Chapter 17
Sydney
Sitting in the hospital atrium behind the cafeteria, I try to enjoy my salad with the limited time I have. This day’s been a complete shit show.
First, the pathology report came back on a sweet fifty-seven-year-old single mother of three. I was really hoping I was wrong. But it appears she has lymphoma.
After breaking that bit of great news, I found myself playing catch up all morning. My first surgical case of the day was twenty minutes late. Then, after rushing back to the clinic, that patient left because they didn’t want to wait any longer. Only to have each subsequent patient arrive at least ten minutes late, pushing the entire day’s schedule behind.
I probably should’ve skipped lunch, but I look forward to this short moment of solitude all day. Solitude. Don’t I get enough of that at home?
Swallowing a sip of water before stabbing another fork full of salad, I push my earbuds in further and listen to the voice on the Italian language learning app.
“Da che parte si trova il bagno. Which way is the restroom?” I roll my eyes. “Geez. That’s a mouthful.” How about restroom? I type the word into the app. “Il bagno.” I giggle. “Now that’s better.” I probably need to stick with learning nouns and worry about simple sentences later. I wish I could’ve recorded the things Matteo would say to me in Italian. I could play the tape into this app and finally discover what he was saying. I snicker at the thought of the app creating the x-rated translations. Heck, my phone might catch fire.
Pushing the tines of my fork through another hunk of lettuce, I peer up, feeling that odd sensation of being watched return. Several of the hospital staff dressed in scrubs and lab coats walk by carrying to-go containers. Others, more likely patients and family, mingle around tables holding trays of food. Occasionally, someone looks in my direction, but it’s more of a passing glance.
The ones who eye me are most likely thinking I’m listening to music or an audiobook. If they consider me at all.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
The unexpected sound of my phone makes me jump in my seat. I thought I had the do-not-disturb on.
“Hello.”
“Darling. You never call anymore. I was starting to worry you were dead.”
That’s a bit extreme. Even for her. “Hi, Mom. Sorry. Just really busy at work. And it was my weekend to be on call, so thought I’d reach out in a few days.” Not really. But I can’t be bothered to come up with anything else on the fly. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” Her snooty voice repeats. For gosh sakes. Can’t she carry on a normal conversation for once? Do we really need to put on airs and graces with each other? Especially when I have a very short period of time for lunch today. Not that she could relate. I think my mother and her ladies who lunch likely make it an afternoon affair.
“Was there a reason you called?” I ask, trying not to get scolded for munching the iceberg lettuce too loudly in her ear. I’m sure she’d be eating spinach or kale salad. Nothing as pedestrian as iceberg.
“I’m not allowed to call and speak with my only daughter?”
Do I have to answer this? “Of course, Mother. I’m sorry. You simply caught me during my lunch break. It’s been a particularly busy—”
“There is a charity gala being held here in the city next month. Your father bought three tickets. It’s supporting the new surgical wing at Mt. Sinai. We thought this would be the perfect opportunity to introduce our daughter to the prominent physicians who are sponsoring this event. It might be a good fit for you. You could return home and work, if that’s what you want to do.”
If what’s what I want to do? Work after putting myself through twelve years of college? Or perhaps she means if returning home is what I want to do. That would be a firm no.
“Winslow Harrington will be in attendance. He was kind enough to share that he’d be honored to escort you to the gala, dear.”
Yuck. That guy. He’s honestly one of the most pretentious, dull men I’ve ever met. The last time I got stuck talking to him at a function, I almost fell asleep standing up. Having a conversation with him is like watching paint dry. No, thank you.
Hmm. Wonder how I say that in Italian? “No, grazie. Ah, that one isn’t bad.”
“What was that, dear?”
Oops. “Oh, nothing. Listen. I’ve got to get back to work. Can I call you this weekend?” If I have to. I roll my eyes.
“Yes, Sydney. Don’t forget.”
“Okay.” I will. “Talk to you then.” I quickly disconnect the call before she can come up with something else.
Gathering my things, I stand from the bistro table and head to the trash can to dispose of the remainder of my lunch. Apprehension again skates down my spine as if I’m being watched. Maybe it’s because I’m in this atrium with everyone else inside.
Swinging the glass door open and stepping into the air-conditioned hallway, my shoulders relax. I head to the stairwell, catching sight of a gentleman in a black suit and sunglasses, speaking into a mouthpiece. He looks like a security officer of some sort. Has something happened on hospital property?
I take the stairs up to the third floor, hoping the afternoon patients will be a little more punctual. My mind races, continuing to tease out different scenarios. Clearly, I have too much time on my hands. Maybe there’s some big celebrity who has been admitted here. That’d be exciting. I’m sure the likelihood of that happening at a place like Mt. Sinai is much more probable than St. Luke’s hospital in Hanover.
My mother’s earlier conversation comes back to me. The thought of her pushing her Winslow Harrington agenda when I call this weekend still very unappealing. Suddenly, a thought crosses my mind that makes me laugh. Perhaps I should share that I can’t go with Winslow.
Because I’m still married.