Chapter 33
Russell
I’ve got two kids with the flu, one sniffling teenager who more than likely has mono, and an older woman with aches in her knees. Two rapid labs are ready, and the line to the clinic is still stretching out the door.
I move from bay to bay, wishing we could give every person in here more. That we could have more time, more supplies, more money. That we could give them more than flimsy curtains between them and everyone else while they hear their diagnosis.
But in two weeks, we’re not going to have a clinic at all.
Part of the reason it’s so busy is because news has gotten around that it’s closing, and many of the people here are trying to take advantage of their last shot at medical care.
Last week, we had to place an emergency order for vaccines and flu shots, and I personally paid for emergency kits we’re sending people home with, to try and bridge the tiniest amount of the gap this place will leave behind.
Other doctors might be annoyed at a Friday afternoon and early evening spent at the clinic, working for free and toiling under the weight of this many patients, but I’m glad for the distraction.
Every second I’m not occupied is one that I might give in and text her. That I might say fuck it and order the DNA test I know is going to come back with a result that I don’t want to see.
I’m screwed either way. If I don’t do the test, Jules is pissed at me. If I do the test, I have to live through what happened with Margot all over again.
So, it’s better not to think about it. To throw myself into my work and let it consume me.
The cases are fairly simple, and I move through them, doing my best to plaster over my sour mood with a smile on my face. These people are already going through enough without a shit-head doctor dampening their moods.
For hours, I work until the people dwindle and eventually it’s time to close. There are a few technicians and custodial staff on hand to help with the cleanup, but I stay, too, helping them to pack up supplies and clean down beds.
“Really, Dr. Burch,” one of them says, after an hour of me avoiding their prompts for me to go home. “You’ve done enough.”
“It’s all good, Vera. I have nothing better to do tonight anyway.”
“Oh, is that so?” a familiar deep voice asks from the doorway. “Cause I’ve got two tickets to a game tonight and only one ass to fill the seats.”
“Dr. Hendrix!” Vera says, her face brightening, and I grimace before turning around.
I’ve been dodging Orie’s texts all week.
I should have known he would catch up with me sooner or later, and considering the fact that he volunteers at the clinic too, it’s not surprising that he figured out where I’d be tonight.
“Good to see you Vera,” Orie says, and I realize he’s wearing a Blue Crabs jersey, leaning against the wall, and giving me a really? look. “Sorry, but I need to steal Dr. Burch.”
“Please,” Vera says, waving her hands in a shoo gesture. “Get him out of here. The man is going to work himself to death!”
“Tell me about it,” Orie mutters, which makes Vera laugh, and within a tidy ten minutes I’m forced out of my own clinic and buckled into Orie’s car, heading away from downtown and toward the United Center to see the Chicago Blackhawks play the Baltimore Blue Crabs.
“Admit that you’re enjoying this,” Orie says, tipping his head back and throwing a piece of popcorn in. It annoys me that he never misses when he does that.
“Fine,” I grumble, because I’d be lying if I said otherwise.
Over the course of the past two months, I’d forgotten how much I enjoy going to hockey games.
It was one of the few things my father and I actually had in common—aside from medicine, which was obviously its own bag of worms—so I’ve avoided it since he passed.
Since it happened, I’ve tried to tell myself that when he finally passed, it felt like a relief.
After all that waiting—going through the chemo and years of hanging on—he could be at peace.
I try to convince myself that I did all the grieving before he died, or that the man was such a pain in my ass that I don’t need to grieve at all.
But it’s in moments like this, looking down at the ice and knowing I’ll never again have him beside me, that I feel the pain of his absence acutely, that grief clogging up my throat like hair in a drain.
“Now that you’ve admitted you’re having a good time,” Orie says, leaning forward to grab his beer when there’s a break in the play, “I wanted to talk to you about the clinic.”
“I don’t want to talk about the clinic.” I say this with a voice that I’m fully aware is very close to sounding like Eeyore. I don’t care.
Orie laughs, looks up at the ceiling, shakes his head, then eyes me. “Okay—fine. No talking about the clinic for now. Does that mean we can talk about Jules?”
I bark out a half-laugh, half-groan. “Definitely not.”
“You really can’t tell me what the hell happened? She’s like your dream girl, dude.”
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Let me help you not fuck this thing up,” Orie nudges me, leaning down and trying to catch my eye. I want the game to start again so he’ll get distracted and leave me alone. “Since she came into your life, you’ve been a lot more fun to be around.”
“Okay, insult received.”
“What is it? Did you forget her birthday? Or—shit, did you argue about wedding planning? Was it—”
I let out a breath, the words tumbling out of me before I can stop them, “There’s nothing to fix, because Jules and I were never really together.”
Down on the ice, the Zamboni is making the rounds. Orie sits quietly for a moment then says, simply, “What?”
