Well, because he wasn’t “fine”. Because he’d had a stroke. Because his swallow reflex was affected, and if we didn’t give him a tube, he’d choke or aspirate food and die of pneumonia.
But what actually came out of my mouth was softer, the way my mother had always taught me to speak when people were afraid, and not like I was offended that someone dared question my brilliance.
“You don’t need to convince people that you’re smart, son,” she used to tell me. “Show them. They’ll see it.”
I changed into gym shorts and pulled a Xavier University t-shirt over my head, then headed down to the hospital’s recreation center, which held a small gym and indoor courtsfor kickball, racquetball, or tennis. Tuesday night pick-up games had been a tradition since my first year at Ridgeway, trauma versus whoever showed up. Usually plastics or ortho, sometimes cardio if they were feeling brave.
The gym was tucked into the basement level of the building. The floor was scuffed, the hoops slightly crooked, but for a Tuesday night pick-up basketball game, it worked. I pushed through the double doors toward the familiar sound of rubber bouncing off hardwood.
“Vaughn!” someone shouted from the far end of the court. “‘Bout time you brought your ass. We been waiting.”
I walked over to where the usual suspects were warming up. Two from trauma—Dr. Banks, a surgeon I’d worked with that morning, and Dr. Kim. Joining them were three from plastics, including their behemoth of a fellow, Jackson, who had to be at least six foot six and two hundred and twenty pounds.
“Traffic was terrible,” I said, grabbing the ball to silence the pounding against the floors. I shot at the hoop, just barely missing the net.
I wasn’t warmed up yet.
“You work right upstairs,” Banks pointed out, appearing confused.
“Still terrible.”
We ran a quick game to fifteen. Trauma took it, with me sinking the final shot while Jackson tried and failed to block me.
“Man, how are you even making these?” he complained, bending over with his hands on his knees. “I’m literally almost a foot taller than you.”
“All height, no skill,” I joked, catching the ball Banks tossed back to me. The gym erupted in laughter and trash talk. We reset, then played another game.
This was my time, the only hour of the day when I wasn’t Dr. Vaughn, trauma surgeon. I could just play.
Trauma won again, 15-13. Kim hit a three-pointer that had plastics calling foul even though everyone knew it was clean. We were about to line up for a third game when my phone rang. I glanced over at the bench, checking the name on the screen.
Dr. Marcus Webb, Surgery Chair. The high of our win evaporated, replaced by a cold knot in my gut.
“Shit, it’s Webb. I’m probably getting my ass chewed about something. Give me a minute,” I said, grabbing the phone and stepping into the hallway, letting the gym door swing shut behind me.
“Vaughn,” I answered as I picked up.
“Evening, Dr. Vaughn. I hope you’re well.”
Webb’s voice always carried a rich tenor, but sometimes it was warm the way a mug is warm right before you burn your hand. He could sound like your old college roommate or your favorite uncle right up until he told you your grant had been denied, or you were being audited, or whatever the bad news of the week was.
I’d learned not to take his tone as indicative of how the conversation might go, but there was no universe where a call from the Chair after hours meant anything good.
I wedged a shoulder against the cold cinder block, cradling the phone between cheek and collarbone as I watched the game through the small window in the door.
“I’m fine, Dr. Webb. What can I help you with?”
“Sorry to interrupt your evening. I need to give you a heads-up about a case coming through Risk regarding a patient death about six weeks ago, give or take. Elderly male, abdominal aneurysm. You were the surgeon on that one.”
I remembered every death. He’d been bleeding out before he even made it to the OR. We’d tried everything, but there was nothing left to repair.
If Risk Management was looking into it, it meant someone had filed a complaint and the hospital was covering its bases before a lawsuit landed.
“I recall the case,” I said, parsing my words carefully. “Nothing came up in post mortem review. What’s the issue now?”
“Risk wants to do a standard review. You know how these things go. The family is grieving. They need someone to blame.”
“That man was in his eighties, very frail and in ill health. Knowing he was dying when he was brought in, they’re pointing fingers at me?”
