7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Annaliese
“H as Dad ever mentioned his friend Dr. Andrews?”
I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I pound on the side of the printer with my fist. Angry orange flashes blink back at me from all sides, indicating that my paper is jammed.
“I don’t think so,” my mom responds. “Then again, your dad and I haven’t talked much over the last ten years or so outside of conversations about you. But if he’s anything like your father, I can’t imagine he’d be too fun to work with.”
My eyes flick up to the clock and I curse under my breath. Our first case starts at 0730 this morning, and it’s nearing six. If this printer won’t spit out my report, I’ll be late for my meeting with Dr. Andrews. It wouldn’t matter to him why I’m late, but I know if I’m not by his side at six o’clock on the dot, he’ll likely growl at me in that weird way I’ve come to expect from him. And sort of come to like.
“Annaliese?”
“Sorry, what?” I tilt my head up, holding the phone with one hand and slamming my opposite fist down on the side of the printer; the orange lights flash to green as it finally starts to whir.
“What is this Dr. Andrews like?”
“Oh … he’s…” Fucking confusing is what he is. The first half-day we were together, he was an absolute dick. Snarky comments and hidden smirks at whatever condescending comments my dad made. He treated me like I was a high school student shadowing for the day.
Then he made a complete one-eighty and let me assist with the surgery he originally said I’d just watch on. Since then it’s been … cordial, just like he promised. He gives me a list of patients to see for the day and then we round together on trauma cases. I ask him questions, and he answers appropriately. It’s almost like we’re real colleagues.
“He’s … not what I expected.”
“Oh?” Her voice ticks up in curiosity. “How so?”
“Well he’s a lot younger than Dad, for one. He’s gotta be in his forties. He seems to worship Dad, which is gross. And to be honest, there are a few times already I’ve wanted to knee him in the nuts. He’ll be irritating as hell, but then he seems to change his mind about me at the last minute. It’s confusing.”
Each time Dr. Andrews found an opportunity to lecture me and to remind me that surgery isn’t for the faint of heart, I grit my teeth, wanting to keep my reputation somewhat wholesome and not castrate him. Every comment out of his mouth is like a broken record of something my father once said when I first told him I wanted to go into surgery.
I had expected my dad to be proud of me, to see a broad smile spread across his face at the prospect of us maybe working side by side one day, or for the moment when I call him for a second opinion on a case. I thought he’d want to share his years of experience with me, not his kiss-ass BFF Colt.
Surgery is a hard specialty, Princess.
Imagine being nine months pregnant and trying to stand at the operating table.
It would be difficult to operate with a neutral mindset when your postpartum hormones are raging.
It’d be embarrassing to cry in front of a patient and their family because you’re missing your newborn baby.
If there was a book of sexist comments a woman could hear in a male-dominated field, I’d likely have heard every one of them. And sadly, mostly from my own father.
“Well, honey, if he’s such a good friend of your dad’s, I’d keep my distance. How have things with your dad been, by the way? Have you guys been able to spend some time together?”
The printer finally releases my paper and I breathe a sigh of relief. I snatch it from the tray as soon as it’s ready, fold both sheets, and tuck them into the front pocket of my jacket. “Hah, right. He took me to dinner the first day I was back in the city, but since that night, the only time I see him is when we pass each other in the halls.” The child inside me had held out false hope that we could establish some sort of relationship. Something that didn’t end when I was a teenager and forced to move hundreds of miles away. But the moment we didn’t live in the same house, sitting down at dinners together, or sleeping under the same roof, our relationship basically disintegrated.
I pull the folded sheets from my pocket as I swiftly make my way down the hall toward patient rooms, scanning for Dr. Andrews.
I probably could have gone without a printed schedule, seeing as I haven’t left the hospital since I arrived yesterday at five in the morning. I was teamed up with another resident last night for on-call, Martin, and quickly learned that he could have been my adoptive brother. We forced each other to stay awake overnight by making copious amounts of coffee and letting the other catch a nap here and there during the slow moments. It was one of the better nights I’ve had since coming here, and I was able to see my patients twice on the overnight shift. I’ve already reviewed morning labs and vitals, but I still practice my speech for Dr. Andrews in my head. Two of them are follow-ups from yesterday: one a bowel obstruction with perforation, the other to repair a bleeding ulcer. Both procedures were incredible to witness.
My mom sighs heavily on the other end. “I’m sorry, honey. In all honesty, that’s what I was expecting from your dad, but I had hoped for your sake he would try a little harder.”
A thick, itchy ball of cotton fills my throat, and I try to swallow it down. “It’s alright,” I say a little quieter. “Can't change someone who doesn’t want to change.”
My work phone rings at my side; I mumble a quick goodbye to my mom, promising to call her soon before hanging up my cell and reaching for my other phone.
“Dr. Keeton.”
“Andrews. You here?”
His voice sounds flat over the line, but the deep, grumbly nature still has my chest fluttering. “Just passing through the doors, I can see you at—”
Through the small, plexiglass window, I see his head swivel in my direction. The moment I’m within sight, he hangs up the phone abruptly.
“Morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice annoyingly upbeat. “It’s so good to see you, too. Can you believe this weather?”
He squints at me, questioning my cheery motives as he brings the paper coffee cup he’s holding to his lips for a sip.
“Consult is waiting.”
He turns to move down the hall, and I let myself stay a step behind him at first, admiring his broad shoulders and the way his scrubs can barely contain the muscle. My eyes travel down his back to his incredible ass and thick thighs. He suddenly stops and spins around so swiftly I nearly slam into his chest.
“What?” he barks
“I … what?” I stammer.
“You’re lingering, why?”
I’d rather jump off the roof of this building without a parachute than tell him I was lingering so I could check out his ass, so I throw myself to the wolves.
“Oh, I … just forgot which room we were going to. Sorry.”
He stares at me for a moment, his gaze sort of softening from bitterly crabby to his regular morning crabby, before he spins on his heel.
I rush to keep up with him, my two steps to his one as he nods once at the papers in my hand—my sign to rattle off the morning report.
“How was your weekend?” I offer instead, and he swings his head toward me with his brows furrowed together.
“What?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to temper a smile. “I don’t know how many ways you can interpret that question, Dr. Andrews. Did you enjoy your weekend? What did you do?”
He turns his gaze forward again, and we take the next few steps in silence. “It was fine,” he finally clips, and I do an internal fist pump at the progress of our small talk before venturing into the morning report.
“Rita Johnson, presented yesterday afternoon with severe abdominal pain, bloating, and emesis. Found to have a bowel obstruction with perforation which was repaired by Dr. Divani. No complications overnight, hemoglobin stable, tolerating a clear liquid diet. Samuel Hasselbun, presented around 1800 with hemoptysis, appeared to be in shock. Had a history of bleeding ulcers so was rushed to the OR and Dr. Divani completed an endoscopy to find and repair the bleed. Patient currently receiving his second unit of blood, and I have orders in to check a CBC afterwards.”
He nods at the end of each patient report, and I sneak a peek at his side profile as I talk. His eyes always stay focused ahead, cobalt-blue daggers that never falter. He doesn’t nod or smile at the nursing staff as we pass and he doesn't stop to make small talk with anyone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t even know the names of most of the staff he has worked with for the last ten years.
“What else?” he commands.
I pause, wondering if I missed a patient on our list, but when I scan the names and room numbers, I’m sure I covered everyone. “What else is there?” I ask with hesitation.
He sighs heavily, pausing briefly to toss his coffee cup in the nearest garbage bin as we take the final steps to the first floor. He punches the gray automatic door button with the side of his fist and the double doors to the ER swing open on us. “Well, we are about to round on a seven-year-old boy with abdominal pain; I would have hoped you knew that.”
I’ve already consulted on this patient; a young boy came in through the ER early this morning with intense abdominal pain. Imaging showed a ruptured appendix, and we bumped back our first scheduled case so his operation could be completed first.
A majority of the patients I’ve worked with in residency have been children. While some surgeons, if they aren’t in a pediatrics specialty, cringe at the thought of operating on a child, it’s what I’m used to. The resilience of some of the children I have seen over the years still breaks my heart. Kids that don’t know any other life besides pain or poverty will come to our makeshift clinic unable to walk because of infection or deformity and are so grateful for any support we can offer.
Mothers will traipse down the muddy mountainside to carry their child to the port, all with the hopes of getting basic care for what we would consider a life-threatening infection. The children are so brave. My heart broke with every child we saw, but their strength was enough to simultaneously break my heart and fuel the fire within me to keep going.
“I did.” I don’t give him time to venture into whatever asshole comment he was about to fire off. “Charlie Smith, woke up with severe abdominal pain and vomiting. Parents brought him to the ER around 0400 today. Ultrasound showed—”
He halts his stride and turns toward me with his hands on his hips. “Ultrasound? Why didn’t you order a CT for what is bound to be a ruptured appendix?”
I prop my hands on my hips, mirroring his position. “Because he’s seven and I wanted to avoid radiation and contrast dye if I could. Ultrasound gave us the same results. He’s running a fever, vomiting, has elevated WBC and CRP, the CT would have been overkill.”
His jaw flexes back and forth for a moment, nostrils flaring, and while he’s been lukewarm with me since the day we met, he hasn’t yet ripped me a new one in front of a crowd. Today might be the day.
“He’s a kid,” I say again, my voice a little softer this time. “We both know the diagnosis is obvious. Less invasive first, always. I won’t budge on that.”
Colt’s eyes bore into me, and I force my gaze to meet his. I dig my fingers into my hips, begging the faint tremble that’s been plaguing me all morning to stop, or at least stay small enough he won’t notice. He opens his mouth to speak, but he is interrupted by the sound of retching coming from the glass door at our side. He tilts his head to the right, my cue to enter the room first.
With a hesitant knock, I rap my knuckles on the glass and reach for a clean blue puke bag as I enter the room. I pull the curtain back, and my heart immediately aches at the sight of the little boy lying in the hospital bed with his mom curled up behind him. She rubs his back in soothing, gingerly strokes as his dad is on his other side, holding a plastic tub in front of his son.
