Dr. Attending (Midtown Memorial #4)

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Caroline

W hen my mom died last year, someone gifted me a book that listed thousands of things to be happy about. It didn’t have a signature, just a note scrawled on the inside of the crisp cover which said, “ Memories made with someone you love .”

At first, the gift felt like a mockery. Like it was rubbing salt in the deepest crevices of my grief-inflicted wound. I had just become an orphan at twenty-two years old. There were a thousand things I could think of to be sad about, not happy. So I tossed the book onto a pile I keep on my nightstand, where it sat and collected dust for months.

Then, one night when I was avoiding my responsibilities and cleaning my room, I spotted it again. I don’t know what compelled me to pick it up, but I sat down on my bed and cracked it open. The pages were filled with what seemed like the most random assortment of things: short-legged beach chairs, pink packets of artificial sweetener, the sound of leaves crunching in the fall, birthday cards that sing. And as I read, I found myself doing something that I hadn’t done in a long time. I was smiling.

I had forgotten how the little joys in life—the ones that often go overlooked—sometimes mean the most. The book reminded me that I needed to slow down. To look for something good in each day. To change my perspective, just like my mom used to tell me to do.And somehow that little reminder of her was the one thing that pulled me through my grief. It kept me connected to her in a way that I never expected. In a way that made me forever grateful to whoever it was that gifted me the book.

Ever since that day, I’ve been keeping a list of my own. A list I try to add at least one thing to each day, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem. And tonight, as I sit here surrounded by Willy’s takeout and the company of my siblings, I decide to make my entry about them.

Family Dinners

I grin as I type the words into the note I keep on my phone, and place it on the table in front of me.

I thought choosing a medical school in the same city as Parker and Claire would allow us to see each other more often, but it feels like the only time our schedules converge perfectly is for our monthly family dinners. And while I’ve always been independent and comfortable on my own, I miss them both a ton.

“Remind me why we couldn’t do this tomorrow night?” Claire whines as she closes the sliding glass door and walks toward us. “It’s not fair that we’re missing someone.”

The early August heat is brutal, but for some reason she’s making us sit on the balcony. It makes no sense because there’s a perfectly good dining room table inside where the air conditioning is blasting, but I guess I should know by now that this is my older sister’s show—the rest of us are just supporting actors.

“I don’t see anyone missing,” Parker comments mid-bite, not playinginto her antics.

I close my eyes and exhale, praying for patience because if I had to guess, Claire is about to say something to purposely piss him off. She just can’t help herself—middle child syndrome is ingrained in her psyche.

My sister’s icy-blue eyes glimmer with amusement as she sinks into the gray outdoor sectional beside me.

“How could you forget your brother ?” she taunts predictably. “I would think you would appreciate him a little more given how well he looks after me. ”

I sigh because I love her, but this is exhausting.

Claire put her life on hold to care for our mom during her chemo treatments last fall, and when Mom finally passed, she had a tough time. She’s always been the extrovert in the family, and I think that living alone in the penthouse only made her feel more isolated.

I didn’t have the time to be there for her because I had just started medical school. And since Parker was buried in work at the hospital, he didn’t either. For some reason, my brother thought the “ solution ” to my sister’s grief was to move his friend Beau into the condo to keep her company.

In hindsight, the idea was ridiculous because Beau had just started his orthopedic surgery residency—he barely had time to pay attention to himself, let alone another person. But he didn’t let that stop him though, because one thing led to another and by January, they were dating.

Do I love that my sister found someone just as spirited as she is?Of course.

Does my brother love it?Depends on the day.

He’s learned to accept it . . . until they start taunting him. Their latest joke is that Beau is going to become part of the family one day. I’m not sure why, exactly, the word “ brother ” sets Parker off, but every time they say it, the vein in his forehead starts to steadily pulse—just like it is now.

Parker’s Adam’s Apple bobs as if he’s trying to swallow down his irritation.

“Claire,” he warns, his voice dropping low.

