Chapter 2 An Inconvenient Symphony #2
"It does." Theo glanced at his chart, though she already knew the relevant details. “Your white count is looking better. The infection’s responding well to treatment, so we're discharging you tonight."
"Lucky me." He shifted against the pillows, wincing. "Bet you're counting the minutes till you can wheel me out of here, huh?"
Theo’s eyes lingered on his chart a beat too long before she looked up.
“Listen, I’ve got a patient with influenza, someone who put superglue in their eye thinking it was eye drops, a guy who tried to tattoo himself and fainted halfway through, and someone with a vape stuck in their rectum.
Trust me, you’re not even in my top five problems today. ”
Harry shook his head, a tired smile pulling at his mouth. “Kid, I am deeply concerned about your patient population.”
He cackled, then coughed again. Theo watched his chest rise and fall, her brain automatically running numbers she didn’t want to think about. Odds of a clot. Odds of another admission. Odds of someone winning that fucking death pool.
“Everyone treating you okay in here?” she asked when his breathing steadied.
He shrugged, which with his shoulders amounted to a continental shift. “Yeah.”
She softened her tone, leaning in slightly. "Good. You tell me if anyone gives you grief, okay?”
“Sure thing, doc,” Harry's eyes were already drifting closed again, but he was still smiling faintly.
Theo leaned forward, her voice dropping to something firmer, more insistent. “You'll have a prescription for antibiotics to finish. Seven more days. You need to take all of them."
"Mm-hmm."
"And the social worker left information about shelters with beds available. Also, a list of addiction counseling programs."
Harry's only response was a faint exhale that might have been acknowledgment or might have been the sound of someone already asleep.
Theo sat for another moment, watching his breathing even out, and his face relax into unconsciousness.
She stood, returned the stool to its position against the wall, and adjusted the blanket that had slipped down from his shoulder.
His discharge papers sat in a folder at the nurses' station, printed and waiting for a signature. Stapled to them were referrals to programs he probably wouldn’t call.
Prescription for antibiotics he might not fill.
Instructions to follow up with his primary care physician, except Harry didn’t have one.
He had Theo and a string of ER visits that passed for regular medical care.
Theo signed where she needed to, closed out his chart, and headed towards the locker room.
Her ID badge marked the end of her shift with a subdued beep. Inside, it was empty, with most of the evening staff already settled at their stations.
Theo traded her scrubs for her nicest pair of jeans and a cable knit sweater. She grabbed her coat from the locker and swung her bag over her shoulder.
She was still half-lost in the thought when Natalie intercepted her at the exit doors with a warm thermos and a granola bar. "Fuel for the subway. Decaf tea and your favorite flavor," she said, pressing both into Theo's hands.
“Have I told you recently how much I love you?” Theo asked, giving Natalie a genuine smile.
"No, and I’d be worried if you did. Now vanish," Natalie said, giving her a gentle push.
The January air hit her as soon as she stepped outside; it was cold enough to make her breath visible.
Around her, the streets still wore their New Year's decorations, tinsel sagging, lights half-burnt out, confetti frozen into the gutter.
As she stepped out onto the sidewalk, the city rose around her: traffic outside the hospital, the distant wail of a firetruck, someone shouting in Spanish from a nearby apartment. She joined the stream of people heading north toward the subway entrance.
Thirty minutes later, she climbed the steps out at 81st, where the air felt quieter, softer somehow, the streets lined with warm window light instead of sirens.
The brownstone looked the same as always: russet-colored facade, black shutters, polished brass.
She climbed the steps with her key in her hand, then hesitated and knocked instead. She’d grown up here, but apparently that didn’t mean you could just walk in anymore.
The door opened almost immediately. “Theo. Right on time.”
Margaret Brennan stood in the doorway in charcoal slacks and a black silk blouse, reading glasses hanging from a chain at her chest, hair pulled into its usual neat ponytail.
Theo had once tried surprising her by arriving early; her mom had been fully dressed and ready anyway, and Theo had received a fifteen-minute lecture about punctuality for her trouble. She hadn’t tried again after that.
