I shrug. “It’s not, really. I definitely have baggage.” And I can’t imagine letting another man see me naked. “But it doesn’t matter, since I’m not looking to date. I need to focus on my kids.” I push out a sigh. “And on re-learning high school math.”
Sophie laughs. “Fair enough.”
“More wine?” I ask, noticing her glass is nearly empty.
She shakes her head. “I drove. I have a shift tomorrow anyway, so I should get going.”
“It was great to see you again, Sophie,” I say as I walk her to the door.
“Yeah, you too. We should do it again soon.” She pauses. “Actually, if you’re looking to get back into exercise, I’ve been going to a running group on Saturday mornings.It’s free; a running store organizes it, but you don’t have to buy anything. If you’re interested, we could go together?”
“Oh. I don’t know. I’m pretty out of shape right now.” For the past year, my only exercise has been chasing after Liam, and I’d probably look like a fool at a running group.
“It’s okay, there’s a beginner group,” Sophie says. “I only started a couple months ago, and I ran with the beginners until recently. We can go at your pace.”
“I don’t want to slow you down,” I say doubtfully.
“I really don’t mind,” she says with a smile. “If anything, it will be a good excuse for an easier run.”
“If you’re sure, then, yeah, I’d like that. I’ve got the kids this weekend, but they’ll be in Toronto the next. Maybe we could do it next Saturday?” My mother would probably babysit if I asked, but this way I’ll have a week to get in shape.
“Sounds great. I’ll text you,” Sophie promises.
After she leaves, I google home workout videos and find an overwhelming variety of options on YouTube. Since Pilates was my mother’s suggested form of exercise, I naturally don’t want to do that, and High Intensity Interval Training sounds too intense.
So I decide to try a barre workout, which the smiling instructor promises will be ‘cardio and fat burning.’ She also promises there’s no equipment needed, so I have no excuse. I should seize the day—or in this case, the evening—and start now.
So I throw on my ratty yoga pants, start the video, and make it exactly nine minutes and thirty-eight seconds before I collapse from exhaustion.
THIRTEEN
LUKE
I rarely look forward to Tuesdays because I don’t get to operate, but I’ve been anticipating this one. It’s the date of Claire Thompson’s follow-up appointment, and since her dad lives in Toronto, it’ll probably be Melissa who brings her.
But before I can go to the clinic and see Melissa, I have to make it through a Surgical Bed Capacity Committee meeting. As the newest member of the General Surgery Division, I got suckered into being the physician representative. As far as I can tell, the committee consists of a bunch of middle managers who sit around a conference table and lament the fact that the hospital has a bed shortage.
The managers claim they want a surgeon’s input, but I’m convinced that what they really want is a surgeon to tell them they’re brilliant. Brilliant, and doing such a good job that there’s no way they could do better. I inherited this role from Ethan, whose advice was to keep my mouth shut and bring snacks. But since I forgot to stop at a bakery thismorning, I had to grab an overpriced bag of mini brownies from the cafeteria.
I set the brownies on the table and take a seat. As usual, I’m the only man at the table. Everyone else is a woman between the ages of thirty and fifty-five, dressed in the standard hospital management uniform of a button-down shirt and black or khaki pants. The majority are wearing the oversized plastic-framed glasses that are currently in style.
I wonder what would happen if I brought pot brownies.
I’m the only person who isn’t staring at a laptop, so I search the pocket of my jacket and find a folded piece of paper. It’s a receipt from the last time I went to the dentist, but the back is blank, so I unfold it carefully and take out a ballpoint pen. I’m ready to take notes.
I should have bought coffee as well as brownies because I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. The woman sitting next to me pushes the bag of brownies towards me and I take one, hoping the sugar will help me stay awake. It’s stale and bland, as expected, and I regret having taken it. I try not to eat crap unless it tastes good, but nothing wears down willpower like a Bed Capacity Meeting.
We hear that the surgical ward is at 111% capacity, but I’m not really sure what they expect me to do about this. All the surgeons can do is discharge patients more quickly, but if we do, they’ll likely come back with complications.
Everyone else is typing industriously, so I write the date on the back of my dentist’s receipt, then add a title: Bed Capacity Committee. My mind drifts to an image of Melissa sprawled out on a bed, with her hair fanned out on the pillow behind her.
“Dr. Carlton?” It’s Tara, one of the managers. She’s about my age, and she clearly takes her job very seriously.
“Yes, Tara?”
“Do you have any insights into the question?”
I don’t even know what the question is. I’m tempted to suggest that bunk beds would help the bed shortage issue, but I’m not sure the idea would go over well.
