Chapter 12
The Fruit Basket and the Whisperer
PRESTON
Fear, I have discovered, tastes like pineapple.
I walk into the Residents’ Lounge on Monday morning, coffee in hand, and stop dead.
The table is gone.
In its place is a wicker structure the size of a small hatchback. It is overflowing with fruit. There are mangoes. There are pears wrapped in gold foil. There are grapes the size of golf balls. And crowning the entire monstrosity are six massive, aggressive pineapples.
“What,” I ask the room at large, “is that?”
Luke is standing near the kitchenette, leaning against the counter and eating a slice of melon with a plastic fork. He looks tired but smug.
“It’s a peace offering,” Luke says. “Or a bribe. It arrived twenty minutes ago via a courier who looked like he was formerly in the Secret Service.”
I step closer. There is a card made of heavy, manilla-coloured cardstock nestled amongst the bananas. I pick it up. The handwriting is jagged and familiar.
Dr. Silva, Regarding the… administrative discussions from Saturday. Please accept this token of appreciation for your discretion regarding the hospital overhead and certain expenses and trips. —A. York
“He sent a fruit basket,” I whisper. “He actually sent a fruit basket.”
“It’s not just a basket, Preston,” Jax O’Connell says, appearing from behind the tower of citrus. He is peeling an orange with a scalpel. “It’s an ecosystem. There’s a layer of artisanal cheese at the bottom. I think I saw a wheel of Brie that costs more than my car.”
“He is terrified,” I say, a slow smile spreading across my face. “Alistair York—the man who once tried to sue the MTA because the subway vibrations were 'aging his wine prematurely'—sent fruit to a resident because he’s afraid of your mother.”
“My mother has already claimed the pineapples,” Luke notes. “She took three of them to the fourth floor. She says they are ‘trophies.’”
I look at Luke. He’s wearing his blue scrubs, his stethoscope draped around his neck, and he looks infuriatingly professional. But he catches my eye, and for a second, the professionalism slips. He winks.
“Enjoy the melon, Dr. York,” he says. “I have rounds.”
He brushes past me, his arm grazing mine. It’s a casual touch to anyone watching, but I feel the heat of it right down to my toes.
“Whipped,” Jax coughs into his hand.
“Shut up, O’Connell.”
I am still riding the high of the fruit basket victory later the same day when Luke grabs my arm as we're on rotation together in the trauma ward.
“Do you hear that?” he asks.
We are walking past the main lobby atrium. Usually, this area is filled with the soft murmur of visitors and the squeak of wheelchairs. Today, it sounds like a boardroom negotiation gone wrong.
“I am not interested in your inventory challenges!” a familiar baritone booms from the direction of the Gift Shop. “I am interested in hydration! Effervescence! The Italian Alps!”
I freeze. I know that voice. I have heard that voice threaten sommeliers in three different languages.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
“Is that… Alistair?” Luke asks, looking horrified.
“It’s a Code Beige,” I say, breaking into a jog. “My father is low on blood sugar. He gets merger-happy when he’s hypoglycemic.”
We round the corner into the ‘St. Jude’s Gift & Floral Shop.’
The scene is a tableau of disaster.
Kyle, a sixteen-year-old volunteer with braces and a vest that is three sizes too big, is backed into a corner of the stuffed animal display. He is clutching a plush giraffe like a human shield.
Standing over him is Alistair York. My father is wearing a navy pinstripe suit, holding a bottle of generic club soda like it contains poison, and looking apoplectic.
Two bodyguards are standing by the magazine rack, looking bored. One of them is reading Reader’s Digest.
“I don't control the stock, sir!” Kyle squeaks. “I just volunteer here for civics credit!”
“Civics is failing you, son!” Alistair shouts. “This water is flat! It is tap water with delusions of grandeur! I asked for San Pellegrino. The glass bottle. The one that tastes like minerals and superiority!”
“Father!” I bark, stepping into the shop.
Alistair spins around. His face lights up.
“Preston! Thank god. You have a lanyard. Fire this boy. And then burn this shop down for the insurance money.”
“We are not burning the gift shop,” I say, stepping between him and the terrified teenager. “Kyle, go take a break. Go hide in the cafeteria.”
Kyle drops the giraffe and flees.
I turn to Alistair. “What are you doing here? You haven't visited a hospital gift shop since 1998, and that was to buy breath mints after you yelled at the Governor.”
“I had a Board meeting,” Alistair huffs, adjusting his silk tie. “It ran long. I became parched. I came down here seeking refreshment, and I discovered this… wasteland.”
He gestures at the cooler.
“Dasani, Preston. They are selling Dasani. It’s essentially recycled puddle water.”
He points a finger at the register.
“So I’m buying it.”
Luke chokes on air. “Buying… the water?”
