11. Greer
Greer
Events like this—stupid, made-up, fictional, entirely derived so the health network can pat themselves on the back for producing such fantastic practitioners of medicine, when really we’re all miserable and exhausted and disillusioned with the whole thing—really bother me.
I tend to avoid places like this, and not because I’m so mean and miserable like all the PGY1s seem to think because they saw me snap at someone for dropping a retractor.
They’re noisy and unpredictable. And even though I wish it was different—that I was a different, healed, whole person—unpredictable, loud, jarring noise still bothers me.
I debate not going for a long time—it’s quite the debate, actually. I wage it in front of this ornate, golden floor-to-ceiling mirror in my room that’s draped with eucalyptus. Stella gave me the plant because she said it’s calming. It hasn’t worked.
I think I had a temporary blackout in the cafeteria last week—imagining the childhood of someone that, for all intents and purposes, I don’t really know—inviting him to come with me when I should have declined the invitation myself. There are all sorts of names for these things—and depending what field of medicine you practice, you might diagnose it differently.
And seeing as I’m very confident I didn’t have a cerebrovascular accident, this probably falls firmly under Rav’s jurisdiction.
Our brains are funny. Wonderful, magical, endlessly fascinating, and capable of hurting us horribly—but funny.
The leaves of the eucalyptus rustle when the air conditioner kicks on, and I narrow my eyes at it. I’m tempted to jump up and rip it down, but the eucalyptus queen herself kicks open my bedroom door.
Stella smiles brightly at me in the reflection of the mirror. Auburn hair piled high on her head, jade eyes wide with delight. She holds up the seemingly endless pile of garment bags weighing down her arms.
I point up at the eucalyptus. “This stuff doesn’t work.”
One eyebrow rises and she widens her eyes. “I don’t think the eucalyptus is the issue.”
In a futile attempt, I reach my arm towards the leaves, but my fingers only skim them before I give up. I watch in the mirror as Stella tosses all the bags on my bed and starts undoing all the zippers, revealing swathes of colour, silk, and to my horror—taffeta.
My lip curls up. “What are all these for? I have dresses that are perfectly fine.”
She barely spares me a glance, smoothing out an emerald silk dress. “The plain black ones you’ve worn to every other event you’ve had to go to?”
“Yes.” I tip my chin up. “And they’re perfectly fine .”
My sister turns to me and snaps her fingers. “Well, it’s not every day your sister is being honoured at a banquet with such a prestigious award.”
“I’ve gotten lots of awards, actually.” I point to my bookcase, and it’s not like it’s covered in trophies, but I was chief resident, and stacks of conference awards or high-impact research papers sit askew on the shelves.
Stella rolls her eyes before tipping her head back. “Okay, well her first award she was so humble about.”
It’s because I don’t want it , I think.
Not that I’ve ever sought out awards, and I was never really one of those highly competitive students or residents when it came to accolades and achievements. I just wanted to study and to do well.
But there’s something about this one that feels nefarious, somehow.
An award for clinical and surgical excellence in fellowship.
It makes that spot under my right rib twinge and all I can think about is what I gave up, and what I take from people.
I don’t tell my sister those things—I don’t want to hurt her. Thoughts like that, how I wonder if maybe I’m doing something wrong when I take an organ from a healthy body and put it into someone else because I have no way of knowing what path these people were set upon without their choice—those are thoughts reserved for Rav.
Stella huffs—loud and significantly deeper than the actual cadence of her voice—before she tips her head back again in exasperation.
She stops rifling through the gowns and pulls out her phone.
“Who are you calling?” I purse my lips.
“Bringing in the expert opinions.” Stella snaps her fingers before pointing to the flowers, sitting in an old, chipped vase beside a stack of books on the shelf. “Where did these flowers come from?”
“Oh.” I glance over at the flowers; the edges of the lilies starting to brown and wilt. “Beckett gave me those when he finished at the hospital.”
Stella isn’t listening to me anymore; she’s waving excitedly into the phone and spinning around the room. I catch a glimpse of two different screens, slicked-back ebony hair, high cheekbones as sharp as the girl expertly highlighted against olive skin—Willa—and a red bun stacked on top of a head, a small upturned nose smattered with freckles—Kate.