I’m sure he thinks that he sounds intimidating, but his tone does nothing to curb our sister’s menacing smirk.She lives for the drama.

Her dark curls fall over her shoulder as she leans forward to grab her steak quesadilla from the table. “Yes?”

Right as Parker is about to open his mouth, Cassidy’s hand lands on his upper thigh and gives him a quick squeeze.

I’m not sure what kind of sorcery she has in her touch, but Parker thinks better of whatever he was going to say, and he lets out an exasperated exhale instead.

“I’m happy that you’re happy.”

God bless that woman.

My sister might enjoy focusing on Parker’s faults, but he really has changed since Cassidy came into his life. He’s more playful, more present, and a hell of a lot more patient than the focused dickhead we knew growing up. And I say that with all of the love in the world.

“Well, I’d be happier if Beau were here,” Claire pouts. “You know I’ve barely seen him in two weeks? Tomorrow is his only day off, but I have stupid school all day. It’s literally so unfair.”

“Only two semesters left,” I offer, wishing I could say the same thing for myself.

My sister recently made the decision to start nursing school. I think she wanted to honor our mom who spent her whole career in the field, but she also has the perfect personality for a nurse. She’s compassionate, enthusiastic, and strong-willed. If anyone can handle the demands of the career, it’s her.

“Hate to break it to you, C,” Parker chuckles and takes a long swig from his water bottle, “but it’s not going to get much better anytime soon . . . not for Beau anyway.”

Claire ignores him and turns to me.

“Doesn’t that make you feel so excited?” she asks, her question muffled by the food in her mouth.

I feel my body stiffen, but I plaster on a teasing smile. “Oh, yeah. Only three years of school left. I can practically taste the freedom.”

If I wasn’t an expert at schooling my emotions into indifference, my siblings would be able to see the truth written all over my face—that I’m drowning. Medical school has been nothing more than a marathon through hell, and I’ve spent most of the past year wondering why I chose this path for myself since every day feels like I’m treading water with weights attached to my ankles, barely able to keep my head above the surface.

My brother must be in a sadistic mood because he replies, “Don’t forget about residency and fellowship. You’re just getting started, baby sis.”

I lean back against the sofa. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

My words come out sounding lighthearted, but they sting a little as I say them because I feel defeated.

Most people in my class talk about how they were called to medicine. They want to help people, serve the community, cure diseases. They talk about passion, purpose, and fulfillment.

But I did it for a different reason—to make my family proud.

It’s not that I don’t care about the things my classmates talk about . . . I do. But if I’m being honest, becoming a doctor wasn’t my lifelong dream. I just fell into it because I was good at school and knew that it would cause the least amount of discourse when our mom was sick. And now that things have settled, I’m beginning to wonder if I made the biggest, and most expensive, mistake of my life.

“Maybe you’ll end up with someone who doesn’t work in healthcare,” Claire suggests, giving me a nudge with her elbow. “Oh, but wait . . . isn’t your boyfriend a dumb doctor too?”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers because I should have never told her about George.

God, even thinking about him pisses me off. What kind of name is that?

George .

It kind of sounds like the name of a dog. Or a politician. Or a cartoon character. Pretty much the opposite of what you want to be screaming when you’re getting railed—not that we were doing much of that anyway, because taking my clothes off for him was always the last thing I wanted to do after the way he would treat me.

We met at an alumni mixer where he was on a panel discussing residency options. At the time, I was drawn to him because he seemed like he enjoyed his career choice, and I was hopeful that surrounding myself with someone who was confident in their decision to become a doctor might solidify my own.

But instead, dating him only made me feel more alone.

All he ever wanted to talk about was school—what I should be doing, how I should be doing it. When we weren’t together, he would blast me with messages about my “ wasted potential ,” then go on and on about how I wasn’t confident enough to have a career in medicine.

Because it makes a ton of sense to verbally destroy someone so often that they nearly break, and then tell them that they won’t succeed unless they believe in themselves.

