ROUND TEN
OLLIE
“Paging Doctor Douchebag. Doctor Douchebag?”
My sister’s voice plays over the hospital’s speaker system. Her giggling breath. Her tormenting tone. But I firm my gritted jaw and maintain my perfect, schooled expression in front of the board. And by the board, I mean Mr. and Mrs. Schumaker, Ken Formascio, and Grant Pasken, four of Plainview’s wealthiest folks who fund the hospital on a shoestring budget and spend their time at brunch and on the golf course.
We’re not a research hospital. We’re not even a teaching hospital, excluding the unlucky intern or two sent our way once a year. Our board members don’t care that we have no real cafeteria, and they’ve never sat in the lumpy, shitty chairs my oncology patients do, in full view of anyone walking by, as I pump poison into their veins.
But they hit the golf course regularly, and they have other rich, snooty friends who sometimes write a check in exchange for a room, wing, park bench, or a parking slip with their name on it.
Hell. I soldmyparking space years ago, because I had a sweet little girl sitting in that aforementioned crappy, lumpy chair, and all she wanted was a vacation with her family before her time was up. Somewhere with a log cabin, a place to go fishing, a swimming hole she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to swim in anyway, and a week—just a single week—where she didn’t have to visit a hospital.
I don’t own a log cabin anywhere, in any state. But someone else did, so we made a deal and shook hands on it. That baby girl got her vacation, and three months after the best trip any kid could ask for, her familyreturned and spread her ashes amongst the trees, just like she asked them to.
All for the price of a parking slip a little closer to the front doors of the hospital?
Easiest choice I’ve ever made.
“She has less than a week until we have to move her along.” Mr. Schumaker sits back at an eighteen-man table, his hands interlaced on his rounding belly and his red-splotched cheeks advertising a blood pressure issue he really should look into. Beside him, the tiny Mrs. Schumaker takes up the equivalent space as his thigh. Just one of them. “She’s uninsured, Oliver. Unidentified, and she’s sucking this hospital dry. She’s been here for eight days already, with no significant recovery to speak of.”
“She remembered something this morning! She dreamed of someone from her past. That’s new!”
“The bleed in her brain is clearing up,” Mrs. Schumaker argues. “Whichshouldcome with remarkable improvement to her memory. But that’s not what’s happening.”
“Doctor Douchebag?” Eliza tries again. “You’re needed on the wards.”
Frustrated, I clamp my lips shut and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Who knows, maybe she was already cracked even before the incident,” Mr. Schumaker continues.
I drop my hand and sneer. “Cracked?”
“It would explain her transience. Her clothing choices. Her physical state. We know nothing, Oliver, except that she was where she wasn’t meant to be, doing things she wasn’t meant to be doing. We must face the possibility that she mayneverregain her memories, and if she doesn’t, she may never discover her identity. If both of those are true, thenwewill never be paid.”
“We’ve invited the press in. Today, in fact!” I cast my eyes to the clock on the wall, knowing I have just minutes, five at the most, to get back to her before I break my promise. “They’ll interview her, get her talking. We’ll appeal to the public and stir something up. Surely someone will recognize her.”
“Doctor Douchebag? To the wards, please.”
Disdain drips from Mr. Schumaker’s dark expression. “Do you have somewhere else to be, Doctor Douchebag?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!“I do, actually. I’m sorry.” I take a step back. “But don’t toss her out yet. Please. She’s medically fragile and has a right to help. And she’s not a transient nobody. She’s a somebody, and that somebody will have insurance and money and a way to repay you for your kindness. You just need to be patient.”
“That’s quite the gamble,” Mrs. Schumaker titters, staring down at her perfect nails. “If she simply leaves town?”
“All the more reason to keep her exactly where she is. It would be an entirely different story if we were bursting at the seams and needed the bed, but we don’t.” I grab the boardroom door and drag it open, but I stop and meet four bored stares. “Please. She has nowhere else to go, no one to go with, and not a single cent to get her there. If we boot her now, you’re sending her to the streets and signing her fate. But if you give her just a little more time, let us do the interview and get her face on the news, things will turn around and you’ll get your money. Her dream this morning gives me hope.”
“Doctor Douchebag? We have a code purple on level three.”
“We’re not running a charity here, son.” Ken sits forward at the table, his balding head gleaming under harsh lights. “Hospitals cost money to run. Doctors cost money to hire.”
“I’ll work the whole month for free to offset what she’s costing. Even if—evenwhen,” I correct. “We figure this whole mess out and make a claim on her insurance, I won’t ask to be reimbursed. Take my salary and apply it to her account. Consider it a deposit. We’ll get the rest back later.”
“Oliver—”
“Sorry! I’ve gotta go for now.” Jane’s probably freaking the fuck out. “I’ll make myself available later if you have more questions.” I spin and dart through the door, skidding around a corner and dodging a wheelchair some asshole never put away.
It was me. I’m the asshole.
