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“So,” I began sheepishly. “I know very little about you, except that you’re a decent surgeon who breaks into innocent women’s homes and scuffles with nurses.”
He cocked his head in a bemused way and spoke softly. “I grew up in Karachi, Pakistan, where I attended medical school.” I pictured penetrating heat and people moving through crowded streets in vibrant silks.
“I am Islamic and my family is pretty strict.”
Family—a portentous roadblock. “Do many Pakistani medical students emigrate to the United States for training? Do you plan to return?”
I felt like my entire future hung in the moment. The tile floor shifted underfoot. He shook his head. He had no plans to return. Glory, glory! Now I was happy to be swept along in the current of this conversation.
Based on his appearance, mannerisms, and education level, I had assumed he was an aristocrat, but surprisingly, Amir came from a working-class family. His father was a welder with six kids to feed. Amir had no doctors in his family; he had broken out completely on his own and beaten near-impossible odds.
This man went up against family tradition, his government, and hundreds of competitors to arrive in this Connecticut hospital. No wonder he performed at such a high level. Second best was simply not an option in his training.
We traded stories for the next two hours, pagers silent, until our third cups of coffee grew cold.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he whispered.
I nodded. “Do you want to go back to my place?”
Amir managed to make some phone calls to establish a backup resident in the building. We dumped our trays and hotfooted it to the parking lot.
Amir’s arms were already circling my hips from behind as I opened the unlocked door to my apartment.
“Can I get you a drink?” I could barely stand, but even in this state my upbringing dictated a flimsy attempt to play host. I sounded like I was welcoming him to a Webber family barbecue.
“No thank you. I don’t drink. I’m Muslim.” The last word, spoken out loud, felt supercharged.
“Oh—I’m sorry—”
“Shhh, stop talking, woman.” His tongue explored my neck; I felt energy moving through meridians I didn’t even know existed.
“Okay,” he said. “We can stop now.”
“We both need to shut up.” I placed my finger vertically in front of his mouth. “Please keep kissing me.”
“Gold,” he said. “There isgoldin your eyes.”
His first real compliment.
Suddenly I heard beeping and a bone-rattling vibration.
He checked his pager and grabbed his cell.
“Surgery.” His voice was flat, a punctured balloon.
He hung up. From the call, it sounded like a patient’s vital organ had perforated, possibly the appendix or small intestine, and he needed to go immediately.
“I’m sorry.” He kissed my forehead sweetly, before bolting for the door. You have no idea how badly I want to—need to stay.”
“Okay,” I responded, “I know . . .”
And I did know. I would store that knowledge in a safe warm pocket inside my heart. And yet, in a strange way, I knew we had been saved by the cell. A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was Amir.
“Rory. I have some very bad news.” Pause. It was worse than a hole in someone’s bowel. “Nurse Teapot wants to talk to us.”
19. Father Knows Best
I was racing through the final half of my fourth year and heading for the finish line of the med-school year.Normally this would have been a time forhearing from the leading hospitals where I had applied for residency. I had worked so hard and achieved top grades bolstered by strong recommendations. One of my professors had told me in glowing terms, in stark contrast to Dean Vernon’s admonition that I didn’t have the stones for surgery, “you are a unique star in a field normally dominated by men.”