Gotta love doctors and their fucked up culture of degradation.

“He’s no longer in the picture,” I state simply, not wanting to get into it because the situation has been handled.

I don’t remember what the final straw was. But after a few months of his bullshit, I finally ended things and wished him well.

Kidding.

I told him to fuck off and said that I couldn’t wait for the day that machines finally replaced radiologists.

And I’m not at all sorry about it.

Claire shoots me a curious look, like she can see the way my heart has started to pound in my chest. But instead of prodding like usual, she decides to drop it and return to what she does best—poking the bear.

“Well, just know that you could have invited him tonight if you had wanted to,” she offers with a wink. “Even if he wasn’t brother material, it’s my house. Which means it’s my rules.”

“Actually,” Parker corrects, unable to help himself. “It’s my house,”

Here we go again.

I have no idea why my brother insists on making these types of jabs. We each have more money than we know what to do with thanks to our dad’s medical device invention, so it doesn’t really matter who lives where. But Parker has always been someone who thrives on control, and our sister is the one beast that he could never quite tame.

“You’re right,” Claire mocks, placing her hand over her heart. “You’re such a saint for letting me live in your overpriced condo that’s already paid off. A true giver. Let’s call up the Pope, and ask him to anoint you with holy water for all of your good deeds.”

Parker rolls his midnight-blue eyes, the same shade as mine. “Now that I have the house in Sandy Springs, the condo isn’t necessary anymore. All it would take is a single call to my realtor, and I could have it sold tomorrow.”

Cassidy shoots him a look filled with absolute horror, and it makes me smile because there’s no doubt in my mind that he will be hearing about this later.

“You wouldn’t,” Claire says, narrowing her gaze in challenge.

Parker leans forward with a teasing grin. “Keep calling Beau my brother , and I might get the itch to liquify some assets.”

Claire snarls and lurches forward. “And I might get the itch to rip your eyeballs out.”

***

I crack open a fresh can of Alani Witch’s Brew and lean against the island, waiting for Parker to finish meticulously wiping down the kitchen counters.

Cassidy insisted that she needed to watch a reality TV show with Claire after dinner to give my brother and me some time alone to catch up.Apparently, he’s been acting weird for the past few days, and my sister-in-law thinks that if he’s going to open up to anyone, it’s going to be me. Clearly, she isn’t as well versed on our sibling dynamics as she thinks because emotional conversations aren’t something we do.

“When’s your Step 1, again?”

Case in point.

Rather than daring to ask about my personal life, my brother chooses to bring up medical school board exams instead.

“I think October,” I answer with a forced shrug, trying to pretend that it’s not the one thing on my mind every second of the day. “Why?”

I’m sure Parker thinks that this is an easy conversation because he graduated at the top of his class and never struggled with anything academically. But I would rather rip out all of my eyelashes than talk about this—that’s how burnt out I am right now.

My brother shoots me a weird look from across the kitchen. “Just curious if anything else has changed since I took it. I still don’t understand how you’re supposed to differentiate yourself for residency when they’re making all of the exams pass-fail.”

I roll my eyes because I’ve heard that comment a million times from my ultra-competitive classmates.

There are a total of three board exams during medical school. Step 1 is taken after you complete the lecture-based portion of your education. In the past, you would receive a grade like any other traditional standardized test, but a few years ago they transitioned to a pass-fail system with the hope that it would reduce stress and alleviate burnout.

It didn’t—it simply transferred the stress to other things.

Now that everyone ends up with the same score, there’s more pressure placed on grades and research because you have to find a way to differentiate yourself from your cohort. If I had the mental capacity to care about something I have no power to change, I would argue that it actually made the situation worse.

But I don’t. So I just suffer with the rest of the second years, hoping that everything will work itself out.

“Well,” I huff, “it’s a good thing you don’t have to worry about it, then, P.”

“True. But that doesn’t mean it’s not stupid,” Parker grumbles, turning to place Claire’s leftovers in the stainless steel fridge.

