Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
AZARA
I had never dreaded going to work the way I did nowadays.
I’d been working with Dr. Young for a little over five months now and not a single day went by that my mind didn’t dream up different scenarios on how to get rid of someone for good while also inflicting him with the most pain.
I wasn’t a violent person by nature, but it was the only way I could quiet the other images swarming my thoughts any chance they got. The fact that we were in constant proximity, practically joined at the hip every day, and that his flirtations hadn’t ceased from the moment we met surely didn’t help with that.
Let’s not forget the almost kiss before Marcella walked in on you both, my mind reminded me.
Shut up.
Brilliant, I was talking to myself again.
I shoved my feet into my clogs, slammed my locker door shut and made my way to the ward, hoping the busy day ahead of me would keep my mind preoccupied. And fortunately for me, I had no surgeries scheduled with Michael until tomorrow.
Just six more months. Six more months before I’d finally complete my surgical training and I’d no longer have to operate with a senior surgeon. Which meant no more operating with him.
A small, subtle wave of disappointment joined the usual relief I felt when I thought about finally accomplishing what I’d spent the last seven years training toward.
Shaking my head at the absurdity, I stepped off the lift and onto the surgical floor, heading for the nursing station. Since I was early, the floor was quieter than usual and there were only a few overnight nurses present, busy charting.
I didn’t recognize any of them, but when they looked up, I smiled and waved good morning. However, when our eyes met, their expressions faltered and their responses were short before they focused back on their task, effectively ignoring me.
That’s odd.
I ignored it and went on with my day, blaming it on the early hour.
But then it kept happening everywhere I went.
During my morning rounds on the ward.
When I grabbed a latte from the cafeteria.
As I walked into my first surgery of the day.
People, even the ones I’d always gotten along with, were distant and avoiding me everywhere I went. I started wondering if I’d done something wrong, but ended up convincing myself that my mind was playing tricks on me from an exhausting week and I had a packed schedule of back to back surgeries and didn’t have time to ruminate or second-guess myself.
By the time I finished my third surgery of the day, it was just past two in the afternoon. I had about an hour free before my next procedure, so I decided to head to my father’s office for lunch, passing by the cafeteria to grab us something to eat since I was almost certain he hadn’t eaten all day.
Always too caught in his work to think about feeding himself.
Not that I was much better, but with my diabetes, I’d tried to do my best to at least eat enough to avoid a hypoglycemic episode. The only person that knew about my diagnosis aside from my father was Marcella, our surgical coordinator, and I intended to keep it that way.
I wasn’t ashamed of it at all, but whenever someone discovered I had an autoimmune disease, they started acting differently and treating me like I was fragile.
Which I hated.
My pancreas just didn’t work like everyone else’s, I wasn’t dying or contagious.
Only a few people were roaming around the halls as I made my way toward my father’s office. There was an unusual heaviness in the air, but with the day I’d had, I ignored it again.
I needed for this day to be over already.
When I reached his office, I knocked once with my free hand, before cracking the door open and coming inside.
“Hey, I thought we could have lunch…” My words trailed off when I looked up to find the room empty.
I knew I hadn’t gotten his schedule wrong because we were in the middle of the week. He should be here.
I walked further into the eerily quiet room and rounded his desk, placing the sandwiches and waters down on it. I then grabbed his planner to see if maybe he was in a meeting that I hadn’t known about, but when I flipped it to today’s page, I found his schedule clear.
My brows furrowed as my eyes roamed around the room. It looked like he hadn’t even been in yet. Confused, I pulled out my phone from my scrub’s pocket and texted him.
Me: Hey, baba. I’m in your office for lunch, finek? 1 ?
I hit send and waited for the two check marks to appear beneath the message, confirming it had been delivered. But it didn’t happen. I followed up with another text message, thinking the first one might just still be processing.
Me: Baba? Wach nta flkhadma? 2 ? Are you okay? Did you get another one of your colds?
I knew we were in June, but for some reason this man always got sick when the temperature changed often like it had over the last two weeks and he never prepared for it.
I watched my screen intently, yet still nothing. My messages not only went unanswered—which never happened, my father always replied almost instantly to my texts—but they weren’t even being delivered.
A knot settled in my stomach as a wave of panic creeped in.
No.
I took a deep breath and shoved the paranoid feelings away, knowing I was being ridiculous for letting myself jump to the worst conclusion.
My father was fine. He had to be.
Opting for the rational route, I headed two floors down where the operating theaters were. It was one of the few areas in the hospital where phone service was spotty and the only other place I could think of where my father could be.
