Chapter 8
Jack
Abdo has been awake for five days now, and I’m flying high because he’s doing really well—physically at least. It’s hard to know what he’s thinking. I’m just heading down the hall to the PICU again when someone calls my name. I turn and see Linda Hsu rushing toward me. She’s the head of media relations for the hospital, and therefore, sometimes a dangerous entity. I give her my practiced smile.
“Dr. Rushton was thinking it would be great publicity for the hospital if we did some press about your work with WMC and the patient you returned with.”
I’ve talked to her about this already. I guess it’s different now that Rushton is involved. “Can you remind Dr. Rushton that our patient is a minor who has only been awake for five days? He’s dealing with the death of his mother and being a half of a world away from home. I still think privacy is the best thing for him right now.”
She looks at me as if she’s trying very hard to be patient. “Foreign Affairs has not fully committed to paying for his stay, and a nice human-interest story would at least raise awareness and give us some positive press. Dr. Rushton is looking out for our paychecks.”
I shake my head. “The boy’s care has been covered. The hospital isn’t out any money. What’s he going to say anyway? He doesn’t speak English.”
“I believe Sam is thinking the article could be more about you—how you spend half your year volunteering for WMC in countries with limited medical care as well as managing a thriving practice.”
I turn back down the hallway. “No. I’m not interested in any kind of human-interest piece.” The last thing I need is attention drawn to my private practice again.
Linda races after me. “I’m afraid I can’t get him off of this.”
Ah. Now, I can read between the lines. I’m paying for Abdo’s healthcare, but I have surgical privileges here at Sam fucking Rushton’s discretion. He doesn’t have to have a reason to kick me out of the hospital, and my business is all about surgeries, so I need to keep him happy. Sure, I could get surgical privileges at one of the other hospitals in the area, but he could also make that difficult if he wanted to.
I stop walking. “Who would write the article? I want some compassion, and I want someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“How about Laine Seymour? I know you said no before, but if you have to do the article, she’s good. Plus, she’s already expressed an interest.”
“No way. She burned me the last time she wrote about me.”
Linda gives me a look that is decidedly unsympathetic. “She didn’t write about you. She wrote about your industry and about one of your previous patients. The College of Physicians and Surgeons review board only went back through your cases to prove you weren’t liable for any malpractice. That’s what they do.”
“That article made my life a living hell. I won’t work with her.” I feel a little panicky, like I might be digging my own grave right now. I have no idea how to do this.
Linda holds up her hand. “Fine. I’ll reach out to a few others and see what’s possible.”
“And take your time. I get that Rushton wants this story, but the more privacy Abdo has, the better. Also, I have plans this weekend, and I don’t want to be chased by a reporter.”
“I’ll try to find someone and work on getting it set up for next week.”
I sigh. There really is no way out of this. Maybe I can make it so it’s good for the kid. “Thank you, Linda. I know Rushton is the ass in this situation. Not you.”
She nods. “I do think he’s just looking out for the hospital.”
I snort. He’s looking for an opportunity to stand in front of a microphone. The man has his eyes set on the political world, and he’s always looking for a way to get closer.
I continue down the hall to Abdo’s room. He’s still plugged into monitors, but it’s so much nicer to see him awake and alert. He continues to improve physically, but he’s not responded much since being told of his mother’s death. He’s asked the child psychologist a few clarifying questions, but that’s about it. When I sit down with him, he smiles. We don’t have an interpreter here, but I won’t let that stop me.
“Keif al-Hal?” I ask. The translator gave me these words to ask how he’s doing.
Abdo nods.
I touch my chest. “Dr. Jack.” I point at him. “Abdo.” I repeat that, hoping he understands.
He smiles but doesn’t respond. I check his wounds, and they’re coming along. In another month or so, we should be ready to do the next round of grafting, and soon after that, we’ll be able to release him to the pediatric ward.
He just watches as I work. This must be so overwhelming, and he has no one to stay with him or any way to entertain himself.
When I’ve finished his exam, I sit down next to him and pull up YouTube. Nadine suggested that I search for Bubble Guppies—evidently their twins love the show. I set my computer on the tray in front of him, and we watch it together.
He’s mesmerized for twenty minutes. He doesn’t understand what they’re saying, but at least, he has some age-appropriate entertainment. He must be terrified.
I signal that I’ll return in a minute, and I run back to my office and grab my tablet. When I return, I ask the duty nurse for a favor. “Can you help me? I’d like to leave this for Abdo so he can entertain himself and maybe he can learn some English? Can you just check on him and make sure it’s still working?”
“Of course, Dr. Drake.” She looks around. “One of the nurses sat with him last night. He woke up crying, and she just did her best to stroke his hand and console him.”
I nod. That hurts my heart. “Thank you. I’ll make sure we get someone here who he can talk to regularly.”
When I look back in at him, he’s smiling, so I feel a little better.
I download a children’s television application and start a Paw Patrol for him. He seems to like it, and there are more than a hundred episodes, so that should keep him going for a while. I watch a few episodes with him before I leave the iPad behind and return to my day.
The following Friday, there’s a knock at my office door and Linda walks in. Shit . I’ve avoided her all week, but now, she’s found me.
“I have three journalists interested in interviewing you and doing an article,” she announces.
I look up at the ceiling. “I thought we were going to slow-play this.”
She shakes her head as if I’m ridiculous. “It’s been a week.”
“Who are they?” I ask impatiently.
“William Robbins, Clancy Sadler, and Kelly Lee.”
“William Robbins is a big no. He writes slanderous pieces full of salacious gossip. No.”
She balls her fists at her side. “Do you want me to set up a meeting with Clancy or Kelly?”
“I’d like them to submit questions before I commit.”
“I already have them.” She opens a file folder and hands me several sheets of paper.
The first one asks about my personal relationships. “No. This is not a puff piece on me and—” I see a question about Drake Logistics. “Absolutely no way I’m going to talk about my father’s business.” I hand her back the list of questions.
“Okay, Clancy is out.”
I look through the other options, and they want to know who I’m dating and what I like to do in my free time. “What is this? I’m not looking to get a date. Why are none of these serious?”
She takes a deep breath. “The hospital has put out a press release about your return from Sudan, and several local news outlets have covered that, as you know. I think these reporters are trying for something different. Here’s another one.” She slips a list of questions out of her folder.
I look it over… I’m not crazy about talking about why I work for Worldwide Medical Care, but at least that’s relevant here. And I like the question that asks what made me decide to bring the child here rather than leaving him with capable care in Sudan. “This is more like it.”
“Good,” she says immediately. “I’ll get the interview set up.”
“Don’t tell me this is William Robbins?”
“It’s not.” She opens the calendar app on her phone. “I see you’re available on Monday at ten thirty. Would you like to meet in your office or somewhere else?”
“Here in my office.”
Linda smiles. “Thank you. I’ll get it all set up.”