My sister’s fluffy orange cat rubs up against my bare leg, and I smile down at him because it’s like he knew I needed the distraction. I scoop him into my arms and straighten, appreciating the soothing vibrations of his purrs against my chest.

“Claire.” I turn toward the living room as I stroke her cat’s oversized ear. “Can I take this love muffin out on the balcony with us?”

Claire waves her hand above the top of the white sectional. “Yeah, whatever, just don’t bore Frosty to death with your stupid doctor talk.”

I glance back at Parker to see if he’s ready.

He grabs a beer from the fridge and mutters something about how it’s still hot outside, but he’d rather do anything else other than watch the blind dating show currently playing on the television.

On my way out, Cassidy mouths the words “ Thank you ” at me.

I give her a reassuring smile even though I doubt that this is going to go how she thinks it’s going to go. If the past few minutes are any indication of our conversation trajectory, Parker and I are going to continue talking about medical school until we’re blue in the face.

Love that journey for me.

“Are these new?” I ask as we settle into the matching metal rocking chairs on the southwest corner of the balcony.

“Who knows.” Parker lets out a dramatic exhale. “I’m just glad that I don’t get Claire’s credit card alerts anymore because she’s constantly buying shit that she doesn’t need.”

My lips twitch as I tuck my long, straightened hair behind my ear. “Says the man who just bought a second car.”

My brother doesn’t respond. He simply focuses his attention on the setting sun that is slowly making its way over the horizon, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

I follow suit and study the unobstructed view of the Atlanta skyline, feeling more comfortable in the silence than in forced conversation. Parker and I might have given Claire shit for making us sit out here, but I can see why she loves it. The city has a different feel from stories above—it’s almost peaceful.

“So,” I start, making an attempt at the conversation that I promised Cassidy. “I heard you talked to Wes the other day.”

The words come out cautiously because this is wildly uncomfortable for the both of us.

In addition to the fact that we weren’t raised to discuss our emotions, show vulnerability, or pretend to be anything other than robots, the man I just brought up hasn’t been spoken about by either one of us in a long time . . . just for different reasons.

Parker’s freshly-shaven jaw tenses, and I can’t tell if he’s about to bite my head off or preparing to give me the full rundown—it truthfully could go either way.

“That must have been difficult,” I add, watching him for any sign of a reaction because my brother isn’t exactly an open book.

I have no idea what else to say because Cassidy didn’t give me any details when she pulled me aside earlier. Parker could have gotten into a fistfight with Weston in the middle of the OR for all I know, and he would still look like he was cool as a cucumber.

Just when I’m about to give up and sit in silence, Parker releases a long exhale and turns to face me. His deep-blue eyes are almost wistful when he says, “It was actually nice.”

I feel my brows shoot up. “Oh?”

It’s all I can manage to say because the word “ nice ” is the last thing I expected to hear come out of his mouth. I was bracing myself for a nasty glare, a shake of his head, or a long string of curse words. Never in my wildest dreams could I have anticipated the flicker of a smile on my brother’s lips when we finally talked about Weston Southerland.

“Yeah.” Parker reaches for his beer and takes a long sip like he’s mulling over how much he wants to share. “Did you know he had a baby?”

My heart nearly skips a beat because surely I’m hearing him wrong. “Wait. What?”

First of all . . . how would I know that?

Second of all . . . did he say a baby?

Weston never gave off a settle-down-and-have-kids vibe. In fact, it was pretty much the opposite. The guy wouldn’t shut up about how many women he was juggling and how hard it was to keep them straight. I figured he would stay a bachelor until the day he died, not magically transform into . . . a father.

Parker chuckles as he leans back and slips his hands into the pockets of his workout shorts. “I didn’t know either. But I guess it makes sense now why he came back to Atlanta.”

I blink, trying to keep up. “Does it?”

