Chapter 7
SEVEN
ALLY
On Friday, Dr. Malone and Celine are in the outpatient clinic, so I have the office to myself. I offered to come and help Celine work the reception desk, but she said she didn’t need me. She was reasonably polite about it, though, and I think she’s warming up a little.
By nine-thirty, I’ve finished my work for the day.
When all you have to do is bring your boss lunch and clear his inbox, you’re left with a lot of free time.
Dr. Malone was right about his emails; a lot of them are pretty ridiculous.
This morning there was one from an ENT surgeon complaining that the doctors’ lounge smells like burned popcorn.
I told him to fill out an incident report.
So now I have nothing to do, and even though that might seem like a good thing, it isn’t. It seems like only a matter of time before someone realizes I’m not adding value, and I lose my job.
I’m surfing the internet for lunch recipe ideas when Heather Larkin walks in. I quickly close the browser window and stand up to greet her.
“Hi Alexandra,” Heather says warmly. She’s got a smear of lipstick on her teeth again. “I wanted to check in and see how your first week went.”
“It’s been great, thanks,” I lie.
“Dr. Malone’s keeping you busy?”
“Busy enough, yes.” Another lie.
“I wanted to follow-up about the upcoming meetings,” she continues. “As I mentioned, Wednesday’s meeting is the most important. Have you had a chance to confirm that one with Dr. Malone?”
I should just tell her he said no. She must know there’s no way I can get Dr. Malone to do something he doesn’t want to do.
“I mentioned it, but he’s really busy. I’m not sure he’s going to be able to make it.”
Heather’s disappointment is plain on her face. “As I said, if Wednesday doesn’t work we can move the date.”
“Right. Yes. He’s in the clinic today, but I’ll discuss it with him if he comes back to the office.”
Heather smiles. “Wonderful. Thank you, Alexandra. Let me know, okay?”
“Of course.”
Damn. I’ll have to ask Dr. Malone about the meeting again, and that’ll probably go about as well as it did the last time.
Heather leaves, and I spend the rest of the morning giving myself a pep talk. Dr. Malone is gruff, but he isn’t an ogre. He’s not going to bite my head off for nagging him to come to a meeting.
At least, I hope he isn’t.
Dr. Malone appears in the early afternoon, and his eyes immediately drop to the open package of Sour Patch Kids on my desk.
“Pure sugar, and very unhealthy,” I admit, before he can say anything. “But good for the soul.”
He nods and hands me the lunch bag, then turns to leave again. I screw up my courage.
“Uh, Dr. Malone, Heather Larkin dropped by this morning. She’s really hoping you can make the meeting next Wednesday? About strategic communication?”
He takes his hand off the doorknob and turns around, then sits on top of Celine’s desk and crosses his legs at the ankle. I wonder what Celine would think if she saw him perched beside her computer monitor.
But Celine’s not here; there’s just Dr. Malone and me, in an office that suddenly feels very small.
“Alexandra,” he says with a sigh. “When I took the chief job, I made my conditions clear. The first one was that I wouldn’t do meetings.”
“Like, none at all?”
He rolls his eyes. “I chair a department meeting every month and attend a Medical Affairs Committee meeting every quarter. But I won’t go to a bunch of meetings with management to talk about useless shit. I don’t have time.”
“I think it’s only supposed to last an hour. And Heather’s willing to reschedule it to a time that’s convenient for you.”
“Yeah, but it’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back. You know how it’ll go, right?”
“Well . . . I guess you’ll discuss strategic communication?”
The corner of his mouth hitches in a smirk.
“There will be at least twenty managers in the room, and we’ll start with introductions.
As an icebreaker, Heather will ask everyone to share an interesting personal fact.
Half the group will talk about their pets, and the other half will talk about their last vacation.
This will take, on average, one minute per person.
So twenty minutes will pass before we can even talk about strategic communication. Whatever that even means.”
He pauses and scrubs a hand through his hair, and I rack my brain for a rebuttal. Before I come up with anything, Dr. Malone keeps going.
“Then, Heather will talk about the importance of communication, and probably also about teamwork. She’ll make a vague statement about striving for excellence. Then she’ll recommend we form subcommittees and have more meetings, and I’ll get sucked into this cycle of futility.”
I shouldn’t find this funny, but there’s a laugh threatening to bubble out of me. I bite my lip to try to suppress it, and Dr. Malone notices.