She called my two best friends, which seems a bit absurd, seeing as I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself. They both compliment my style all the time, actually—modern grunge, according to Willa, and comfort in one’s own skin, according to Kate.
My sister stops twirling abruptly, pointing at me, and the corners of her lips turning up. “Oh my fucking GOD, Kate—Willa—did you hear that? Beckett Davis—Gatorade-commercial abdominal Adonis—gave Greer those flowers!”
They speak at the same time, and it’s a fairly accurate representation of their personalities. Willa speaks with disdain, her voice flat and dripping with poorly veiled displeasure when she says, “Don’t you mean Beckett ‘Near Miss’ Davis?” at the same time Kate gasps and tells me they’re beautiful.
“Don’t call him that.” This weird, innate need to defend him—to defend little Beckett who grew up shouldering expectations he never should have had to bear—rises and makes me want to reach through the phone and pinch my best friend’s arm like a child.
Her mouth pops open, expertly lined lips filled by a plastic surgeon who probably charges too much but probably has better work-life balance and brain chemistry than any of his counterparts because he’s existing outside of a surgical system meant to break you. “Do you know what he did?”
“What did he do?” Kate peers closer to the camera of her phone, chin propped up on a hand.
Willa speaks before I can, sitting taller in the high-backed leather chair in her office. She’s still at work. “He missed not what would have been a record-breaking kick, but a championship-game-winning, first-in-franchise-history kick.”
Kate nods, drumming her fingers along her chin. “How unfortunate. Canadian sports fans are so mean, too.”
“Greer told me someone threw a Timbit at him.” Stella nods sympathetically.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I told you that in confidence, Cash.”
Stella swings the phone around. “And it remains, in confidence. Inner circle shit. Not to worry.”
I see a flash of Willa’s palm, followed by her voice. “Wait. How do you even know him? Why is he giving you flowers?”
Before I can answer, another grin splits across Stella’s face. “He’s volunteering at the hospital. Dr. Roberts generously took him under her wing. But I think it’s more than that. She invited him to this gala tonight where she’s getting an award for clinical excellence!”
It’s not more than that, but I don’t know how to explain to my sister that looking at Beckett is a bit like looking in a mirror. A different life, a different path laid out, but it’s a reflection all the same.
Kate says congratulations at the same time Willa says it sounds like a date. My sister darts over to me and pushes her face against mine so we’re both in the shot and starts singing. “Greer and Beckett sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!”
I close my eyes briefly and shake my head. “I don’t—”
Willa rolls her eyes and bangs her head against the back of her leather desk chair. “We know. You don’t date. You’re choosing you; you’re picking yourself against a job that leaves nothing for anyone else. All pieces of your heart belong to you. We’ve heard the whole soliloquy.”
“I don’t think that’s fair.” My voice drops and cracks a bit, even though I don’t want it to. “You’re reducing it to some pedantic diatribe when it’s not like I got this idea on some self-help infomercial.”
My hand finds my rib cage, and I press down. All eyes flick to me, and they watch me make this innocuous, nothing gesture.
But it’s not nothing and everything gets heavy. Kate frowns, golden eyes misting over. My sister presses her head to mine, softly—a gesture of love and comfort and not one of mocking. Willa blinks an apology.
“How’s your dad?” Kate breaks the silence, and her voice lightens in this way that I know means permission to change the subject.
And I do. Happily.
“Fine. But flu season is coming up, so, Stella, don’t forget to get your shot.” I take a step back from her and give a pointed look towards the phone. “You two either.”
There’s a unanimous sort of groan, and a resigned mumble of “Yes, Dr. Roberts,” even though I know they mean it fondly.
“Stella—” Willa cuts in, glancing away from her phone. “Can you show us these dresses? I have a meeting soon.”
Stella snaps her fingers again, a wide grin stretching across her face when she starts fanning out the dresses on my bed.
The air conditioner kicks on again, and there’s this twinge in my chest, but I think I hear the eucalyptus leaves rustle.