“And there’s several unanswered texts for your dad here. What’s wrong? He doesn’t like you, either?”
I freeze. I dip my chin, horrified to feel tears stinging my eyes, and then return my gaze to his. He blanches, like maybe he realizes he’s gone too far, has hit a tender nerve.
“Give me my phone back,” I say.
He hands it to me wordlessly. His eyes flick down to his shoes, and he gulps. Tears start to fall down my face, and I hurry back to my car before I even have my ice cream in hand.
He’s done it, finally. He’s made me cry in front of him, and my only consolation is that I’ll never, ever have to see him again.
1
KENDALL: PRESENT DAY
My laugh rings out in the treatment room, so loud I almost startle myself. “You should put that on a T-shirt,” I tell Mrs. Lykins, my current patient. “‘Too young for sensible shoes’ is a slogan I can get behind.”
Mrs. Lykins grins back at me. “I’m so glad I’m doing this.” She relaxes in her chair. “I’ve been having pain for years now.” She gestures to her knee.
“I think you’ll be really happy with the results,” I say. “You’ll be back to wearing dancing shoes in no time.”
I review the rest of the joint replacement information packet with her. It’s a large part of my nursing job at the orthopedics clinic of Wellington Hospital in Louisville.
I’ve got a sweet setup, too. Dr. Planck moved hospitals a few months ago, and he helped get a specific job created for me here, one that includes time in the OR as well as clinic days. I’ve worked my ass off, so it’s nice to be recognized like this, to be given such an opportunity.
Mrs. Lykins thanks me, and we move out into the hallway. I walk along the gleaming floors to the clinician offices, hopingto have a quick snack. This morning’s coffee, my best tool for outwitting my lousy thyroid, isn’t really sticking.
Dr. Fields, one of our other surgeons, stops me in the hallway. His beige shirt matches his pale skin today. “Have you heard anything yet?”
This has been our song and dance all week. He asks me if I’ve heard anything, and I tell him no, that it will probably be a couple weeks. The “it” in question being a med school interview. I’ve applied to one in Louisville, where I’m hoping to stay.
“Still nothing.” I shrug.
He bounces on his toes like an excited toddler. “It’s going to be soon. I can feel it.”
“Did you consult your star chart?”
He waves that off. “No woo type of stuff. Just faith in you.”
My face heats. I’m awful at receiving praise. You wouldn’t think so, given my general affinity for attention, but I draw the line at people complimenting me. “Thanks,” I say as I duck my head.
I scarf some almonds in the break room. My mind drifts to the rest of my day: taking vitals, fielding patient phone calls, assisting with injections for joint pain. Clinic days provide a slower pace than the OR, and I like the variety.
I’m back in the hall when Dr. Fields’s voice drifts from his office, where he’s speaking to someone in an animated tone. The newest ortho bro, I bet. It’s late July, and therefore time for a batch of residents to start their new rotations at the hospital’s clinics and inpatient centers.
The sound of a low chuckle reaches me, followed by a muttered exchange about a current case. I pause by the door, straining to hear without rounding the doorway. There’s something about that voice . . .
The laugh rings out again, and then the owner’s voice rumbles with another observation. The blood drains from my face. The air grows heavy, and I’m reminded of something Istudied in physics about time dilation, like I’m in a gravity well while the seconds crawl by outside my little sphere.
There’s no way. Itcannotbe him. I refuse to entertain the thought.
I know that laugh, though, that speech pattern, that deep timbre with the barest hint of Eastern Kentucky twang, though it’s faded just like mine has, maybe even with intentional effort. It belongs to someone I never want to see again. I heard his laughter throughout high school, usually directed at me in the cruelest manner possible. Maybe I’m hearing things. Besides, how could that man be a doctor now? How could that snake have dedicated his life to helping others?
If he is here, he must be one of those suit types selling orthopedic implants. Or more likely, he’s some finance guy the hospital hired to try and cut costs by compromising patient care. That sounds more like him.
I round the corner. Oh, God. Itishim. He wears a white coat, an x-ray clutched in his hand like he might actually know how to read them.
Grant Wyndham.
One of my worst high school tormentors, in the flesh. He’s changed a little, of course. His defined muscles bulge under his scrub top, and the planes of his face stand out a little more sharply. He’s brushing his stupid blond hair away from his forehead and flashing his stupid straight teeth.
