5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Colter
“T his pager is your lifeline. You eat with it, you piss with it, and you sleep with it, got it?” Annaliese takes the pager from my hand, grimacing when I say the word piss.
“Keep the pager on me at all times, got it.”
“During the day, you’re one of three general surgery residents. All three of you are responsible for answering pages for possible surgical consults that come through the ER. I expect you to consult, solve it at the bedside if you can, or contact the specialists if you need to defer. At night, you’re one of two residents on call. If you call an attending at two in the morning to consult on a case, that patient better need surgery.”
She barely nods as her eyes are still glued to the pager in her hands, her lithe fingers dancing across the buttons to familiarize herself with it.
“If they need to be added onto the surgical schedule,” I continue. “Run the case by me first. Don’t make any , and I mean any, serious treatment decisions without me. Or if I’m not working, I’ll choose which other attending you follow up with. You don’t play God, got it?”
She nods again, practically jogging to keep up with me as we walk the halls from the surgical offices to the pre-op area. She holds the pager in her hand and continues to focus on it as if it’ll tell her secrets. “Are you going to be my shadow the entire time? Or just until you realize I know how to do more than put a band-aid on a skinned knee?”
I stop abruptly before we reach the first set of double doors that lead to the surgical unit and turn toward her with my hands on my hips. “I’m going to be your shadow until I’m confident you’re not a complete walking malpractice.”
She mocks my stance, placing her own hands on her hips. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
I give her another firm stare before punching my hand out to open the automatic doors. I gesture with my head for her to go first, and I follow behind. “To the left,” I bark, leading her down the hall to the bank of television screens that displays the surgical schedule. I give her a brief overview of the surgeries that are scheduled first, the ones that are already in the OR, then show her the furthest screen, currently blank, which will show the patients that are in post-op. She asks some basic questions, nothing too irritating, but it shows me that she understands the process.
She smiles at a few of the nurses as they shuffle around and opens her mouth to introduce herself before I interrupt, “Let’s go.” I turn to leave the station, not waiting to see if she follows. A second later I hear the squeak of her shoes as she shuffles to catch up with me.
“Don’t you think I should take a minute to get to know some of the surgical staff?”
“You can gossip and paint your nails some other time, Princess. We have a consult waiting for us in the ER.”
She mutters something under her breath, and I don’t bother to ask what she said. I know she’s pissed at me and probably cussing me out for being short with her. But I have one job to do, and that’s to get her to hate working here.
I press the down arrow on the bank of elevators, and the doors immediately slide open. We both step inside and move to lean on the opposite walls. Her arms once again come up to cross over her chest, and I smirk. Leaning back, I use my hands to balance on the railing as I cross one ankle over the other. “Enjoying your first day, Princess?”
Her eyes squint as she tilts her head to meet my gaze. “Love it,” she deadpans.
“This type of work isn’t for the faint of heart. You need to be attentive and organized. You need to have a hell of a work ethic and stamina to get yourself through grueling shifts.”
“I know,” she bites out, her arms still firmly crossed over her chest. Her gaze is over my shoulder now, focusing on her reflection in the mirror behind me.
“People are putting their lives in your hands, even before you enter the OR.”
Her eyes flick to my face. “Tell me, Dr. Andrews, do you think I was on vacation for the last two years?”
Her question surprises me, and I cock my head in response.
“Do you?” she prompts again, enunciating the words.
“I don’t know, or care, what you were doing for the last two years.”
She scoffs, nodding her head in understanding. “I see it now; I see why you and my dad are so close.”
The elevator halts. The doors ding and open wide, yet neither of us move. “Care to elaborate on that?”
She takes one step forward. “You both think I’m just a teenager and this is some sort of game for me. You think I’d prefer to play house in the jungle, surviving off of daddy's money while perfecting my suntan. What you don’t realize,” she says as she takes another step forward, “is that I worked alongside many great physicians who have a hell of a lot more experience than you do. Ones that aren’t afraid to teach, to share their knowledge, and not use it against others. You don’t know that I’ve inserted chest tubes, central lines, and drained all sorts of abscesses from every part of the body you could imagine. More than the typical second-year resident sees, and I did it inside a tent while sweating balls in one hundred degree weather. Ordering electrolyte replacements or blood transfusions or reviewing critical labs doesn’t scare me. Opening and closing a body for surgery doesn’t scare me. I’ve probably sutured more cavities closed in a day than you do in a week.
“I know how to do the basics, Dr. Andrews. What I need is a mentor who will share their knowledge, who will show me what it’s like to be in charge of an OR, who will give me the confidence to become the surgeon I want to be. We both need to get me through the next six months so I can get the hell out of here.”
