Chapter 8 A Minor Comfort #3
He gestured toward the pianist. "I was just thinking, the music here is lovely, isn't it?"
Theo followed his gaze, watched the pianist's hands move across the keys. She thought about Catherine's words, about trusting the pauses, about the difference between playing notes and making music.
"Sure," she said finally, which was the most diplomatic thing she could manage.
The fifth course arrived, presented with a flourish. Theo watched the server arrange plates, noted the careful spacing, the way nothing ever touched anything else unless it was meant to. The duck, when she finally looked at it, was beautifully prepared and entirely uninteresting.
Samuel took a bite, made an appreciative sound, then set his fork down with deliberate care. Something in the gesture made Theo's shoulders tense.
"May I ask you a personal question?" he said.
Theo's back stiffened. She folded her hands on the table, then moved them to her lap, where her thumb pressed hard against her palm. Her mind raced through possible answers like flashcards: what he wanted to hear, what her parents would want her to say, what might actually be true.
“Sure.”
"Is this fellowship truly the path you want to take?"
The question hung between them, simple and devastating in its directness.
"Yes." The word came immediately, "Absolutely."
She heard the conviction in her own voice and noted with some detachment how easily the lie had arrived.
Samuel didn't respond, and the silence stretched. Theo picked up her wine glass, set it down again without drinking. Her hands felt conspicuous suddenly, too visible, uncertain where to rest. She clasped them around the edge of her seat and felt the tension in her fingers.
"It's a prestigious program," she said, filling the quiet with words that felt increasingly hollow. "The kind of opportunity most residents would—"
"Theo." His voice was gentle, not unkind, but it cut through her deflection. "I'm not asking what most residents would do."
Theo's mind raced through ways to recover the thread of conversation and steer it back toward safe territory.
Instead, she heard herself ask, "Is this on the record?"
Samuel's eyebrows lifted slightly. "I'm sorry?"
"This dinner. This conversation." Theo leaned forward fractionally, her voice dropping despite the privacy of their corner table. "You said it wasn't a formal interview. So just to be clear, nothing I say here can be held against me if I apply? When I apply," she corrected quickly.
Understanding crossed his face, followed by something that might have been sympathy.
"This is entirely off the record. The formal interview process happens after applications are submitted and reviewed.
If your application is shortlisted, you'd be invited to Baltimore for an official interview day.
This," he gestured between them, "is just two physicians having dinner. Nothing more."
The clarification should have been reassuring. Instead, Theo felt something crack in her chest, the careful distance she'd maintained all evening suddenly insufficient to contain what she'd been holding back.
"I'm drawn to psychiatry."
Samuel's expression didn't change. He simply nodded, encouraging her to continue.
"It's the work I find myself thinking about on breaks, or in the quiet moments between shifts.
My mind goes back to my psychiatric cases.
To the patients who came into the ER in crisis, the ones everyone else wanted to discharge as quickly as possible.
" She paused, her hands twisting in her lap.
"Cardiology is what my parents expect. And I know I could succeed at it if that's the route I go down.
It's the logical next step for the daughter of Dr. Margaret Brennan. "
"But that's not the same as it being what you want," Samuel said.
"No." The word came out barely above a whisper. "It's not."
Samuel reached for his water glass, took a slow sip, and set it down with care. "You know, my father wanted me to pursue neurology."
Theo looked up, surprised by the shift.
"He was a neurosurgeon," Samuel continued.
"Brilliant, stringent, absolutely convinced that anything else was settling.
When I told him I wanted to focus on cardiology, he didn't speak to me for five months.
" A faint smile crossed his face. "He came around eventually, but those months were among the worst of my life. "
"What changed his mind?"
"Eventually, our paths crossed professionally. His patient urgently needed a cardio consult, and I was the only doctor available at the time. He saw me at work. Saw that I was good at what I'd chosen, that I was engaged in a way I'd never been during my neurology rotations."