She stepped inside and caught her reflection in the hall mirror as she passed.
Green eyes looked back at her, tired ones tonight.
Her auburn hair was slipping loose from the half-assed braid she’d attempted earlier, strands curling out in directions her mother would have quietly corrected hours ago, which was perhaps why it always threw her when people said she looked like Margaret.
Theo genuinely couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see either of her parents in herself, if she was honest. If someone had sat her down at age seven and told her she was adopted, she would have screamed ‘I knew it!” and also, if she was being completely honest, felt a tad relieved.
“Let me take your coat,” her mother said, hands already reaching for it. “Your father just got home ten minutes ago. Emergency splenectomy ran long.”
And there it was. The Brennan family’s favorite conversational opener: who had been the most impressive doctor today.
Theo handed it over and fell into step beside her as they moved down the hallway.
The house looked the way it always did. Crown moulding. Hardwood floors. Muted paint. Framed nineteenth-century medical illustrations in place of family photos.
The table was set for three, white linens and perfectly straight silverware catching the chandelier light. Exactly like every bi-weekly dinner for the last three years of her residency.
Her father appeared from the kitchen carrying a bottle of white wine. His dark hair showed more gray than it had last month, and there was a stiffness in his shoulders that suggested another long day.
“Theo.” He set the wine down and stepped toward her, giving her upper bicep a firm squeeze. “How was your shift?”
"It was busy."
“Hm, flu season. I imagine you're seeing plenty of respiratory cases."
Theo nodded, smoothing her expression into something agreeable. “Yes, we are.”
Her mother emerged from the kitchen with a platter of roasted salmon and vegetables arranged with the same level of detail as the table settings.
They sat in their usual formation: her father at the head of the table, her mother to his right, Theo to his left. The arrangement hadn’t changed since childhood. Only the booster seat was gone.
"This looks great, Mom," Theo said as she unfolded her napkin and placed it across her lap.
"It's simple. Your father has surgery at six tomorrow, so nothing too heavy." Margaret passed the platter to Theo. "How's Natalie doing? I ran into her at the M and M conference last month."
"She's good. Keeping busy.”
"Dr. Morrison mentioned you handled a multi-trauma case last week with real adeptness." Her father said as he cut into his dinner.
Of course her father had spoken to Morrison. They’d trained together decades ago and seemed to treat her life as a shared case study.
"It was a team effort," she said.
“Don’t downplay it.” Her mother’s voice carried gentle reproach. “You’ve always been too modest.”
They let the conversation lapse after that, the clink of silverware against china the only sound.
Theo took a careful sip of wine, letting the cold liquid slide down her throat.
The salmon was perfectly cooked, the vegetables seasoned exactly right, and she could barely taste any of it.
She was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"We actually wanted to talk to you about your fellowship plans," her mother said, setting down her fork.
Right on schedule. At least this week, they’d waited until she’d gotten some booze into her system.
"Okay,” Theo said.
"We've been doing some thinking about what makes the most sense for your career trajectory." Her mother's tone was measured, reasonable, the voice she probably used when explaining treatment plans to patients' families. "And we've taken the liberty of reaching out to a colleague on your behalf."
"We've arranged for you to meet with Dr. Marquez," her father added. His cool-gray eyes remained on his plate, cutting another piece of salmon. "He is an exceptional mentor, and he’s expressed interest in reviewing your application."
Theo set her wine glass down. "For what fellowship?"
"Cardiology." Her mother smiled. "The program at Johns Hopkins would be perfect for you. Competitive, prestigious, and you'd be working with some of the best cardiac surgeons in the country."
“In Baltimore?"
"Yes, Theo. It’s Johns Hopkins," her mother echoed, as if the prestigious name should override any geographical concerns. "We've already spoken with a realtor about two lovely apartments within walking distance of the hospital. You can choose whichever you prefer when you go for your interview."
“Right. It’s just that I hadn't really thought about cardiology specifically."
"That's why we're discussing it now." Her father looked at her directly for the first time since they'd sat down. "These decisions require planning and strategy. Applications are due in the fall, which means you need to start building relationships with potential mentors now."