissa spent the night there. I would, if it were my kid.
I click through the chart, but it’s far too early for the morning lab results to be up, and there’s nothing else of interest. I tell myself the lack of documentation is a good sign. If Claire was in pain or there was some other complication, surely the nurses would have charted something.
Since there’s nothing else to be learned from thecomputer, I throw on some workout clothes and head to the gym in the condo basement. After forty minutes on the treadmill, I head back to my condo, take a long shower, and throw some Eggo waffles in the toaster. I wonder if anyone’s bringing Melissa breakfast this morning, since she probably won’t want to leave Claire to go to the cafeteria. Maybe her ex-husband will do it, if he hasn’t already gone back to his law firm in Toronto.
A glance at my phone tells me it’s still only six-fifty A.M., but I decide I’ve killed enough time. I’ll go to the hospital and join my residents for the end of rounds.
The junior resident is on vacation, so I have a small team this week: just a senior resident, Dr. Nick Decarie, and Kevin Talbot. I find them at the nursing station on the surgical ward, sitting in front of a computer. Nick’s simultaneously typing a note into the medical record and quizzing Kevin about the differential diagnosis for post-operative fever. For all his faults (overconfidence in the OR and a tendency to flirt with the nurses), Nick’s good with the medical students. I can tell Kevin’s a lot more comfortable with Nick than he was with me yesterday.
“Dr. Carlton,” Nick says, raising an eyebrow in surprise. It’s the first time I’ve joined them this early, and I’m sure he wonders if I’m watching more closely because he’s done something wrong.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I got in early today, so I thought I’d join you guys for the end of rounds.”
“Great,” Nick says, but I can tell he isn’t thrilled. “We’re just finishing up here, actually.” He pulls a patient list from the pocket of his scrubs. “We just have the patient on the pediatric ward left. Claire Thompson, the appendectomy from yesterday.”
