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"Please don't go," Teddy pleads with me.
I shake my head. "Sorry, brother, but that's a no. I need to talk to the doctor. Besides, I need to make sure she patched me up correctly."
"She went to Harvard Medical School," Teddy deadpans. "Seriously doubt she didn't do a good job."
"Great, just what I need – a fucking egghead with no street experience."
Teddy shrugs. "She sure as hell looked like she knew what she was doing."
"We'll see," I mutter, feeling the burn in my shoulder.
"What's her name?" I ask him, noticing that he's not making any moves to get me clothing. I head to the closet instead. Opening the doors, I nod approvingly at the sight of a few of Primo's old outfits hanging up. They're a bit formal for my taste, but they'll have to do for now.
I grab the grey trousers and black silk shirt, and start to dress. The pants fit fine, but the shirt is a little tight around the shoulders and arms. Primo was always smaller than me, especially now that I've been fighting so much lately.
"Teddy!" I call out, while buttoning the shirt but having to leave the top few buttons undone because they're too tight. "What's her name?"
"Uh, Evelyn," Teddy finally says, but he doesn't look happy about it.
"Moretti, right?" I ask, remembering the lawyer's last name.
Teddy just nods.
I survey myself in the mirror, nodding in approval.
"Alright," I say, turning back to him, "Does Primo still store his bike here?" Teddy nods again. "Excellent," I smirk, my mind already racing with my next move.
As I make my way out of the room, the thought of meeting Evelyn again sends a shiver down my spine. I don't know what it is about her, but something tells me she won't be easy to intimidate. And that's gonna make things a hell of a lot more interesting.
Chapter Six
Sam smirks at me from across the nurses' station, her expression dripping with arrogance. It's unsettling how closely she and the other nurses are watching me today. It's barely 5:30 PM, and I'm already dreading the rest of my twelve-hour shift. My only solace is that Rachel is working tonight too, providing some semblance of support.
Rachel never seemed to experience the same animosity I faced from the nurses when I started. I'll admit, back then, I had something to prove. Amidst a painful divorce, my life was falling apart, and I might have been a bit high-strung. But I've since calmed down and tried to build relationships with the nurses – they just haven't given me a chance.
"Dr. Moretti," a nurse calls out, "we have a patient in room six who thinks he broke his arm."
"Thanks," I reply, bracing myself for yet another routine examination. Same old, same old.
Entering the room, I find the patient cradling his arm. Examining it carefully, I assess the area for any signs of deformity or swelling. "I'm going to order an x-ray," I tell him, then turn to the nurse. "And can you please get him some pain medication for now?"
"Of course, Doctor," she replies, briskly leaving to fetch the meds.
As the nurse returns with the painkillers, I instruct the patient on how to care for his arm until we receive the radiologist's report. If necessary, further action will be taken, but for now, the splint should provide some relief.
With every patient interaction, I feel more detached from my work, longing for something different. I sigh, recalling the difficult start of my career as a doctor. It was during medical school when my marriage began to crumble. Choosing emergency medicine as a specialty made sense at the time – it kept me busy and active, providing a much-needed distraction from my personal life.
Now, I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake. The nurses seem to have it out for me, the grueling night shifts take their toll, and the often rude patients make me question my choices. I've considered quitting, but that would mean downsizing my house, car, and lifestyle. Ironically, I ponder whether I only need those things to make up for the fact that I hate my job and feel unfulfilled, despite everything I do.
"Lost in thought?" Rachel's voice pulls me back to reality. I turn to look at her, taking in her appearance. Her brown hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and dark circles sit beneath her eyes. She's clearly tired, but she doesn't have that same dead look in her eyes I see when I look in the mirror.
"Yeah, slow night," I respond, forcing a smile.
"That's not a bad thing," she says, patting me on the shoulder. I shrug, knowing she's right. After yesterday'sencounter with Teddy and his brother Constantino, I'm running on empty. Rachel's pager beeps, and she glances down at it. "Looks like I'm needed in triage. Let's catch up later."
"Sure," I agree, watching her walk away.
As the night wears on, I can't shake the thoughts of my dissatisfaction with my career and life choices. The sarcasm and grittiness of this world have seeped into me, making it hard to find joy in my work.
