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“I thought you already did that.”
Touché, Beatrice.Touché.
* * *
“I’m heading out, Dr. Weston. You sure you can manage these last three patients?”
“Yes, Beatrice. I’ve got it.”
“Okay, just let them know I’ll call them in the morning with their next appointments and anything you’ve ordered.”
“Thanks, B. See you in the morning.”
I stand to go and evaluate the last three patients of the day before heading to the hospital to round on my admitted patients when I realize I have a new message. Opening the app, my heart skips at her name. Until I read her message.
5:30 p.m.
Poppy
We need to talk.
Shit. Nothing ever goes well after those four words. Has something happened? Has someone asked about her trip that’s informed her something is amiss? It could be about her mother’s condition, but can’t imagine she’d open that conversation like that.
My mind is reeling. How am I supposed to concentrate on my patients with that hanging in the air? I have a gut feeling responding will only delay me further. Thus, I pick myself up and head toward the incredibly understanding people waiting in my exam rooms. Hopefully, I can use the time to steady myself for whatever it is we need totalkabout.
* * *
It’s six-fifteen, the last patient of the day is gone, and the doors to the office are locked. I take a deep breath as I pull out my cell phone and hit Poppy’s contact number. Whatever happens, Broadie, just take a second to think before you respond.
6:16 p.m.
Broadie
Hi, Pop. Sorry it took me a while to message you back. I’ve been drowning in patients and wanted to give you the attention you deserved. Is this an okay time to talk?
She doesn’t respond, and I assume she’s with her mother or otherwise occupied and try to stay focused on what’s left on my plate before I can knock off for the day.
6:20 p.m.
Poppy
I’m finishing up some things here at work. Are you still here?
6:21 p.m.
Broadie
Yes. Will be for at least another hour or two. Haven’t started rounding on my inpatients yet.
6:25 p.m.
Poppy
Any chance I could meet you in the parking lot for a few minutes around 7?
Jesus.I’m sweating like a banshee here. That’s thirty-five minutes from now. At this rate, I’ll have to change my shirt, or she’ll wonder where the storm I got caught in went. Is this what an anxiety attack feels like?
6:26 p.m.
