Chapter 2 An Inconvenient Symphony #3
“With your grades and Morrison’s recommendation, there’s very little working against you,” her mother said, passing the vegetables again, the gesture somehow managing to be both nurturing and directive.
“If you can get that research project written up before applications go out, Hopkins will notice. I can put you in touch with someone on the editorial board at Annals if you need help navigating the submission.”
Theo's throat felt tight. She reached for her wine and took another not-so-small sip. "That's—I appreciate you thinking about this. But for now, I’m doing well in the ER. I haven't decided what I want to specialize in yet."
“Well, it’s time to decide. Honestly, Theo, you’re an Internal Medicine resident. If you’re serious about succeeding, then cardiology is where you should be focusing your efforts. Not in the ER where—”
“Where what?” Theo set her glass down a fraction harder than necessary.
"Where your potential isn’t being met," her mother finished gently. "You have a brilliant mind, Theo. Emergency medicine is valuable work, but it's not where you'll make your mark. Not really."
Theo looked down at her plate, at the salmon she'd barely touched. The judgment in her mother’s words clung to her.
“We’ve invested a lot in getting you here,” her father said. There was a hint of accusation under it. “The pre-med programs, college, med school, and your rent at The Lenox. We’re not asking you to pay us back. But we do expect you to take this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously. And I am grateful.”
"Then you'll meet Dr. Marquez." Her mother's voice made it not quite a question.
Theo forced herself to take a breath, to nod. "Of course. I'll meet with him."
"Good." Her father returned to his meal, the matter apparently settled.
The rest of the dinner passed in a similar fashion, her parents discussing politics, upcoming conferences, and a new surgical technique her father was pioneering.
Theo responded with polite interest, her answers measured and deflecting, her wine glass emptying and being refilled without her noticing.
When she finally stood to leave, her mother walked her to the door with one hand resting lightly on her elbow.
"Everything we do is because we want what's best for you," Margaret said, helping Theo into her coat. "You know that, don't you?”
Theo nodded. "I know. Thanks for dinner. I'll let you know when I've scheduled that meeting."
"We've already put it on your calendar," her mother replied, the statement casual, as if she were simply reminding Theo of something she'd forgotten rather than informing her of a decision made on her behalf. "Dr. Marquez at two p.m. on the fifteenth. We checked your rotation schedule."
Of course they had.
When she finally reached The Lenox, the elevator was thankfully empty. Theo leaned against the back wall as it carried her to the fourteenth floor, the mirrored interior reflecting her pale face and weary eyes back at her.
Her mind went, unhelpfully, to cardiology.
It was unsurprising they’d chosen it, really.
It was her mother’s specialty, the field where Margaret Brennan had made her reputation with pioneering research in heart valve repair.
The perfect legacy for a daughter who'd been groomed since childhood to follow in parental footsteps. She wondered if they’d settled on it before she was born, or after her first A++.
When the doors parted, her shoes sank half an inch into thick ivory carpet.
The hallway stretched out ahead, silent in the way expensive places always were, like a gallery between viewings.
Monet’s water lilies. Degas’ dancers. All of it sealed behind identical brass frames, lit by sconces that cast the same amber glow regardless of the hour.
Theo unlocked apartment 14C and stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a faint click that seemed louder in the building's late-night quiet.
She dropped her bag on the small entry table, her keys following with a metallic clatter. Her coat came off first, then her sneakers were kicked toward the closet without any care.
She moved through the living room toward her bedroom, pulling her sweater over her head as she went. Her jeans followed, dropped on the bathroom floor in a heap that she'd deal with tomorrow.
Her pajamas were where she’d left them, draped over the chair in her bedroom.
Fleecy pants patterned with faded little dogs, the kind her mother had once said made her size-eight figure look “a little wide at the waistline,” and a worn gray medical school T-shirt with a hole forming under one arm.
She pulled them on, grateful for the familiar feel of the fabric.
Sleep. That’s what she needed. At this rate, she’d get six hours if she was lucky, maybe five if she was honest with herself.
Her body felt heavy as she crossed to the bed and climbed under the covers, the mattress dipping as she settled. She set her alarm for five a.m., hoping it would be enough time to shower, change, and make it in for rounds.
She closed her eyes, willing her mind to empty, to let go of the day. Her thoughts loosened gradually, drifting into fragments that stopped making sense, and the low hum of the city outside was the last thing she registered before sleep took her.
