3. Sam
THREE
Sam
I duck out of Mr. Lorenzo's room, making notes on his chart. His post-op incision looks good. There's no sign of infection around the sutures, though he's still grumbling about the catheter. Can't blame him.
I should be focused, but my brain's still out to lunch. My body still remembers the night before last in detail. My rational self would like to forget it.
The hallway is alive with the familiar hospital symphony of beeping monitors, squeaking shoes, and hushed conversations. I check my watch. Three more patients before lunch, which might happen today if?—
"Sam?"
I'd know that voice anywhere. Dad stands near the nurses' station, dressed in khakis and a light blue button-down. Even in casual clothes, he carries himself like the chief surgeon he was for twenty years. His silver hair catches the fluorescent lighting.
"Dad? What are you doing here?"
He steps closer, folds me into a brief hug that smells like his cedar aftershave. "Had a foundation meeting. Thought I might catch you."
"Checking up on me?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Can't a father visit his daughter at work?" His eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Hmm. If you say so."
"How many more rounds do you have?"
I take a deep breath. "I just finished. I have a break before I meet with Grimalidi in fifteen."
"Good." He takes my clipboard, hands it to a passing nurse. "Melissa, could you let Dr. Grimaldi know I'm stealing Sam for a bit?"
Before I can protest, he's steering me toward the elevator. "Dad?—"
"Fifteen minutes, Sammy. Can't you indulge your dear, old dad?"
The elevator doors open to the ground floor. Dad guides me through the lobby and out into the blinding Florida sunlight. The heat hits like a wall, instantly making my scrubs stick to my back.
"Here." He hands me a steel water bottle. "You're probably dehydrated. I know you."
I take a sip, loving the sensation of the cold water as it hits my system. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was.
"Sunshine's good for the soul." Dad looks up at the clear blue sky. "Your mother always said that."
I don't argue. We fall into step together, walking the perimeter of the hospital grounds. Despite the heat, there's something calming about walking beside him here. His steady pace and the familiar cadence of his breathing are like a dose of Ashwagandha for my soul.
"How's the house?" he asks.
"It's—" I pause, flashing back to two nights ago.
"It's nice. Quiet. I love being able to come home and unwind on the ocean. It's like having a hug from Mom after a long day."
"Your mother would have loved it."
I nod, not trusting my voice. We turn a corner, and suddenly we're facing the east wing of the hospital. My steps falter without permission.
The Evelyn Taylor Wing.
The gold lettering catches the midday sun. Even from here, I can read every word of the dedication plaque beneath it.
It's been five years since the dedication, and it still feels like yesterday. The ribbon cutting, the speeches, Dad standing stoic beside me. We both worked so hard not to shatter in public.
I stop walking completely.
Dad's hand finds my shoulder. "Sam?"
My throat tightens. "Sorry, I just?—"
"I know." His voice sounds rougher now. "I still can't walk by without seeing her."
We stand there together, two fixtures in front of a building bearing our name. The weight of legacy presses down as heavy as the Florida heat.
"She would have been proud," Dad says quietly. "Of the wing. Of you."
I swallow hard. "Jury's still out."
His fingers squeeze my shoulder once, grounding me to the present moment. To this breath. This heartbeat.
"I know so," he says.
Dad steers us away from Mom's wing toward a small terrace tucked beside the cafeteria. It's protected from the worst of the midday heat by a wide pergola draped with bougainvillea. The pink flowers shimmer against the white-painted wood.
"Sit." He pulls out one of the wrought iron chairs .
As much as I want to protest, this is exactly what I need for my break. If he hadn't grabbed me, I probably would have found something to do to fill the fifteen minutes until my meeting instead of taking a minute to breathe.
"Thanks, Dad. This is just what the doctor ordered."
"I'll grab coffee. Hot or cold?"
"I'll have an iced latte, please."
I lower myself into the chair, grateful for the breeze that cuts through the humidity. From here, I can see just the corner of the wing's glass facade, enough to know it's there without having to stare at Mom's name.
Dad returns with two cups, his with steam curling from the top. The ice in mine jingles as I take it from him.
The familiar burnt smell of hospital coffee gives me an odd sense of comfort. It's like my childhood in a cup.
"Still taking it black, I see?"
He nods. "Some things never change."
I smile. "Glad to know you still keep it real, Dad."
I wrap my fingers around the cold cup, the condensation sliding down the side as the chill bites into my hand. It's a relief in the heat.
He settles across from me, his posture relaxing slightly. "So, Sullivan's still trying to claim he invented the modified Whipple technique?"