He often went there to either check on other surgeons or perform a surgery himself. Although most medical directors stopped operating after taking on the role because of the busy schedule and all the responsibilities that came with it, my father refused to give it up. So he still occasionally took on cases to stay connected with his first love—operating.
I stopped by the large whiteboard where all scheduled surgeries were displayed, and searched for his name. After my third time scanning every single slot on the board and not finding his name, the dread I’d felt earlier surged again and this time, I couldn’t ignore it.
My heart pounded in my chest as the worst case scenarios flooded my mind.
Where is my father?
This was so unlike him to disappear and not answer my messages. After my mum died, we’d made it a point to never miss a text or phone call and if we did, we immediately called to reassure the other.
I checked my phone again, thinking I might have missed his reply but there were no new notifications.
God, please let him be okay.
I tried to control the fear gnawing at my insides, but it was no use as I darted from theater to theater, checking each one and hoping I’d just missed his name on the board.
Still no signs of him.
I was about to break down in the middle of the hallway, when I finally saw Lucia coming out of one of the small resting rooms. She’d been my father’s assistant for almost a decade, so if someone knew where he was, it’d be her. She was heading for the lifts on the opposite side from where I stood.
“Lucia,” I called out her name, my voice shaking.
She glanced over her shoulder as I hurried toward her. The moment her eyes met mine, the color drained from her face and her features sported an expression I’d grown woefully familiar with over the last several hours.
I was about to lose it. Why the fuck was everyone looking at me like that today?
“Oh, Dr. Ziani,” she stuttered, her voice cracking as she shifted her weight.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but have you seen my father?” I asked, my nerves on edge.
“Your father, oh, he…” Her eyes darted away from mine, her fingers fidgeting with the papers in her hands as she tried to finish her sentence.
Dread pooled down my spine at her aversion. “Lucia,” I said, my voice tight. “Where’s my dad?”
An unsettling silence suffocated the space between us as I waited for her answer. Her gaze flickered nervously as people passed us by, curious glances shot our way before they scurried away.
I swear if no one tells me what’s going on…
“Lucia, could you please look at me?” I asked, barely recognizing the hopelessness in my voice. After a long pause, she finally did, her eyes filled with sorrow. “Listen, everyone’s been acting strange today, and now you’re doing the same. So please just tell me what’s going on?”
Lucia shifted on her feet, biting her lip. She gave me an apologetic look before delivering the staggering news. One I’d never anticipated in a million years.
“Your father resigned from Amanar earlier today.”
My fingers gripped the steering wheel of my car tightly, my knuckles turning white as I turned onto my father’s street. I headed down the road, faster than the limit permitted, and sharply pulled in front of my family’s townhouse.
After what Lucia confessed, I’d tried calling him so he could deny her inconceivable claims, but the line went straight to voicemail.
Every single time.
I still had a few other surgeries on my schedule, and I’d already been late to my next one, having completely lost track of time searching for my missing father.
I’d had to push away the fact that my dad, who adored his work and had dedicated over half of his life to it, had resigned without even telling me. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I couldn’t focus on any of it when I had patients counting on me.
So I did what any doctor would have done. I’d compartmentalized my personal feelings, had taken a steadying breath and had gotten back to work.
But as soon as I’d finished my last surgery, I’d grabbed my car keys from my locker and drove straight here, still in my hospital scrubs and cap, the scent of antiseptic clinging to me. I’d even forgotten to grab my bag which had my wallet.
Thankfully, I’d managed to make it here without getting arrested, though I was sure I’d broken a few speed limits along the way. The evening was well on its way when I threw the car in park and bolted out of it.
I marched up to the front door and knocked. When no one answered, I knocked a few more times, louder this time, the sharp sound reverberating in the quiet street.
“ Wa nari ? 3 ,” I heard my fathers voice curse behind the door, his footsteps shuffling closer. “I’m coming. There’s no need to knock this loud,” he groaned, his voice thick with frustration before the door creaked open.
“If you’re selling—” He cut himself off, his eyes widening when he noticed I was the impromptu visitor.
He hastily pulled his lounge robe tighter around his round belly. “Azara,” he stammered, pushing the frame of his glasses up his nose, “ benti , what are you doing here?”
I stood frozen in the doorway, shell shock at his disheveled appearance. His hair was a mess and his usually neatly groomed salt-and-pepper stubble had grown wild from the last time I’d seen him. I’d had the last four days off and hadn’t seen him since last week.
What the hell is going on?
