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“What? Don’t call me that.”
“It’s boss, in Italian. Right?” George always pronounces Italian,I-talian.
“It refers to the head of the crime family.” He doesn’t need to know my father holds that title. “I make an honest wage working in a metal shop. That will never be me,” I snap.
“I’m joking.”
I’m quite sure everything George thinks he knows of the Italian culture he learned by watching Tony Soprano. He was the mob boss in a wildly popular American television series, which offered a look into the life of the Italian mafiain New Jersey. Hell, maybe Matteo and I should book some therapy sessionswith Dr. Melfi, the psychiatrist James Gandolfini’s character saw to manage his life outside of the family business.
Throwing on my shades, I head to my car and climb in. It’s warmer and more humid today. Not sure why I thought a black Audi SUV with black leather seats was the way to go. But it’s a beautiful car. Not that I drive it often. I ensure the ventilated seats are on, allowing some relief from the oppressive heat, and head toward St. Luke’s hospital.
This parking lot is confusing. Looking in my rearview mirror, I find multiple cars lined up behind me. There’s no time to pull out the paperwork I was given when I was discharged to search for the exact address. Instinctively, I turn into the ER parking and decide I’ll just ask at the desk and find my way to the doctor’s office from there.
As the sliding glass doors to the ER open, I spot the same pretty redhead from the last time I was here. My eyes land on the hospital badge hanging from her jacket.
“Hi, Georgia. I’m lost. I have a follow up appointment with my surgeon today. Can I get there from here or should I go back to my car and drive there?” I hand her my paperwork and watch as she quickly scans over it.
“Oh, it’s not too far of a walk. It’s actually quicker if you take that sidewalk and head to the building next door.” She points outside, and I note the red neon sign illuminated above the entry doors that reads Surgical Center.
“Oh. I was so close.” I laugh. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I turn in the direction I’d walked in and notice the waiting room is still crowded, but not nearly as bad as the last time I was here.
After making the short walk to the surgeon’s office, I’m immediately relieved when I discover there are only a few people seated in the chairs across from the registration counter.Hopefully, this is a good sign I’ll make it in and out quickly so I can get back to work. “Hello. I have an appointment with Dr. Weston.”
The receptionist smiles. “Oh, yes, Mr. Barrett. I’m so sorry. Dr. Weston was called to the OR for an unexpected case. I’m not sure when he’ll?—”
“Beatrice, I’m back.” I recognize my surgeon immediately. “Got that gallbladder out in record time.” He laughs. “Luke, come on back.”
“Dr. Weston, he hasn’t filled out the paperwork yet,” Beatrice interrupts.
“He can fill that out in the room. Just send the nurse in to obtain his vitals while I’m in there.”
His receptionist leans back in her chair as if stunned by this behavior. I watch as he bends down and whispers, not so quietly, “There’s a hot pharmacist I’d like to pay a visit, if you don’t mind.”
The middle-aged woman blushes at his remark. “Now that’s what I’m talking ’bout.” She giggles. I can’t fight the grin watching these two.
“C’mon back.” Dr. Weston waves me toward a doorway. As I open it, his hand is extended to me in greeting. “You been doing okay?”
“Yes. The day after, I was a bit sore and tried to watch what I ate for a few days, but by the end of the week, I was back to eating at my favorite Italian restaurant.”
“Good, good. Which one?”
“Luigi’s.”
“Oh, I love that place. My wife and I eat there all the time.”
“It’s the best.”
We reach an open exam room, and he ushers me in. As I turn to take a seat on the examination table, a nurse rushes in, smiles, and places a blood pressure cuff around my upper arm. Once thething stops squeezing the life out of me, I watch as the machine bleeps to life and my vital signs appear.
“Good. Everything looks good. Have your incisions healed well?”
I lift my shirt, demonstrating the well healing wounds, and Dr. Weston places a hand on my shoulder, encouraging me to lie flat. It’s probably difficult to get a good look, given they are concealed by the dark artwork on my skin. After thoroughly examining my belly, he pulls my shirt down and gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“Perfect. You’re a model patient.” He chuckles.