“We were never together.” I reach for my own beer, taking a fortifying drink, not wanting to tell him about this with every fucking cell in my body.
But if I explain the real parameters of our relationship, maybe he’ll leave it the fuck alone.
“It was all a ploy to get my inheritance. Dad put it in the will that I needed to be settled down before the trust could release the funds. I didn’t want to get married, and Jules needed that surgery for her son.
So, we made a deal. It was never real, and now it’s over. ”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Orie blinking, taking all this in. After a moment, he lets out an amused breath, shaking his head and muttering, “Bullshit.”
I half-expected him to be pissed at me for lying, or to call me an idiot like Alena did when I told her about the plan. What I was not expecting, however, was him laughing into his beer.
“It’s not bullshit. It was fake—”
“Oh, no,” he twists, putting his arm on the arm rest and giving me a look.
“I believe that it was fake. I’m just calling bullshit on the whole it’s all over, shit.
You might have had some sort of weird contract thing with her, but you felt that.
You were into her, and you’re still into her, and there’s some stupid ass reason you’re going to let her go. ”
I grind my teeth, wondering if it might just be easier to level the guy, rather than talking about it. It’s fine. Our friendship had a good run.
“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Orie laughs, holding his beer up and pointing at me, “I have a surgery on Monday morning, and I don’t want to suffer through a lame ass apology from you. Besides, hitting me isn’t going to make you feel better.”
The last thing I want to do is talk to him about it, but I find the words coming out. The truth about who Jules is to me—meeting her at the gala all those years ago, and not knowing it was her.
Orie was there for everything that happened with Margot. He was there when I got her stupid fucking save the date for a new guy, as though I would want an invitation to the wedding that would start her new life without me.
When I tell him about Jules insisting Gus must belong to me, and allude to how much I do not want to be staring down at results regarding my ability to have kids again, he winces in solidarity.
By the time I finish telling him the whole thing, I feel lighter.
And also, the Blue Crabs are absolutely hammering the Blackhawks, and it’s only the middle of the second period.
“Alright,” Orie nods and nods, looking down at the ice, then he says, holding up a finger, “just for the record, I am hurt that you didn’t tell me. But I’m still going to give you advice, because I’m a good friend.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
“I’ve got a few questions for you.” He sets down his beer, shifts in his seat, and steeples his hands together. “First—when you were with Margot, and you said you wanted kids, did you mean it?”
Swallowing through the lump in my throat hurts. “Yeah.”
“Alright—if you found out after Margot left that the test was wrong, and you could make a baby, would you have wanted to?”
I’d already realized a long time ago that it wasn’t so much about Margot as it was about the future I saw with her. “Yeah.”
“Moving into the tough ones here, so hang on,” Orie rubs his hands together, “Assuming that test was right, and you can’t make a baby, then you already knew Gus wasn’t yours, correct?”
I grit my teeth, then answer, “Correct.”
“And you still wanted to be with her. That’s what you were going to say that morning before Alena called.”
“Yes.”
“So, what, exactly, has changed?”
“Jules thinks I’m Gus’s father,” I explain, each word coming out painfully. “And if I do that test, and she realizes that’s not true, she might be—”
Orie shakes his head, waving his hand at me, “You can’t make up a fake reality and live inside it, man. Plus, you really think Jules is like that? If she was, wouldn’t she have spent a lot more time looking for Gus’s dad?”
He has a point. I’m not going to tell him that.
“Next question,” Orie says, bringing his pointer fingers to his mouth, “Did you only spend time with Jules because she was your ticket to save the clinic, or because you liked her?”
“Because of her, obviously,” I grind out. Of course, it was because of her. Even before I realized it, I came up with any excuse to spend time with her.
“Again, I’m going to say this because I’m your best friend, and I’m going to remind you that I have a surgery on Monday, and the guy needs a good surgeon, okay?
” I glare at him and Orie raises his hands up, laughing.
“You’re running away because you hate the feeling that you’re not good enough.
Your dad put so many expectations on you that you started to hate the feeling of failing.
Of not being good enough, right? So that’s part of the reason why you ran off to NYC—”
“—I did not run off, I was going to school—”
“—so, you could get out from under those expectations. With Margot, you experienced failure. This is less about the Gus thing, and more about not wanting to let Jules down. And once you realize that it really doesn’t matter if your sperm made that kid, and that Jules loves you for who you are, you can let go of all that. ”
Apparently, you can be with someone for decades and still be shocked at how well they know you.
“You really think that?”
“Yeah, man, I mean—I’m adopted, and my mom is still my mom—”
“No,” I wave my hand, not wanting to hear Orie’s adoption story again. “You think Jules loves me?”
Orie stares at me, his jaw slack for a moment before he starts to chuckle, reaching for his beer. “Man, just go after her.”
So, I stand up from the seat and walk into the concourse, pull out my phone, and dial her number.