FIFTY-NINE
CALLUM
The boxes sit in the corner of my childhood bedroom.
Four days back in Sydney, and I’ve barely made a dent. Just cords, old textbooks, a few framed photos. Each one that’s sealed feels less like progress and more like a countdown.
It’s not just the packing. The meeting with Leith’s friend went well. Productive, professional—but draining. Finalizing the sale, the move, and the logistics of it all makes it feel real.
Lying on the bed, I stare at the streetlight patterns on the ceiling, the ache of missing home—her—settling in my chest. I unlock my phone, thumb hovering over Jordie’s contact, when it vibrates in my hand.
Her name lights up, paired with the ridiculous photo of her, face squished against a window like a tragic goldfish.
I answer straight away.
“Jordie, I was just about to text you.”
“Guess I saved you the effort.” Her voice is light, teasing.
She proceeds to tell me about her lunch (asparagus quiche) and the unfortunate aftermath (asparagus-scented pee), then detours into a rant about The Wheel of Time adaptation and her absolutely-not-platonic crush on Daniel Henney.
It’s the happiest she’s sounded in weeks. And part of me braces for impact because when Jordie sounds okay, it’s usually her cover for anything but.
Then she volunteers, too casually, “I saw Dr. Krishna today.”
That’s new. Normally, getting Jordie to talk about her health is like chiseling a secret out of stone.
“How’d it go?”
She gives me the full rundown. Low hemoglobin. Iron is not great. Infusion booked. Pills to help regulate. More scans soon. Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact, and I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until she shifts gears without missing a beat.
“Also, Leith said my yellow dress made me look like a walking mustard bottle. Which is rude because that dress is cute.”
She’s sharing again. Just like that.
Then, her voice softens. “If you call tomorrow and I don’t pick up, don’t freak out.”
“Why? What’s happening tomorrow?”
A beat of hesitation. “I’ve got another appointment.”
Alarm prickles beneath my ribs. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” No defensiveness. Only quiet steadiness. “I’m seeing a psychologist.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You mean, what’s not wrong?” she answers with a dry laugh. “Anyway, I just want to figure some things out. To be better. For me.” Then, softer, “And for the people around me.”
Her voice warms something deep in my chest. Jordie doesn’t do feelings, not easily. Not with me. Not with anyone. But now she’s letting me in.
“Alright,” she says, “I’m going to bed. And yes, before you ask, I took my meds.”
“Good,” I say softly. “I’m proud of you.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Hotshot,” she says quietly.
“Night, Goblin Queen.”
I think she’s hung up. But then, almost shy, “I miss you.”
I swallow hard, caught off guard. I don’t know if it’s because she said it or because of how easily she did.
Her words slide through the phone, threading into every space I didn’t realize felt hollow. “I miss you too, Jordie.”
JORDIE
call you later. psychologist clinic. got a hot date.
I smile at that, pocket my phone, and adjust my cuffs.
Don’t tell her quite yet that I’ve got one too.
The woman at the front desk glances up as I approach, all sleek black tailoring and calm professional efficiency.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon,” I say, summoning a smile I hope reads as charming rather than visibly moments away from cardiac arrest. “For Callum Han.”
She checks something on the screen, then nods. “Wonderful. Your table is this way.”
I follow her through the restaurant. Everything is muted and polished—low amber lighting, white linen, the quiet pour of wine. Conversations murmur softly around us, broken now and then by the clink of porcelain.
From the far corner of the room, I spot a man. Jacket off. Sleeves neat. Silver just starting at the temples. He looks exactly like the sort of person who has spent three decades being the smartest man in the room and no longer feels obligated to pretend otherwise.
He glances up from his phone, and his face breaks into a smile just as my stomach erupts into butterflies.
“Ah, Callum,” he says, warm and dry all at once. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
He extends a hand. I take it. Firm shake. Professional. Pray my palm isn’t sweating through my skin.
“Pleasure’s all mine, Dr. Vandrell.”
His mouth twitches. “Soren, if we’re eating.”
Right. Of course. Casual. Normal. I’m having lunch with one of the most respected names in anesthesia, and he would like me to call him Soren, as though I’m not one compliment away from levitating into the ceiling.
“Please, take a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite. “We have a lot to talk about.”
Somewhere between the entrées and the first glass of wine, I stop feeling like I’m one misplaced fork away from public humiliation.
Soren Vandrell is nothing like the severe journal headshots I once pinned to my registrar years ago.
He’s drier in person. Funnier, too. The kind of man who can dismantle an entire funding committee with one raised eyebrow and a sentence so polite it takes a second to realize you’ve just witnessed a murder.
“. . . and then he had the gall to say the sample size was ‘ambitious,’” Vandrell says, cutting neatly into his fish. “Which, coming from a man whose entire career rests on a retrospective chart review and confidence, was almost art.”
I laugh into my glass before I can stop myself.
We’ve talked about colleagues, conference politics, the quiet stupidity of metropolitan specialists who make speeches about regional medicine like it’s a charity project, and the fact that conference coffee appears to be funded by active malice.
Then Vandrell sets his cutlery down and leans back.
“How’s the QI project on analgesia pathways in outpatient gynecology progressing?”
“We’re in the pilot phase. Survey data, patient-reported pain, tolerability, satisfaction, whether the protocol is actually changing the experience in a meaningful way.”
He nods once, eyes on me. “And?”
I glance down at my wineglass, then back up.
“And I believe it matters,” I say. “Women’s pain is still under-measured, under-treated, and too often dismissed because it’s familiar. Especially in outpatient settings. We expect them to tolerate too much, and we call that normal because it’s efficient.”
Vandrell’s expression doesn’t change, but something in it sharpens.
I keep going.
“I wanted something clinicians could actually use. Something that makes the procedure easier to get through, yes—but also makes women feel like the pain they’re reporting is real enough to count.”
For a moment, the only sound between us is the low murmur of the room and the faint clink of glass from somewhere behind me.
“That,” he says, “is precisely why I wanted to speak to you.”
I don’t move.
He reaches for his glass, takes a measured sip.
“The clinical logic is sound. The patient-reported component is stronger than most people would bother with. And the question itself is overdue.” He tilts his head.
“Far too many people in this field still treat women’s procedural pain as unfortunate background noise rather than something worth measuring properly. ”
I appear to have misplaced every available sentence.
Vandrell either notices or takes pity on me.
“Obviously,” he says, “you’re nowhere near broad implementation. Not yet. You need more data. Stronger numbers. Something harder for the usual idiots to ignore.”
That, at least, I can respond to. “Yes.”
“But,” he says, folding his hands on the table, “I would be very interested in adapting elements of it for the women’s procedures unit at St. Vincent’s.”
I stare at him.
He goes on as though he hasn’t just reached across the table and rewired my central nervous system.
“I have a speaking event in Melbourne later this year. I’d like to reference your QI project.”
I clear my throat. “You’d . . . cite it?”
“Yes.” He says it like it’s obvious. “You should join me.”
I drag a hand over my jaw, buying myself half a second to not look like I’m having a private religious experience over the duck confit.
“That’s . . .” I shake my head once. “That’s an incredible opportunity.”
“No,” Vandrell says. “It’s a practical one. Good work should travel.”
Vandrell studies me for a beat, then leans back again.
“Trevor always did have an eye for talent,” he says. “He can be harsh, but only because he knows when something’s worth sharpening.”
My throat tightens.
He lifts his glass, almost amused now.
“Honestly, I wish I’d got to you first. I would’ve retired as Director on your coattails.” A pause. “Trevor’s one lucky bastard.”