“At least you had a fun excuse,” Talia replied. “I had work, work, and more work.”
“We celebrating your promotion yet?”
Talia also worked in healthcare, more on the patient support side, and had recently been pursuing a senior position.
“Nah, not yet. I’m still thinking about what you said when we talked last week,” she said.
I flexed my hands on the steering wheel, recalling our conversation the week before. “What are you hung up on?”
She blew a stream of air through her teeth. “I’m the one implementing the cuts that I know are coming. I know they’re looking at a reduction in patient navigation services—the people who actually help patients figure out their bills, their insurance, their options. I’m the one that’s gonna take the heat.”
I understood that tension, the gap between what made sense on paper and what actually would fly in real life. “I mean, yeah. But when that’s all over, you have the chance to revamp your department. You can’t fix the system from the outside, Tal.”
“It doesn’t sound like I would be fixing it from the inside either. I’d feel like I’m part of the problem, like they want someone to be the face of these changes they’re making. I don’t know if I want to be that face.”
A car cut me off and I hit the brakes harder than necessary. “Then don’t take it,” I said, after talking myself out of flipping them off.
“Which leaves me in this role that feels like a dead end. I was hoping this promotion would be a way to move up.”
I couldn’t argue with her assessment and her desire for upward mobility. But I’d also played the game to get where I was and kept playing to stay here. I covered my ass like it was my full-time job and performed well enough that no one could question my competence.
In theory.
Traffic thinned as I left downtown behind. My neighborhood was fifteen minutes out, quiet streets and houses with yards. I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand.
“Look, take the job or don’t, but whatever you decide, make sure it’s because you chose it, not because you feel like it’s your only way out. You’re too good to let them make you feel like you gotta be the heavy. And don’t sign on for that kind of weight on your shoulders without a whole lot of money. You feel me?”
She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “Felt. I’ll think about it some more. They want to know my decision by Friday.”
“Don’t overthink it. It’s right or it’s not.”
“Says the man who overthinks everything.”
I grinned, tilting my head so I was in view of the camera. “That’s different. Me overthinking stuff keeps people alive.”
She laughed, and I could hear her relaxing. “Okay, trauma surgeon,” she said, her tone moving into more teasing and less stressed. “What’s up over that way?”
“Man…same shit, new day,” I said.
My role in Talia’s life was to be a sounding board, not to burden her. We’d talk about this case, my meeting with hospital administration and the threat to my reputation as a surgeon, but not until well after it had been resolved.
I pulled up to my house, a modest two-story home I’d bought when I was recruited to Ridgeway Medical. Three bedrooms, a small but nice yard on a quiet street. It was just enough for me, no matter how many of my friends and family tried to strong-arm me into renting them a room.
Ms. Patricia always left the porch light on when she came to clean. She was a no-nonsense Caribbean woman who called me either “Cole, dear” or “young man” depending on how much I’d irritated her that week.
Inside, the house smelled like a deep clean and the remnants of something savory. My mouth watered as I counted the hours since I’d had the Tuesday special in the cafeteria.
A note lay on the counter, written in Ms. Patricia’s careful cursive. I heard the curl of her tongue and the lilt in her voice as I read it:
I made stewed chicken with rice and vegetables. It’s in the fridge. Just heat it up and enjoy. And Cole, dear, I need your items to add to the grocery list. I’ll be shopping tomorrow and you’re a picky boy.
—ms p.
In the fridge, I found the glass dishes. The chicken sat in a dark, seasoned sauce, the rice fluffy beside it, the vegetables cooked down and tender. The smell hit my nose first—thyme, garlic, something with heat. I liked to cook when I took the time, but Ms. Patricia cooked for me far better than I cooked for myself.
I heated up a plate in the microwave, grabbed a bottle of water, and carried both into my home office. The room was big enough for a desk, a bookshelf, and a leather desk chair. I sat down, pulled up the hospital system on my laptop, and logged in, going straight for my notes.
The file loaded slowly, page by page. I ate while I read, methodically working through the case. The intake notes from the ER. The ultrasound images. The decision to proceed under emergency protocol—it was all noted according to policies and procedures.