A laugh escapes me. "You heard about that? He presented it at M&M like he'd personally revolutionized pancreatic surgery."
"That man hasn't had an original idea since 1995."
We fall into easy conversation. Because these are our favorite subjects. We focus on hospital gossip, the Marlins' dismal season, and the new coffee shop at Mariner's Reach that charges eight dollars for a latte.
We steer clear of anything important. Dad is the patriarch, and in many ways, I'm still the dutiful little girl. By doing my residency here, and likely staying for my career once I'm done, I've chosen this, in a way.
"Dr. Richardson's son is starting his residency next term."
"Oh, yeah. I can't believe he is already done with med school. Time is flying. Do you know what he matched in?"
Dad blows across his coffee. "Cardio, following in his father's footsteps."
I stare down at my cup. "Legacy babies everywhere."
I said that to mean we have a head start. Most days, though, it means I have more to prove.
"You were never just a legacy, Sam."
My jaw tightens. I don’t look up.
“Grimaldi’s making Kip first assist on everything,” I mutter. “He tanked a basic appy last week and still got the gallbladder yesterday.”
Dad shrugs. “Politics. His father paid for the hybrid OR. You know how it works.”
Oh, I do.
I glance toward the Evelyn Taylor Wing. The sunlight catches on the glass, blinding me for a second.
Kip’s handed opportunities, and no one blinks. I work twice as hard, and somehow it’s still either “She only got it because she’s a Taylor,” or “She should be better than this by now.”
There’s no winning for me, really. Except starting somewhere completely different, where the name Taylor means nothing.
“Grimaldi’s tough on you,” Dad says.
“She expects perfection. ”
“Smart woman. She reminds me of your mother sometimes.” A smile flickers.
"You know..." Dad starts, then stops himself. He never pushes. Not about Mom. Not about the wing with her name that I orbit like a planet that can't escape its sun.
He rests his hand on my shoulder, the weight familiar and steady. I don’t lean into it, but I don’t pull away either.
We sit like that for a second, long enough for the moment to settle between us. Then I check the time.
“I’ve got Grimaldi in two,” I say, standing.
“Lucky you.”
“Tell me about it.” I smile faintly and grab my cup. “Thanks for the coffee, Dad.”
He lifts his own in a silent toast. “Go show her what a real Taylor can do.”
I plop onto Arden’s couch and tug my hoodie sleeves over my knuckles. She’s been my best friend and unofficial therapist since kindergarten.
I should go home to shower and veg, but I need soul cleansing more. After a ten-hour shift, I need a human who doesn’t wear scrubs or use the word STAT.
Arden’s loft is the anti-hospital. Colorful throw pillows everywhere, plants spilling from macramé hangers, and the scent of palo santo hanging in the air as a benediction.
I stare up at the ceiling. “Okay, I did something.”
Arden pokes her head around the kitchen wall, wine bottle in one hand, glasses in the other. “Please tell me it doesn’t involve hospital protocol or actual fire.”
“No. It's much more interesting than that. I know it's hard to believe. "
She pads into the living room like I just said I joined a cult. “Do not bury the lede. What happened?”
“Sex. I slept with my new neighbor.”
That gets her. She plops on the sofa like it’s breaking news. “Wait, you have a sex-able neighbor?”
I blow out a breath and sit up. “You remember the house next door? The one that sold back in February with the professional cleaners and no sign of life otherwise?”
She nods slowly. “The beach mansion owned by a ghost, yes.”
“Well, the owner is not a ghost. He’s very real and he's very hot. Oh, and he’s on the board at my hospital.”
Her jaw drops. “Stop it. Are you supposed to sleep with board members? Did you know?”
“I did.” I shrug. “Saw him in the OR gallery earlier that day. Knew exactly who he was. Knew it was a terrible idea when he accidentally wandered onto my deck instead of his. But I couldn't stop myself.”
She raises both eyebrows. “So you still did it anyway?”
"I'd had a shower, a glass of wine, and I was especially horny for some reason." I shrug my shoulders.
"Sounds like the perfect recipe for a good night. What happens now?"
“He lives in New York. He’s not part of my actual life. One night seemed safe. I mean, when manna falls from the sky, you don’t ask questions. You eat.”
She chokes on a laugh and sets the wine down before she spills it. “You had sex with your mysterious neighbor, on your patio, and you’re comparing it to a story in the bible?”
“Just saying all the signs were telling me to go for it, so I did.”
“Details,” she demands.