From what I remember, Weston was doing his trauma surgery fellowship in Chicago. He wouldn’t give that up when the workload of fellowship is way less time consuming than residency.

“I mean . . . it can’t be easy to raise a baby in a city by yourself,” Parker argues, his tone uncharacteristically empathetic. “Wes probably thought it would be nice to be close to his parents so that they could help.”

My mouth drops open, but no words come out as a flurry of questions cloud my mind. Why is he by himself? Who is the mother? And what happened to her?

Parker laughs, breaking through my spiraling thoughts. “I know, right? Weston as a single dad. It surprised me too.”

I don’t know why my chest tightens at the thought. The man-child drove me up the wall almost from the moment I met him when I was eighteen.

Our family would spend the Fourth of July together at the lake, and we had a rule that we could each bring only one guest. For the most part, it was friends from our hometown or boyfriends as Claire and I got older. And since Parker never invited anyone, we were all excited when he told us that he was bringing someone the summer after his first year of residency.

My sister teased him and said he had an imaginary friend. I teased him and said he had a girlfriend. But the person who showed up at the door was neither one of those things—he was an annoyingly charming, ridiculously good-looking trojan horse. And I ended up falling for his disguise just like everyone else.

“Do you know what happened?” I ask, trying to figure out why the news makes me so uneasy when, logically, I should feel indifferent.

My brother shifts uncomfortably.

“Yeah, he gave me a quick rundown when he brought his son in,” he says, his tone almost somber.

“Okay . . .”

Parker swallows like he’s not sure where to begin. “Do you remember how Wes would host the surgical residents at his parents’ house for Thanksgiving every year?”

“Sure. I guess?”

“Well, during our chief year, he brought a date. Someone who looked kind of like Cassidy,” Parker continues. “He ended things with her a few days later, and then didn’t hear from her again until she reached out to tell him that she was about to give birth to his baby.”

I frown because that seems odd. “Why wouldn’t she tell him when she found out she was pregnant?”

Weston might not have the best morals in the world, but I can’t picture him abandoning a child.

My brother shrugs. “Wes said he has no idea. Apparently, he barely made it to the hospital before Carter was born, and things got hairy afterward, so he never got a chance to ask her.”

“That’s kind of bizarre,” I offer, still not fully understanding the situation. “So, did she just leave the baby with him or something?”

Parker’s eyes flick toward mine. “She died shortly after she gave birth.”

I slowly turn to face my brother so I can make sure I heard him correctly. “I’m sorry . . . she what?”

Women don’t just die from childbirth. I mean, they do, but the chances of it happening are less than a percent of a percent. It’s rare, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. In fact, the rate is actually on the rise in the United States, especially among minorities.

Parker runs a hand through his dark hair. “She had undiagnosed Von Willebrand’s, which led to uncontrollable postpartum hemorrhage. I doubt Wes even had a chance to process the fact that he was going to be a dad before it happened.”

My heart softens—just a little—because I truly can’t imagine the way something like that would turn your entire world upside down.

“Wow,” I whisper because it’s all I can manage to say.

Weston and I might have bad blood, but that doesn’t mean that I would ever wish something like this on him. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

“Yeah . . . I can tell it really shook him up because he doesn’t seem like the same carefree guy we used to know. He’s more mature and introspective, in a way,” Parker says, his voice easing back to something more neutral. “But like I said, we didn’t have a chance to talk about anything too in depth because he brought his kid in for a dislocated elbow. I think he was worried about the increased bleeding risk, given what happened to the mom.”

I frown. “Is there one?”

Parker shrugs. “Not that I can tell, but I didn’t run a genetic panel or anything. The labs looked normal, though, and I gave him Beau’s brother’s number, just in case. It never hurts to know a hematologist, even if they live in Houston.”

“Sure.” I slowly run my fingers down my sister’s cat’s spine like I’m in The Godfather, trying to figure out how to feel.

