“Of course. You can call my secretary when you’ve reached a decision,” I say pleasantly. “The doctor who did the colonoscopy was concerned the bowel could obstruct, so if you want to go ahead with surgery, it would be good to do it as soon as possible.”
The daughter’s frown deepens. “I’ve joined a Facebook group for cancer patients, and a lot of people have been getting good results from naturopathic treatments. We’re considering going that route instead. What do you think?”
Her expression dares me to argue. She’s hoping I’ll make a disparaging comment about naturopathy so she can write me off as an asshole.
And it’s extremely tempting.You’re absolutely right, ma’am. The cancer could be cured by an infusion of herbs, but I’m recommending a risky surgery because I need to make money. How about it?
But I bite my tongue.
“Natural remedies aren’t my area of expertise,” I sayinstead. I turn my head to address Mrs. Meecham instead of her daughter. “In my opinion, surgery is your best chance for a cure, but it’s your decision.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Mrs. Meecham says with a quiet nod.
“And you’d like some time to think about it?”
“Yes, doctor.”
I get the sense Mrs. Meecham wants the surgery, which is really her best chance of survival. I consider asking the daughter to leave the room so I can speak to Mrs. Meecham directly, but I suspect it would make things worse. The daughter would get angry and dig in her heels, and Mrs. Meecham would get upset. And at the end of the day, Mrs. Meecham will probably do what her daughter wants.
“All right. Give my secretary a call if you have more questions or if you’d like to book the operation. It was a pleasure to meet you,” I say as I leave the room.
The clinic is running behind, which means patients are already grumpy when I enter the room. Nick gets pissy with one of the nurses when she forgets to take someone’s vital signs, so I send him off for a lunch break to defuse the situation. I keep slogging through patients myself, and by mid-afternoon, I decide I’ve earned another peanut butter pretzel cookie. But when I look for the tin, it’s disappeared.
“What happened to the cookies?” I ask Nick, who’s back at a computer reading a chart.
“I took them to the nurses’ break room.”
And again, I have to fight the urge to snap at Nick. He hasn’t done anything wrong; patients often bring food to the clinic, and we always share it with the nursing staff. It helps boost morale, and if I ate all the junk myself I’d be diabetic by the end of the year.
But these were Melissa’s cookies, and I’d planned totake them home with me. There’s no chance of that now; the break room is shared by nurses from three different clinics, so the cookies will be long gone.
The rest of the day is no better. A patient leaves in a huff when I tell him I can’t book his gallbladder surgery for six months, since it’s not urgent and we’re short operating room time. The situation is beyond my control; I love to operate, and I’d take his gallbladder out today if admin gave me the OR time. But the patient doesn’t blame admin, he blames me.
After the last patient leaves and the staff go home, I spend an hour finishing my charting, then another half hour reviewing the charts of the patients Nick saw. Claire’s chart is near the top of the list.
Nick didn’t write much, just that she’s eating and drinking normally, her bowels are moving, and her abdominal exam was unremarkable. In fairness, I might not have written much more, but I’m still disappointed that the chart doesn’t answer my questions. Is she having any pain? Has she heard about an appointment with the allergist?
And how is her mother doing? Nick’s notes don’t even mention Melissa, even though she must have come with Claire this morning.
And since I’m supervising Nick, I convince myself it’s my responsibility to make sure nothing was missed. I pick up the phone to call Melissa, but before I hit the button to dial, I realize I won’t be able to properly assess Claire over the phone. My eyes wander to the home address in the top left corner of Claire’s chart. Eighty-nine Poplar Drive. I recognize the street name; it’s not far from my condo.
But Melissa has my phone number, and she could have called me if Claire had any problems. Paying her a house call would be crossing the line. A clear boundary violation.
I drive home and change out of my work clothes. Iconsider hitting the gym downstairs, but I’m sick of the treadmill. It’s a glorious fall evening, and the leaves have just started to change color. I’ll take a walk around the block to clear my head.
Except I don’t walk around the block. Instead, I walk in the direction of Poplar Drive. It’s in one of Somerset’s older neighborhoods, where the houses are a mix of century homes and new builds. A family neighborhood, with kids playing in front yards and minivans in the driveways. A comfortable neighborhood.
God. When did I become a sap?
I turn onto Poplar Drive and stop in front of number eighty-nine. It’s a small two-story redbrick with a big maple in the front yard.
And before I can talk myself out of it, I walk up to the front door and ring the bell.
FOURTEEN
LUKE
I can hear laughter inside the house, so I know someone’s home, but it feels like an eternity passes before someone comes to the door. At last, I hear the lock turn and the door swings open.