* * *
When she woke, it took her a moment to remember where she was and why she was awake at all.
A sound threaded its way into her consciousness, insistent without being loud. A single note, then another, then a third, arranging itself into a melody that slipped through the thin wall between her bedroom and the neighboring apartment.
She lay there, blinking, disoriented. She’d been asleep. Properly asleep. She cracked one eye open and checked her phone.
02:14
Doing the mental math, she’d managed a couple of hours, which was generous, really.
For a moment, she wondered if this was some delayed auditory hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But no, the faint vibration in the wall put that theory to rest.
The music was real, and it was coming from 14D, the corner unit that had been empty since Mr. Jacobson's children packed him off to a retirement home in New England sometime in the fall.
So. A new tenant, then. She supposed she might have noticed if she'd spent more than four consecutive hours in the apartment recently, but between the hospital and Natalie's and Mary's, she hadn't, and at this ungodly hour she wasn't going to examine too closely why she'd apparently preferred to be anywhere else.
Theo pulled her pillow over her head, but the sound still pushed through the fabric. Whoever was playing was good. Really good. The notes moved easily, like the person at the piano had been doing this their whole life.
But it was two in the morning, and she had to be up in less than three hours.
She waited, hoping the impromptu concert would end quickly.
But the music continued, shifting into something she vaguely recognized, Mozart…
or Beethoven. Whichever one wrote the fancy stuff.
A fifty-fifty guess was her personal best in music literacy, and, honestly, those were the only two classical names she knew.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. The music showed no signs of stopping, the notes continuing their relentless, beautiful assault on her REM cycle.
The rational part of her mind, the part trained in conflict resolution and professional communication, suggested she wait until morning. Maybe approach the building management if needed.
But that part of her mind had been duct-taped and shoved in a closet by the sleep-starved lizard brain that was now running her nervous system.
Theo threw back the covers and sat up, her frustration overriding exhaustion. She'd worked a double shift, endured dinner with her parents, had her future scrupulously arranged without her input, and now she’d been woken up.
She threw her legs out of bed, kicking the bedside table in the process. Pain shot up her shin, the kind that usually earned a very creative swear, but at that moment, she still hated the table less than she hated the new inhabitant of 14D.
Her feet slapped against the floorboards as she stormed through the living room, each impact grounding her in the absolute certainty that she was about to murder her neighbor with their own sheet music or maybe slam their head under the piano lid for dramatic effect.
Was she overreacting? No…fine, yes. But she was overtired, overstimulated, and profoundly over whoever thought two a.m. was an appropriate time to play a goddamn grand piano.
She stepped out into the hallway before reason had a chance to intervene and caught sight of herself in the elevator’s reflection: flannel pajama bottoms, a tattered T-shirt, hair at impossible angles, and her thick black Edna Mode glasses, which she only wore once her contacts were out for the night.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Apartment 14D waited at the end of the hallway, identical to the others except for the brass numbers glinting in the low light. Theo raised her hand and knocked three times, the noise sharp as a gavel.
The piano snapped off mid-run, leaving a vacuum that pressed against her eardrums.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then footsteps. Not hurried, not hesitant, but careful.
The deadbolt slid back with a metallic whoosh, and the door swung open to reveal a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine spread about sophisticated urban living.
She had to be at least five-nine, and Theo found herself tilting her head back to meet her gaze.
Pale blonde hair cascaded in loose waves past her shoulders, gathered in a chignon that somehow looked sculpted rather than styled.
The silk of her robe caught the hallway light, shifting between navy and midnight as she moved, the hem brushing against bare ankles.
The woman's spine remained perfectly straight as she leaned slightly against the doorframe, her chin angled just so, as if she'd spent a lifetime looking down at the world.
But it was her eyes that stopped Theo's tirade cold. Blue like winter water, they flicked from Theo's face to her feet and back again in three precise movements, the way a surgeon might assess a body before the first incision.
Theo felt her shoulders straighten involuntarily as those eyes lingered on the hole in her shirt, the dog pattern stretched across her hips, the chipped polish on her toenails.
The woman's left eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch—just enough to make Theo suddenly aware of every wrinkle in her pajamas and every strand of hair sticking to her cheek.
Theo opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Not a single syllable. Her tongue felt heavy and useless.
Apparently, her list of grievances had stayed behind in 14C, right next to her common sense and whatever shred of dignity she had left.