“Hi, Charlie,” I say in my most calm voice. “I’m Dr. Keeton, this is Dr. Andrews; it sounds like you’re feeling pretty crummy, hey?”
Charlie slowly nods his head, his pale face nearly transparent in the dim morning light. His mom reaches out a hand, and I shake hers firmly before turning to shake his father’s hand. Dr. Andrews does the same as I take a seat at the foot of the bed, giving Charlie and his parents a brief overview of what the test results showed. During my early morning meeting with them, I let them know what was suspected, but this is the first time they are hearing it confirmed and finding out that Charlie will be going into surgery in a few minutes.
“Dr. Andrews and I promise to take great care of you. You’ll get to take a short nap, and when you wake up, I think you’ll feel a lot better.”
Charlie’s face stays flat, not feeding into my optimism. I see a sliver of blue plastic underneath the hospital blanket and reach a hand up to playfully peek under the fabric by his shoulder. “Who do we have tucked under here?” He adjusts his arm, letting the blanket fall and reaching the other hand to grasp his toy, lifting it for my reveal.
“Don’t judge me, I’m a little rusty with my Transformers, but this is…” I take in the blue helmet, the red body armor, and rack my brain for the memory.
I almost choke on my own saliva when the voice behind me booms, “Optimus Prime.”
Charlie smiles as he looks past me to where Dr. Andrews is standing, and his mom chuckles at the sight.
“Optimus Prime, that’s it! Would it make you feel better if Optimus Prime could come with you in the room when we fix your belly?”
I faintly hear Dr. Andrews clear his throat behind me, probably looking for me to turn so he can shake his head no, but that’s not his choice. While the actual table in the operating room and sterile field is serious business, letting Optimus Prime stand on the circulating nurses' desk won’t cause any harm. Dr. Grump can chill out.
Charlie nods, and I reach a hand out to squeeze his leg. “Today is your lucky day, Charlie. Optimus Prime is Dr. Andrews’ favorite superhero of all time. Having him in the room with us will give the extra strength we need to make sure your surgery is perfect.” I stand from his bed and turn to his parents. “They will come to get you in a few minutes to take you to pre-op.” Pointing a finger at Optimus, I tell Charlie, “Remember to bring that guy, we might need his power in there.” I ask Charlie’s parents if they have any other questions, and when they shake their heads no, I excuse myself and turn to leave the room.
I reach out to grab some hand sanitizer and slowly rub it between my palms. I continue to walk out of the room, feeling the heat radiating from Dr. Andrews’ body with each step. Once we are out of earshot from the family, he grips my elbow to halt my steps.
“I don’t allow toys in my OR.”
I feign surprise at his gruff words, letting my bottom lip pop open. “But I thought Optimus Prime was your favorite superhero?”
His grip on my elbow tightens and he pulls me to the side out of the walkway.
I pull my elbow from his grasp, shooting him a dirty look. “It’s not like I promised him Optimus Prime would hold the scalpel for Christ’s sake. It’ll sit ten feet away on the nurses’ desk, right next to the pen and clipboard they bring in from the outside. We aren’t breaking any laws by giving the kid a little sense of peace before he goes under anesthesia. Why is this such a big deal?”
Colt looks to the side, his gaze softening a little as he works his jaw back and forth.
“Do you have a prejudice against Transformers?”
He tilts his head toward me to offer a very annoyed eye roll.
“Or did I get it wrong? Your favorite is Bumblebee, isn’t it?”
I swear I see a hint of a smile about to burst from his lips, but he quickly schools his expression and clears his throat. “I wouldn’t classify a Transformer as a superhero.”
My eyes bulge at the sight of him actually cracking a joke. “I would argue that anyone who saves the world is a superhero.”
His nostrils flare slightly as he tempers another smile. He stares at me for so long that his gaze then morphs from that familiar annoyance into something else. Something I'm not afraid of, but it's just as dangerous. It's something that has a blush blooming across my chest, and I can feel it begin to crawl up my neck. He must notice it too, because I swear I can see the corner of his mouth twitch in satisfaction. We stare off in silence, our hidden smiles begging to burst until a nurse passes by us, and we move out of her way. I offer a hello, and she responds with a good morning to the both of us, and of course Colt doesn’t return the greeting.
“Let’s go,” he barks, that grumpy shield coming back up as he storms down the hallway. “If you’re so confident Optimus Prime will help us in the OR, then you can take the lead on his surgery.”
Thank God his back is to me; I wouldn’t want him to see the mix of excitement and nervous anticipation fueling me as my jaw falls open. I’ve assisted in countless appendix removals, both laparoscopic and open, but always as an assistant, usually cleaning up and closing the cavity. This opportunity is everything.
I quickly tap my watch, checking my numbers and wondering if I have enough time to stop for a quick snack before the case starts. But when I hear a throat clearing and look up to see Colt standing by the bank of elevators, holding the door open as a foot taps impatiently, I see my answer written on his irritated face.