Part of me is still shocked Weston has a kid that he is raising on his own. And I’m incredibly sympathetic for the situation regardless of my personal opinion of his character. But the other part of me wants to shake my brother and remind him that this man almost ruined his career. I can understand offering to help because it’s part of his oath as a doctor. But what I can’t understand is the look on his face right now. It’s . . . affectionate. Fond, even.

“Anyway,” Parker says, his mouth curling into a smile like he’s remembering a happy memory. “It was good to see Wes. I didn’t realize how much I missed the guy.”

“Well, I didn’t.” My voice is somewhat shaky as I focus my attention back on the glowing skyline.

I’ve worked hard to gain control of my life over the years—to build up a shell of impenetrability so that nobody could get under my skin the way that Weston once did. And I thought that it had worked . . . until this exact moment. Because all I can think about is how I’m currently hanging on by an invisible string, and if he comes back into our lives, I might just break.

“Yeah, yeah.” Parker chuckles, completely unphased by my comment. “We all know how you feel about Wes.”

He leans over and puts his hand on my shoulder in a way that he probably thinks is affectionate, but instead feels incredibly patronizing.

“I think you’d be surprised how different he is now, though.”

I swerve away from his touch, keeping my eyes glued to the glimmering oranges painting the pencil-shaped building in front of me.

“Apparently, you’re different now too,” I mutter under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

Parker is the least emotionally intelligent person that I know. And that’s not a dig at him, it’s just the truth. He sees things in black and white, and he has absolutely no tolerance for anything in between. So why the hell is he suddenly rolling over and acting like everything Weston did never happened?

I can understand why my brother might think that my opinion of his friend is overblown—I never clued him into the actual reasons behind it. But the fact that he seems to be so quick to forgive someone who betrayed him isn’t sitting well with me. He hasn’t changed that much.

“Maybe we’re all different now,” Parker counters.

He studies me for a beat, then shakes his head like I’m the one who’s lost my mind. “But, anyway, I’m grabbing drinks with him tomorrow to catch up.”

I freeze, not understanding how his opinion could go from icy cold to hunky-dory with a single conversation.

“You’re what?” I bite out.

“Getting drinks,” he answers. “Why is that so weird? We used to do it all the time.”

I don’t know what possesses me, but I reach into the elastic pocket of my running shorts, pull out my phone, and flip on the flashlight. It’s not dark yet, but the point I’m about to make should still work.

“Carol,” he growls, batting my hand away as soon as I shine the beam into his pupils. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I smirk because he only calls me that when he’s cranky.

Good. I want that version of my brother—not the overly sentimental one sitting beside me.

“Just making sure you don’t have a neurological deficit,” I answer sweetly, clicking off the light. “Because that’s the only way you’d think meeting up with Wes is a good idea.”

Parker looks horrified, probably because he’s used to reactions like this from Claire, not me—his perfect baby sister who can do no wrong.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t know.” I quirk a brow at him. “Pretty sure you meet the criteria for early onset Alzheimer’s . . . might want to get that checked out.”

“You can’t diagnose that from a pupillary assessment, idiot,” he deadpans.

I roll my eyes. Despite our ten-year age gap, my brother and I will get mistaken for twins from time to time. But even though we share similar physical features, a sense of humor is absolutely something we differ in.

“No,” I argue, “but I can diagnose you based on symptoms. And the number one symptom is memory loss, which you clearly have if you don’t remember what he did.”

If my best friend treated me the way that Weston treated my brother, I would never speak to them again. It wouldn’t matter if they “ changed .” Or had a traumatic life event. Or won the Nobel Prize. A betrayal is still a betrayal, no matter what you do afterward to cover it up.

Parker lets out a heavy breath. “Trust me . . . I remember.”

“Do you though? Because if you did, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation, P.”

My brother shifts and crosses his ankle over his knee. He studies his tennis shoe for a moment before reaching down to retie the already perfect laces. When he’s satisfied, he drags his eyes toward the luminescent skyline as an almost guilty expression crosses his face.

“I think I should finally tell you the full story.”