I spend the entire day seeing patient after patient—none of whom are willing to pay me.
I can’t bring myself to charge the pregnant women. But I mention it to the first biker I treat for a skin rash that’s most likely an allergic reaction.
He looks away guiltily and tells me, “Waylon said we’re not allowed to pay you.”
Unfortunately, I also can’t bring myself not to treat all the patients who come to see me, even though they are unwilling to pay for my services.
Their care has been long overdue enough, and it's not their fault that their town founder is a psycho and a total dick.
Plus, what else do I have to do? Stew in the upstairs room at Meemaw’s house?
Over the next few days, I fall into a new routine of heading out to the medical trailer and seeing patients pretty much non-stop from nine to five.
I never minded the ER, but small town doctoring is kind of refreshing. Lots of different types of cases, plus time enough to have a friendly conversation without worrying about getting beds turned over and a bunch of insurance paperwork.
Unfortunately, some of those conversations turn into my patients giving me advice I didn’t ask for from them. The figurative old ladies tell me I’m crazy for not living with Waylon in his trailer.
“All he’d have to do is look at me, and I’d leave my man in a second and move in with him,” a woman named Maybelline who’s wondering if she’s got a smoker’s cough and cancer or a regular cough and strep throat tells me during her exam.
I give her one of the Z-packs in Johnny’s left behind medicine crate and ignore her just like I ignore all the other coupled-up old ladies who’ve told me the same thing.
But at least she does hair and pays me with some desperately needed hair products. She even offers to swing by to handle my weave in a couple of weeks when she’s feeling better, and after “you come to your senses and move in with Waylon.”
I’m grateful for the offer, even if I have no plans to move in with Waylon or fall into his bed like so many of the old ladies seem to think I should.
Quite a few of the actual old ladies visitors insist on telling me that Meemaw’s upset that I’m upset.
“You really shouldn’t hold what she did against her,” a taller older lady tells me while I’m listening to a wheeze she’s worried about with the stethoscope Johnny left behind. “You don't cross Waylon, you know. Not ever. That man’s crazier than both Crazytown’s put together. Everybody but Dr. Johnny knows that—and believe me, he probably would’ve been a lot nicer to you if he hadn’t been half-drunk. You can't blame her for taking Waylon’s side, knowing him like we do.”
I mean, I totally can blame her for that. But I have to admit, my heart is starting to soften toward the little old lady.
She looks so sad every time I make myself my own breakfast and lunch before going to the medical trailer in the morning. And Waylon, perhaps getting the message the first couple of times I walked right past him out the door, has stopped coming over for the breakfast date I never agreed to have with him in the first place. I think she might miss daily company and cooking for somebody else.
But I can’t bring myself to let her make me dinner when we get home from my temporary job like I’m not still pissed off.
Luckily, a few patients feel so guilty about not paying me that they bring over casseroles. That means I have dinner for days.
Casseroles aren’t half-bad, actually. Not bad at all. They come in an endless range of starch and meat combinations. And they're also weirdly comforting. I can see why they're a staple of the Midwest.
Plus, I can easily heat up as much of my payment casseroles as I want to eat in the microwave and take it back to my room where I watch TV by myself instead of having to listen to Meemaw try to make excuses for herself.
Over a week passes by in our uneasy cohabitation, which I mostly avoid with work.
But eventually, I notice that I’m running low out on antiseptic wipes and have to stop everything to get more from the store.
“We don't have any of those in stock,” Charlie tells me. “Dr. Johnny used to pick up his own supplies when he went into the city or get them delivered.”
“Well, I’m not allowed to go into the city. And I don’t have access to any delivery services. Can you order some for me?” I ask. “I’m also going to need latex gloves, bandages, and some cotton swabs.”
Charlie raises his eyes to the side as if I’ve given him a complicated math problem to solve. “That sounds like a pretty big purchase.”