Grumpy Doctor

“Fine,” she said. “You train me, and I’ll try to help you clear your name—assuming you deserve it.”

“We have a deal then.” I stuck out my hand.

She hesitated, but reached out, and we shook. I held her there for a few moments longer than necessary, looking into her beautiful green eyes, and wondered if maybe I’d made the wrong decision.

But no, she needed training, and I needed help. Maybe she could navigate this situation better than I could.

Or maybe we were both screwed. Either option was possible.

“Come on,” I said, “back inside.”

“Not going to make me do laundry?”

“You’re not getting out of that, don’t worry.”

She sighed, but followed me back in.

7

Lori

The next day, Piers made me scrub in early and stand in during a procedure.

There wasn’t much conversation. I tried asking him what exactly we were doing, but he only gave me a look and ignored the question.

As the patient came in, a surprisingly young woman with dark hair wrapped in braids, I kept thinking about my conversation with him yesterday about Nil Tippett. As soon as I got home, I went online and did some research. Sure enough, his version of events were more or less accurate.

He hadn’t really gone too much into the Tippett family, though. When he said they were rich, that was an understatement. The Tippetts own a very fancy, extremely excusive hedge fund that had been in operation for over fifty years. The Tippetts were wildly wealthy and ran in the inner circle of all the richest people in America. They took millions and turned them into billions, and kept a nice, fat slice of that for themselves.

They weren’t the kind of family I ever wanted to be involved with.

I didn’t know what the hell he was thinking, taking on that case. The more I looked into it, the more it seemed insane. Nil Tippett was overweight, out of shape, and a lifelong smoker. And that particular operation was risky at the best of times, and almost impossible to perform successfully on a man like Nil. It seemed crazy, and yes, reckless, to even try it.

But then I thought of what he’d said: if he hadn’t tried, Nil would have died. There was no other option, and he could’ve stepped aside, avoided getting involved in what was clearly a terrible idea, or he could step up, assume some risk, and take a chance. He wanted to save Nil’s life where nobody else would.

He failed, and they wanted him to pay for it.

I had to admit, it seemed wrong.

I warred with myself internally over it, jumping between two extremes. On the one hand, there was Piers the highly skilled technician. If someone could pull off that surgery, it would have been him. But on the other hand, there was Piers the arrogant asshole. I didn’t know which Piers decided to go forward, and which one deserved the blame.

Maybe I couldn’t separate him like that.

I stood back and watched Piers do his job. I had to admit, he was impressive, almost beautiful. I’d been in other ORs during my time as a student, but I’d never seen one so quiet before. The nurses seemed to watch him with a shocking respect, even if they didn’t necessarily love him personally. Yes, Piers was difficult, but my god, he was good.

As he finished up, he half turned to me and nodded with his chin. I stepped forward, surprised, and lingered near his elbow.

“Close for me,” he said, indicating the instruments in his hand.

The room went still. Every nurse stared at me, and I could tell they were gaping.

I was willing to bet that Piers had never in his entire career asked someone to do a single maneuver in his place.

“You want me to close?” I asked, not moving.

“You do know how,” he said, eyes narrowed.

“Of course.” I took the instruments from him as he stepped aside to make room. The incision was relatively small, and the stitches would be simple enough. He hung close and I was very aware of his body, his breath through his surgical mask, the soft swish of his surgical gown.

“Easy,” he said. “Simple.”

I began the stitches. I wanted to scream or throw up, not because it was a particularly difficult task—it was actually really easy, almost insultingly easy—but because of the way he hung on my every movement, watching me perform. It was like having Mozart listen to me play back one of his symphonies, or having Glenn Gould critique my piano paying. Piers was a master, that much was obvious, and even something so simple as stitching closed a very straight, very orderly incision felt magnified to infinity.

One stitch, two, three. As I worked, the rest of the room faded away, until there was only Piers standing close to me, his body warm and massive, and my instruments, and the patient.