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I know I go to the clinic too often. I mean, some people only see a doctor once a year, and the thought of all that could go wrong in the twelve months between visits makes my skin itch.
But really. Now I’m thinking about it, and now I’m itchy. I scratch my arm.
Then I shake off the itch that started in my brain (and is definitely now very real on my skin).
I don’t let myself make appointments as often as I’d like to, and even once a month might seem excessive to some people. I understand that, but it’s what I need to feel safe. And Desi seems to understand that leaving the clinic knowing I’m not currently dying of some strange or rare condition is comforting to me.
It’s a comfort I’m able to afford, and I appreciate it.
Not to mention how I appreciate Dr. Mercer.
And “appreciate” is the right word. My first three years of going to school here, we had a clinic doctor who reminded me of my grandfather. Not like the guy had all the same traits as my grandfather. And he didn’t look like him. He just reminded me of him. Old and annoyed, mostly. But also with a tendency to wear too many ties (not at the same time; just one after another every day forever). And that doctor did not welcome my questions. He rolled his eyes at my worries, and he asked me to stop making appointments through the school’s online scheduler. He said if I was going to take advantage of his medical care, I’d have to call and speak to his nurse to see if he had time for me.
Because my illnesses weren’t real, so he didn’t want to waste his time.
Yeah. Super.
But my senior year, the old guy retired and Dr. Grayson Mercer got hired to run the campus clinic.
I was not the only person to notice the change. But I’m willing to bet I might have been one of the only people who appreciated themedicalaspect of what Dr. Mercer had to offer. Everyone else seemed to just like the look of him. The tall, dark, handsome, and a little mysterious look of him. It was madness. You wouldn’t believe how many girls in my dorm suddenly needed a doctor’s care.
Dr. Mercer was so much easier to talk to than the old guy, and his uncanny resemblance to the nineties version of Keanu Reeves didn’t hurt at all.
Even though he was busy, Dr. Mercer was nice about my tendency to assume I was suffering with every ailment I read about. If he laughed at me, he didn’t do it in front of me.
Only once did he suggest that a therapist might be better for me than a general practice physician, but I assured him I had a great therapist, and that this was different. He never brought it up again. He just answered my questions and made me feel better. Like a doctor is supposed to do.
And he did it all with that smile.
Now, in my post-student life, I go into the office no more than once a month, and he treats me like a grownup. And asks me to use his first name. Not going to happen.
But something deep inside me really loves that he asks. I can still feel a smile tugging at my mouth.
Desi hands an envelope across the desk. “Dr. Moreau sent this over for you.”
My eyebrows migrate up my forehead. “She came in here?”
Desi shakes her head. “Sent her assistant.”
Michael Carraway. When I was a student, he was terrifying, like he was the sole gatekeeper to the chancellor’s office. He also seemed much older then. Older than he does now, somehow, a little like a house you stayed in when you were a kid feels so small when you return years later. Or like there’s a terrifying portrait of him in an attic somewhere that’s growing older as he gets younger. But I don’t think that’s happening. Maybe I’m just not as easily intimidated as I used to be. He’s definitely not scary now, even though he clearly tries to be.
I can tell his bluster is a defense mechanism. I wonder if he knows that it makes him come across as not very likable. Not that I’m going to tell him that. But sometimes I wonder if I have a similar defensive chip on my shoulder.
Because the two of us, Michael and I, have a few things in common, mainly that neither of us is a teacher here in a world dominated by teachers. So even if we’re not exactly on the same team, we relate.
I go through the door at the side of the circulation desk and put my bag and sweater down. I open the envelope. Inside there’s a note on embossed cardstock. I wonder how often the Chamberlain Academy chancellor sends handwritten mail.
In exactly the precise handwriting I’d expect from someone as rigid and uptight as Dr. Moreau, the note says, “Ms. Whitney, this has recently come to my attention. I wonder if it interests you. If not, Mr. Ghibli has a copy, and he can take care of the audition process and fill the orchestra seats.”
My eyes linger on the wordaudition. I’ve been back at Chamberlain for more than a year, and nobody’s mentioned any audition opportunities to me. Certainly not Lionel Ghibli, the orchestra director. I used to hear him talk so much his voice would be in my dreams. He coached me and drilled me and directed me into my spot at Berklee.
And then I quit.
He hasn’t said a single word to me since I came back. Seriously. Not evenhello. When I crossed his path—the one and only time in almost fourteen months of working together—I said hi and he nodded once. Then looked away. I think I’m his current great disappointment.
I can live with that. But now Dr. Moreau sends me an audition notice. And this is a first. You know how you sometimes just take a minute to assess how you feel? Physically scan yourself for injury or illness, or mentally check in with all the emotions? I mean, do people do that all the time? Or is it just me?
Anyway.