“I’m glad someone finds it amusing,” he says dryly.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, making a supreme effort to look serious. “It’s just—”
“Ridiculous,” he agrees. “Yep. But unfortunately, that’s how things are done around here.”
“But why . . .” I trail off when I realize I was about to ask him an overly personal question.
“You can ask, Alexandra.”
“Why did you want to be the chief of surgery if you hate meetings so much? I mean, you must have known that was part of the job?”
Dr. Malone hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he’s debating how much to tell me.
“I didn’t really want the job,” he finally admits. “The hospital board persuaded me to take it. And in the two years I’ve been chief, I’ve tried to resign twice. Unfortunately, I wasn’t successful.”
“What do you mean you weren’t successful?” How do you fail at resignation?
He sighs. “Both times, the board persuaded me to stay.”
“They want you so badly they won’t let you quit,” I say thoughtfully. “That’s a pretty big compliment.”
“Not really,” Dr. Malone says wryly. “I’m sure they’d love to replace me with someone more likely to dance to their tune. But a major donor thinks I should be the chief, and money talks.”
It’s none of my business, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Who’s the donor?”
“Have you heard of Peter Tate? Of Sigma Mining?”
I rack my brain, but the name doesn’t ring a bell. “I don’t think so.”
“Not surprising,” he says. “He keeps a pretty low profile. But basically he inherited a mining fortune, and he’s worth about a billion dollars.”
“Oh. And he wants you to be the chief of surgery?”
Dr. Malone nods. “Three years ago, I operated on his daughter Amber,” he explains.
“I wouldn’t usually talk about a patient, but this was in the news.
The Tates live in Toronto, but they have a cottage just east of here, and Amber Tate came to Somerset for university.
Three years ago she fell down a flight of stairs at a party and got an epidural hematoma.
That’s a bleed between the brain and the skull. ”
“And you operated on her?”
He nods. “Yeah. I operated, Amber did well, and her parents were grateful.”
“So you saved her life.”
A tinge of color stains his cheeks. “It was a simple craniotomy. Anyone could have done it.”
Clearly, Drew Malone doesn’t like to boast of his achievements.
“I doubt anyone could have done it,” I say. “I mean, I wouldn’t have wanted to try it.
His lips twitch. “Any neurosurgeon could have done it. Anyway, the Tates were grateful, and they made a huge donation to the hospital. They’re really into philanthropy, and they’ve made Somerset Hospital one of their pet causes.
For the past couple years they’ve come to the Spring Fling fundraising gala, and some of their friends have started donating too. ”
“And Peter Tate thinks you should be the chief of surgery,” I say thoughtfully.
Dr. Malone shrugs. “Apparently he told the CEO that he thought I’d do a good job. I’m not sure how much Tate actually cares, but no one wants to find out.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Glad you think so,” he says dryly.
“Do you think Peter Tate would want you to go to the strategic communication meeting?” I ask. “Because it seems like the sort of thing a department chief would do.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Dr. Malone laughs. It’s a good laugh, rich and deep, and his shoulders shake with it.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he says, when he finally collects himself.
“I can be, yes.”
The hint of a smile plays on his lips. “I’m on call next Tuesday, so if the meeting’s on Wednesday I might fall asleep.”
“That’s fine. Heather Larkin just asked me to get you there, she didn’t say you had to stay awake.”
“What if I snore? It might be distracting.”
“Do you snore?”
“I’m not sure,” he admits. “No one’s ever mentioned it.”
This isn’t surprising. I doubt many women would kick Drew Malone out of bed for snoring.
“Great,” I tell him. “So, can I tell Heather you’ll be there? In body, if not in spirit?”
He meets my eye. “I have one condition.”
“What?” So long as it’s nothing illegal, I’ll find a way to make it happen.
“Play tennis with me. If you beat me, I’ll go to the meeting.”
At first I think I’ve misheard him. “I’m sorry?”
“Play tennis with me,” he repeats. “That’s my condition. You beat me at tennis, I’ll come to this meeting.”
Okay. There’s no mistaking that, and there’s no way this is a coincidence. He knows.
Someone must have told him. I grew up in Somerset, so a number of people know about my ill-fated pro tennis career. It’s highly unlikely that Dr. Malone recognized me from one of my televised matches, because that almost never happens.
I didn’t play very many televised matches; I wasn’t good enough.
The memories come flooding back. Falling in love with tennis as a kid. Winning the local club’s tournaments, then regional and provincial ones. Convincing my parents to send me to a tennis academy in Florida for my last two years of high school.