Samuel's expression softened. "He told me later that watching me find my path was more satisfying than if I'd followed his. And I agree, it was the best decision I ever made." He paused, then added, "Second only to marrying my husband and adopting our daughter."
Theo felt her mouth curve upward involuntarily. It was the first genuinely spontaneous expression she'd made in his company all evening.
"How old is your daughter?" she asked.
"Seven. And already convinced she's going to be a veterinarian, much to my husband's dismay. He's allergic to most animals." Samuel's own smile widened. "But we're not discouraging her. We figure she's got time to change her mind, or not. Either way, it needs to be her choice."
The implicit message settled between them, gentle but unmistakable.
They finished dinner in a different register than they'd started it.
The conversation shifted to lighter topics, to Baltimore's restaurant scene and the challenges of balancing fellowship training with any semblance of personal life.
Theo felt the performance pressure ease, replaced by something closer to actual conversation.
When the check arrived, Samuel waved off her attempt to contribute. "Your parents took care of it," he said. "They were quite insistent."
Of course they were. Theo managed a smile and tried not to think about the interrogation she’d receive later.
They stood, gathered their things, and made their way through the dining room together.
At the entrance, Samuel extended his hand. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Theo."
"Thank you for dinner." Theo shook his hand, "And for the conversation."
“My pleasure.” He held her gaze for a moment, “And for what it's worth, psychiatry needs good physicians like yourself as much as any other specialty. Perhaps more."
The words landed softly, without pressure or judgment.
"I'll bear that in mind," Theo said.
They parted on the sidewalk, Samuel heading toward a waiting car while Theo turned in the direction of the nearest subway entrance.
Back at The Lenox, as Theo was opening her apartment door, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting a text from her parents checking how dinner had gone.
Instead, it was Catherine:
Catherine
How was the fuck?
Theo felt her mouth curve upward as she typed back:
Theo
The fuck? Disappointing. Like the pianist.
Catherine
You know what I meant.
How was the duck?
Theo
Worse. But the company improved.
The three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, and then reappeared again. Then:
Catherine
What happened?
Theo stared at the message for a long moment. She typed back:
Theo
Nothing bad. But I’m too tired to talk about it right now. Raincheck?
Catherine’s response came quickly:
Catherine
Sure.
That was it. No digging for details, no advice she hadn’t asked for. Just acceptance of the line Theo had drawn. The relief was immediate. Her shoulders loosened like someone had finally told them they could stand down.
Theo
Thanks
She typed. Then, after a pause:
For the DVDs too.
And the dinners.
And the calls.
And the general tolerance of my existence.
Catherine's response took longer this time:
Catherine
Your existence is marginally more tolerable than when we first met.
Theo laughed, the sound quiet in her dark bedroom. She set her phone on her nightstand and lay back against her pillows without bothering to change out of her clothes.
The ceiling was barely visible in the darkness, just a flat expanse of shadow above her. She stared at it anyway, her mind replaying the evening without quite processing it.
Then, through the wall that separated 14C from 14D, she heard it. A single careful note. Then another. The opening phrase of Clair de Lune, played so quietly she almost missed it. But it was there, each note placed with careful deliberation as if Catherine were speaking rather than performing.
Theo closed her eyes, not moving, not reaching for her phone to text a response, just listening as the music unfolded through the wall.
There was no performance in it, no showing off or technical display. Just the melody moving through its careful architecture, each phrase building on the last, the whole thing structured with that whimsical design she'd described to Catherine at the bodega.
Catherine played through the entire piece without stopping, without faltering. The melody floated through the wall, filling the darkness of Theo's bedroom with something that felt almost like permission.
Permission to be tired. Permission to be uncertain. Permission to want something different.
The music reached its final resolution, the last notes hanging in the air before fading to silence. Theo waited, eyes still closed, wondering if Catherine would play something else. But the silence held, comfortable and complete, as if Catherine knew that this one piece was enough.