The elevator doors closed during her tantrum, and she reaches a hand out to slap the button, allowing the metal doors to open once again. She moves to exit and I reach an arm out to block her. She stops abruptly, whipping her head in my direction to wait for my next move.
Once I’m confident she won’t run out of the elevator, I let my arm fall and press the button for the third floor to buy us some time. She takes two steps back; once the doors close in front of us, and as I feel the cables tug the cage into motion, I answer.
“You’re right.” I rub a hand across my forehead, wondering how the fuck I’m going to figure this out.
“I’m what?” Her voice is pitchy, sounding just as surprised as I am.
“I’m a dick, and that likely won’t change.”
She rolls her eyes, but I hold up a hand to stop her. If I’m going to do what Richard asks of me, I at least need to keep a semi-professional relationship with his daughter. In a weird way, she reminds me of myself at her age. I was hungry for the OR, desperate to get my hands on any procedure or scrub in to watch the attendings perform the most basic surgeries just so I could see something . I was so eager to get my hands on a surgery that I was willing to do whatever it took.” I’ve seen doctors come and go throughout the years. Some people soar through med school, acing tests and perfecting their technique in the cadaver lab, but residency is where people sink or swim. It’s where the strong continue to grow and the weak are filtered out.
If any other resident had her attitude it would almost excite me. If she has the confidence she boasts, plus the skillset to back it up, she’d be a hell of a resident to have on my team.
Maybe he doesn’t want her to be a surgeon, and it’s not my place to meddle, but he still wants her to be a successful doctor, and for that, I need to be less of a dick.
“We won’t be best friends,” I tell her, “but I’ll work on being … more cordial.”
She cocks a brow, and for the first time since we crashed into each other three hours ago, she smiles—a gleaming, perfect smile lighting up the elevator. And goddamn, I wish she didn’t. As the smile grows on her face, I feel my heart swell.
“I can do cordial.”
I nod, reaching again to press the button that’ll lead us down to the ER. “We’re running late now. We’ll only have a few minutes to assess the patient before having to rush back to the OR for our first case. Scrub in time is 0740. It’s a double hernia repair, and the patient has a history of previous surgeries to that area, so it’ll likely be a mess. Today, you’ll watch this one.”
“I’m not an intern, Dr. Andrews. I can at least assist and suction, retract. I can do something besides stand with my hands held together.”
I lean back against the wall of the elevator, taking my time to size her up as the floors tick by. “Alright hotshot, if you’re so confident, tell me where the first incision is made for a hernia repair.”
She audibly exhales and her arms once again cross over her chest. The rage is palpable on her. I know the question rightfully pissed her off. It’s Anatomy 101, something she likely learned as a brand-new freshman in med school, but I’m begging to see her scrunch up her little nose at me once more this morning.
“Where is the incision made, princess?”
She presses her lips together, rolling them back and forth tightly before I see her eyes light up. Her posture relaxes as she leans back against the wall, mirroring my position. “It’s up the rectum, lodged right next to your shining personality. Which, if you’d like, I can try to retrieve for you while I’m there.”
A laugh escapes me, so small and quick I can’t help it. I reach a hand up to swipe it away and immediately school my expression.
Her mouth opens again, likely another smart retort on her lips when I put a hand up to stop her. “Are you always this much of a smart-ass?”
She purses her lips together to hide her own smile. “When someone is trying to undermine my intelligence? Yes.”
I like that.
Dammit, I like that too much. It’s about time we have some life inside these walls. “Fine. I’ll stop with the idiot questions, but we’re doing this my way. Today, you will watch. I’ll be quizzing you as I go. Take it seriously, show me you are capable, and you can scrub in and assist with the next. Got it?”
She nods but stays quiet. I can see the steam practically spilling from her ears as she fumes, the silence ticking on as the elevator continues its descent. When we’re just above the main floor that leads to the ER, she asks me, “So, did you always want to be a surgeon?”
“No. I said cordial. We’re not friends. We won’t be braiding each other's hair or spilling our deepest secrets.”
Her shoulders sag as she slumps with her head falling back in annoyance. “My God, I asked one question, the most basic question anyone could ask. Not what kind of cake you want me to make for your birthday or your favorite childhood board game.”
“Fine.” I pause for a moment, pretending like I’m thinking. Her ear perks up and her head swivels as her chocolate eyes search my face.
“It was for the money.”
She scoffs, brows raised in shock. “You’re lying.”
“Yup.” The doors open wide and I usher for her to go ahead of me, but she stills.
“For real, tell me. Was it for the prestige?”
“No.” I exit the elevator, not waiting for her to catch up. “Move your feet, Keeton, you’re wasting my time.”