14. Keeley
KEELEY
O n Monday night, a bed arrives for him, oversized, just like he is. The next night it’s a desk and dresser. On Wednesday, I’ve just carried three Amazon packages addressed to him upstairs and collapsed on the couch when he texts.
Graham: Everything okay?
I suppose he deserves a point or two for not going straight to the real question— how is the fruit of my loins? But I’m exhausted and cranky and wondering how much more of an imposition it will be to have him here when he’s managing to impose so much from three thousand miles away.
Me: What goes better with pinot? S’mores or Reese’s Pieces?
Graham: Keeley.
Me: FFS. It was a joke. Your kid is fine.
But Jesus…if he’s this annoying from a distance, what happens when he’s actually here? I barely have the energy to put up with myself at the end of the day, much less him.
I wake Sunday, determined to get the apartment together before he arrives—not because I care about making him feel comfortable here, but simply to present myself as a normal, well-adjusted adult who doesn’t need his help.
Once I’ve had my Sunday muffin and forced myself to drink some green juice, I go to the grocery store where I buy a bunch of food that looks awful but with which Graham can’t find fault.
By the time I’ve lugged it all from my car, I’m exhausted and sink onto the couch, telling myself I’ll put it away in a minute.
I immediately fall asleep, of course.
When my ringing phone wakes me, I have no idea how long I was out, but because I’m on call, I have to go rushing over to Cedars-Sinai, where one of Dr. Joliet’s patients has just shown up.
Marissa Anderson is a character actress.
Though I can’t remember the name of a single show she’s been on, you’d think she was Meryl Streep based on how imperious she is when I enter the room.
The incision from her Mohs’ surgery has split open, and it wasn’t my shoddy handiwork that’s put her in this position, but she’s going to make sure I suffer for it.
“Where’s Dr. Joliet?” she demands.
I force a smile. “She’s off today. I’m the one on call, but I promise I’ll get you out of here fast.”
“I was told I couldn’t even speak for two days and it still split open!” she says as I inject lidocaine into her nose.
I’d like to tell her that the y-fold on her nose broke open because it was poorly done in the first place and that the next time she needs Mohs surgery, she should go to an expert, not the bitch who does her Botox every three months.
“These things happen,” I say instead.
“So now I go for another two days without talking? I can’t take the rest of my life off work!”
“Ideally, yes. You don’t want to put too much pressure on this until the stitches have done what they need to do.” I get the feeling she still wants an apology from me, but I’m not in the mood to provide it. Besides, I doubt she’s working all that much.
I’m mid-stitch when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I know it’s Graham, and he’s probably at my door, and if I wait even the five minutes this will take to finish, he’s going to have a fit.
I ask the nurse to grab it for me. She holds it in front of my face so I can read the text, which is, of course, from Graham. And he does, of course, sound irked.
“Can you tell him the key’s under the mat?” I ask.
Marissa’s eyes narrow. “You still keep a key under the mat? In LA? Are you sure you’re a doctor?”
Sigh. You, Marissa, are no more surprised than I am .
Once Marissa’s sewn up and leaves, giving me one last dirty look, I go to the nurses’ station to chat with everyone.
“I assume Dr. Patel is still torturing residents?” I ask the head nurse.
“Only his favorites,” she replies with a grin. “I think he misses you.”
I laugh. “Right. Patel tormented me my last six months here.”
“I don’t think he meant to.” She must not be much of a judge of character.
They tell me about who’s sleeping together and the craziest things that have happened and I realize how much I’ve missed this.
I loved the bizarre diagnoses, the nuttiest patient interactions.
I thought I wanted the ease of a private practice—that it meant choosing the kind of cases I’d take, setting my own schedule, and not being at someone’s beck and call—but it’s none of those things.
I’ve got a full load of patients angry they keep getting pushed onto a new doctor, and they’re all the same type of patient.
There is no longer any variety to my day, and there is nothing to solve, which is far more boring than I realized.
I’m on my way out when Dr. Joliet calls. I half expect an apology for making me deal with her shoddy handiwork.
“Did you take a call in the middle of stitching my patient up?” she demands instead.
“No,” I say flatly. “I did not.”
“Well, Marissa said you did. And that you were brusque and unprofessional and appeared put-out that you had to come in. This isn’t the kind of experience our patients expect, Keeley.”
My eyes sting and it’s not because I can’t defend myself. It’s simply that I miss the hospital, I’m really sick of the job I just started, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about any of it.
No one is going to hire a six-month pregnant woman who left her first real job after a month. No one.
“Okay,” I say. “Sorry.”