“The shop,” Alistair corrects. “I’m acquiring the retail footprint. I’ve already texted Legal. We’re going to pivot to high-end hydration and artisanal chocolates. Maybe a cigar humidor in the back.”
“You cannot put a cigar humidor in a cardiac hospital!” Luke yells.
Alistair looks at Luke. He blinks, squinting slightly.
“Ah. Dr. Silva.” Alistair straightens his lapels, a flicker of fear crossing his face. “The man with the… mother. And the binder. How is she? Please tell me she hasn't audited the landscaping budget yet.”
“She’s reviewing the mulch receipts as we speak,” Luke lies smoothly.
Alistair shudders. “Terrifying woman. Reminds me of my rugby captain at boarding school. Big hands. No mercy.”
“Father, focus,” I snap. “There is no acquisition. You are having a sugar crash.”
I reach into my pocket. I pull out a stash I liberated from the Residents’ Lounge earlier.
“Here,” I say. “A LaCroix. Pamplemousse flavor.”
Alistair stares at the can. He looks at it with deep suspicion.
“It’s German,” I lie. “Very exclusive. It’s favored by the underground art scene in Berlin.”
Alistair perks up instantly. His eyes go misty with nostalgia.
“Berlin?” Alistair breathes. “Ah, marvelous city. I spent a sabbatical there in the eighties. The art scene was revolutionary.”
He takes the can, looking thoughtful.
“I frequented a little club called The Anvil,” Alistair reminisces, cracking the tab. “And one called Der Keller. Very exclusive. No lights. No music. Just industrial noise and men in leather harnesses standing in silence.”
Luke makes a choking sound.
“I thought it was a performance piece on the constraints of capitalism,” Alistair continues, taking a sip of the LaCroix.
“Everyone was in chains. I wrestled a gentleman named Klaus for three hours in a rubber pit. He insisted I call him ‘Master.’ I assumed it was his artistic title. Like ‘Maestro.’”
He sighs happily.
“The camaraderie was unmatched. Just sweaty men, grappling in the dark, exploring their boundaries. It really reminded me of the showers after a rugby match at Eton. Pure, masculine bonding.”
He looks at Luke.
“You’d love it, Dr. Silva. You have the build for it. Klaus would have adored you. He loved a strong deltoid.”
Luke stares at Alistair. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks at me with wide, panicked eyes.
“It sounds… educational, sir,” Luke manages to squeak.
“It was cultural!” Alistair declares. “This water... it tastes like that basement. Metallic. Cynical. Testosterone Infused. I like it.”
“Great,” I say, grabbing Alistair’s arm before he can detail exactly what happened in the rubber pit. “Now, go back to your car. Leave the gift shop alone. And cancel the text to Legal.”
Alistair sighs. He checks his watch. “Fine. But I’m sending a memo about the chocolate selection. It’s pedestrian.”
He turns to Luke. He claps a heavy hand on Luke’s shoulder.
“Good seeing you, son. And Dr. Silva, tell your mother… tell her I’m behaving. I don't want to end up in the binder.”
Alistair sweeps out of the store, flanked by his security detail.
The silence in the gift shop is deafening. The plush giraffe stares at us from the floor.
Luke looks at the door. He looks at me.
“Your father,” Luke says slowly, “just admitted to frequenting a leather dungeon in Berlin because he thought it was an art exhibit.”
“He thinks ‘Safe Word’ is a banking term,” I say, picking up the giraffe. “We don't correct him. It’s safer this way.”
Luke shakes his head. He looks traumatized.
“He said Klaus would adore my deltoids, Preston.”
“Klaus has good taste,” I say. “Come on. I think Kyle left the register unlocked. Let’s steal a Snickers bar before security comes back.”
Luke laughs, a sound that is half-exhaustion, half-hysteria.
“You’re buying,” he says.
“I’m stealing,” I wink. “Robin Hood, remember?”
My rotation in Psychiatry is going disturbingly well.
I spent the morning shadowing Dr. Julian Welling, the Chief of Psychiatry.
Welling is a man who wears tweed jackets with elbow patches and bow ties unironically.
He speaks in a voice so soothing it could tranquilize a rhinoceros, and he looks at me less like a student and more like a fascinating, exotic bird that has accidentally flown into a window.
At 2:00 PM, Welling’s pager goes off. He checks it and sighs, a sound of deep, existential weariness.
“Cardio ICU,” Welling reads. “Dr. Maxwell York is requesting a capacity evaluation. Immediate. Note says: ‘Patient is irrational. Bring the heavy meds.’”
He looks at me, eyes twinkling behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Well, Dr. York. Let’s go see what your brother has broken. Perhaps we can prescribe him a vacation.”
We head down to the fourth floor. The Cardio ICU is quiet, rhythmic, and smells like Betadine and high stakes.
We find Max outside Room 412. He is pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks like he is trying to calculate the legal ramifications of defenestration.