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Naturally, the second Dr. Ambrose walked me into the ICU, I spotted my favorite doctors there for consults among the other attendings, med students and residents.
Dr. Croft’s dark hair was pulled up in a simple ponytail, her bangs framing her face. As she chatted with Dr. Donaldson, she was at ease. Happy.
Maybe she was better off with him.
“Oh, perfect,” Dr. Ambrose said. She strode directly to Dr. Croft. “Davis is here to work on your task force project.”
Dr. Croft looked over Dr. Ambrose’s shoulder at me. I attempted a smile; she frowned.
Right.
Apparently satisfied that I’d been handled, Dr. Ambrose strode off to her own rounds, trailing her med students, as did Dr. Donaldson, leaving us alone. Without that barrier between us, Dr. Croft eyed me, her gaze lingering on my exposed biceps. I nearly unfolded my arms and hid them behind me, but for once she looked at me with something other than pure hatred.
Better than barking at me to back off, I guessed.
“I thought you were going to email me.” Dr. Croft’s tone made that a reprimand.
She was either upset that I hadn’t contacted her or that I hadn’t done what I’d said. “The week got away from me. I was going to do it first thing today—but now I’m here.”
“Yes. You are.”
Working with Dr. Croft was going to kill my self-esteem.
“I’m not here to force you to meet with me,” I clarified. “Just to observe how you do things here.”
“Pretty standard, in my experience.”
“Great.” I gestured for her to go right ahead and held up my clipboard.
“You’re checking up on me?”
“I’m here to observe.”
Dr. Croft pressed her lips together—I tried not to remember that moment in the break room, our hands touching, connected. Now, she looked at me like she was calculating my net worth—no, that wasn’t quite right. I’d dated enough women who turned out to be interested only in my wallet.
Was she tallying my actual worth? I’d buy it.
At last, Dr. Croft nodded for me to follow her. I hung back once we’d reached the patient’s room. A man with sun-aged, leathery skin lay in the bed, oxygen mask on. The display by his bed indicated a lot of positive pressure in that O2 flow. A woman in a fine silk sari with the same brown skin and silver hair sat by the patient’s bed, nursing a paper cup of coffee.
Dr. Croft consulted the nurse, the whiteboards, and the latest test results. Very standard, like she’d said.
Then she entered the room, rolling the stool over to the side of the bed. “How are we this morning, Mr. Ambedkar?” Her tone was upbeat but radiated genuine concern. She clearly was not expecting the standard answer ofI’m fine. She didn’t seem to be pushing him toward a positive answer at all—she genuinely wanted to know how he felt.
That single-sentence greeting was a masterclass in bedside manner.
Mr. Ambedkar held up aso-sohand gesture. Dr. Croft updated him on the latest reports on his vitals and test results: frustratingly static. Alternating between the patient and his wife, she explained the options for continued tests and treatment, as well as the goals and milestones to get Mr. Ambedkar out of the ICU.
Watching Dr. Croft pulled a memory from the recesses of my mind. I actually didn’t remember very much about the time I’d spent in the hospital as a child with the measles, except for the one nurse who seemed to genuinely care. I could still remember Nurse Hadewijch’s accented French, her face, the feel of her hands, soft and worn like vintage suede, when she’d held my wrist to take my pulse.
It was one of the few times I could remember being touched with that kind of concern, like she really cared what happened to me.
She might have been the only one.
Dr. Croft examined Mr. Ambedkar’s vitals again, just double-checking, she assured him.
I also reminded myself of what was vital: I was there to pay attention to how hospitals handled equipment, when and how antimicrobials were prescribed, any way a hospital might increase the patient’s risk of contracting or incubating a resistant bacteria or virus.
I was not supposed to be daydreaming about the distant past or wishing Cassie would treat me with the same tenderness she showed to the first patient of the day. I caught myself rubbing the spot where she’d touched my arm that first day—better to keep my pen in my hand than repeat that mistake.