My father was always put together. The only time I’d ever seen him like this was right after Mum died.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I said, brushing past him to step inside. “What are you doing at home on a weekday?”
The door clicked shut behind me. My father sighed heavily as I stopped in the middle of the living room. “Well,” he paused, clearly looking for an excuse. “I wasn’t feeling well, so I…”
I whipped around, cutting him off. “You resigned,” I said, sharply, not mincing my words. I’d never raised my voice against my father, but I hated being lied to. Let alone by my own father.
He pointed his finger at me, a scolding expression on his face. “Watch your tone when you speak to me,” he said, berating me.
“I will, once you tell me what’s going on. I’ve spent all day garnering people’s pity while I had no clue what was happening, until Lucia blindsided me with the news that you’d quit your job.”
He sat down heavily in one of the armchairs facing me, his shoulders slumping as he exhaled a frustrated breath. “I was going to tell you,” he declared, his tone apologetic.
I didn’t move, standing stiffly in front of him. The hope I’d been holding on to withered with his admission because it cemented that these weren’t just rumors.
My father really had resigned from his post.
My earlier confusion only grew further and mixed with a sudden and unwelcomed indignation. “Really? When exactly? When were you going to tell me? You just… quit. When did you even start thinking of doing so? We could have discussed it, or at least you could have warned me. ”
He shook his head slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation at my onslaught of questions. “It was my decision to make, Azara. I don’t have to tell you everything.” His tone grew unexpectedly harsher with each word.
The weight of his words felt like a cold, jarring wave. My father and I had shared everything for as long as I could remember. Yes, our relationship had changed after my mother passed, but he’d never shut me out like this before. We’d always been a team.
At least I’d thought so.
A feeling of abandonment started to creep in, a heavy knot tightening in my chest and my frustration slowly simmered into worry. “What’s going on, baba ?” My voice dimmed as I asked a question I dreaded most. There was only one other reason I could think of that would make him leave so abruptly. “Are you sick?”
I’d already lost a parent, I didn’t think I could bear losing another.
His brows furrowed in confusion. “What? No, I’m completely fine.”
Nothing was adding up. On my way here, I’d tried to come up with reasons as to why he’d leave but none of them made sense. He loved AGH, he’d dedicated so many years of his life to the place, so why on earth was he quitting? He always said he’d keep working there until he physically couldn’t anymore.
My shoulders fell, feeling utterly defeated. “Then why? Why are you leaving?”
“Because I decided to.”
“But this doesn’t make sense, you love the place. You said you’d never retire, that you’d?—”
His chair scraped abruptly against the floor as he stood, his face suddenly hardening with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. “Because I made my decision, Azara. End of discussion,” he spewed with an anger I’d never seen from him before.
My face fell, the sting of his demeanor cutting through me. My father had never yelled at me before, not even when times were hard. He’d always removed himself from the situation and came back later to finish whatever conversation we were having when he was calmer.
“ Baba… ” my voice faltered, unsure of what even to say with the mix of emotions battling inside me.
He didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. “Your brother will be home any minute now. You should leave before he sees you,” he said, clearly dismissing me.
I wanted to push him to talk to me, to make him tell me what was really going on. I wanted him to open up and share whatever it was that had driven him to make such a drastic decision. But I knew, deep down, that if I kept pushing, it would only drive him further away.
I tightly gripped the keys in my hand as my mind reeled with this new reality. I watched him for a moment. His tired eyes—eyes I hadn’t seen like that since Mum passed away—almost looked right through me.
I’d never seen my father look so… defeated. So lost.
Eventually, I nodded slowly and made my way toward the front door. But just before I left, I paused in front of him. When I looked up at him, he averted his gaze. I ignored the blooming pain in my chest from the rejection and stood on my tiptoes, brushing a soft kiss against his stubbled cheek.
“I wish you’d talked to me,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
And with that, I left.
I got into my car, and mindlessly drove home, my thoughts in disarray with the thousand questions left unanswered. I knew my dad wasn’t telling me the full truth. There had to be more to this, something deeper than what he was letting on because he wouldn’t just leave his beloved job so suddenly without a good reason.
He’d always been so protective over his career and the thought of retiring was nowhere near his plans the last time we’d spoken about it. The last time I’d even suggested he work less, he’d become our medical director.
So the idea of him walking away from all of it without a valid explanation was absolute nonsense.
But I would find out the reason behind my father’s resignation.
No matter how long it took.
1 ? Where are you? (Moroccan darija)
2 ? Are you at work? (Moroccan darija)
3 ? Oh my days (Moroccan darija)