Patel was a nightmare. I’m not sure Fox and Joliet are any better.
I order a pizza because I’m starving, and there’s no way I’m cutting up kale and grilling chicken now, not that the food would still be good anyway.
Nothing about today has gone to plan: no cooking, no cleaning, no getting us off on the right foot.
I’m tired, but above all, I’m sad. I hadn’t realized how much I enjoyed the camaraderie of the hospital, how much I’d miss the noise, the mild chaos, the intrigue.
And…it’s Sunday. I just want to eat and relax and watch The Kardashians, and now I’ve got to deal with Graham Fucking Tate instead.
At least I was never nice to him in the first place, so he won’t expect much.
I arrive home to discover my apartment completely junked up with boxes, a situation I can’t say too much about since I completely junked it up with a week’s worth of food I never put away.
And the clothes I’ve strewn around here…
Oh my God, the clothes. Even I am embarrassed, and that’s saying a lot.
If I weren’t pregnant, I’d be racing around right now, picking up the skirts, blouses, and bras that are draped across every surface.
I’d be throwing out the now-spoiled chicken and the now-defrosted supergreens packs.
But…I’m just too tired and too hungry, and I can’t decide if I want to curl up on the couch and take a nap or demolish a bowl of cereal, so I settle for curling up on the couch with a box of Lucky Charms held to my chest like a favorite stuffed animal.
Which is when Graham walks in.
He’s in a t-shirt and deeply in need of a shave.
My eyes are drawn, involuntarily, to the bulge of his biceps and triceps as he sets two boxes stacked one atop the other on the floor.
I picture those arms braced on either side of my head, his brow damp like it is right now. His jaw tense as he tries not to come.
It must be the pregnancy hormones, but man are they packing a wallop right now.
“Hey, roomie,” I say, popping a handful of Lucky Charms in my mouth as he turns to me.
“Hey.” His face is stern as his gaze drops to the cereal, no hint of a smile. “Is that your dinner?”
“A, they’re healthy because they have the gross non-marshmallow bits. And B, I ordered a pizza, but I’m starving.”
Just as his mouth opens to comment on this, the doorbell rings. I start to climb to my feet but he waves me down. “I’ll get it.”
When he sets my pizza and garlic knots on the table, I grab a slice straight from the box.
“Do you not have plates?” he asks.
I groan around the cheese and bread in my mouth. Nothing has ever tasted better than this first bite of pizza. “Too hungry. Cabinet.”
He crosses the kitchen and flings open doors. “You shouldn’t let yourself get that hungry.”
“I didn’t have a choice…I was in the middle of making something when I got called into the hospital.” It’s sort of true.
He takes the seat across from mine and hands me a plate before opening the pizza box. He has a burn mark on his forearm, one I never noticed before. Maybe he left his abacus sitting in the sun too long.
“Can’t they cut you some slack, given the situation?” His eyes fall to my stomach, the way they do every time he sees me, as if he still can’t quite believe there’s actually a baby in there.
I reach for a second slice. “They don’t know yet. I need them to see that the baby won’t change anything.”
“Keeley, the baby’s going to change everything .” He leans back in his seat, a beleaguered sigh on his lips. “What do you think will happen when you don’t come home on time? No nanny is going to be as flexible as your job seems to demand of you.”
The pizza has become a lumpy mass in my mouth, and if he weren’t here, I’d just spit it out. A nanny ? I can’t afford a fucking nanny. Just the thought of what that must cost makes me feel like I’m going to throw up.
Am I really going to spend all day at a job I hate, taking endless shit from Drs. Fox and Joliet about my unbelted cardigans and my perceived attitude, just so I can hand the entire paycheck over to a woman who gets to stay home with my baby?
“You’ll be on maternity leave,” he continues, “but when you get back, you’ll need set hours afterward. Plus, there are endless pediatric visits with a newborn. You’re going to need to—”
“Stop,” I whisper. Nothing he’s saying is wrong, but I really don’t want to think about it right now, and knowing I’ll have to face it all—and soon—hammers home how insane this whole thing is.
Maternity leave? Set hours? I can just picture Dr. Fox’s face when I attempt to ask for either of those things.
How did I ever think this would work out?
There’s no way I’m going to be a decent parent and Graham is here solely to remind me. And probably to document it, too, so the first second we can’t compromise, he’ll say, “we’ll see what the court thinks” and produce a long list of my mistakes.
I push away from the table because I’ll be damned if I’m going to cry in front of him.
“I’ll just clean up then,” he says from behind, voice rife with sarcasm.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, slamming the door behind me.