Chapter 4
JUNIPER
“Just water for now, please.” I look toward the kind waitress, grateful she doesn’t pressure me to order more.
“Comin’ right up.”
It’s nearing five in the morning, and after spending most of the night tossing and turning, I couldn’t lie in bed any longer. Let alone settle in a new place.
I needed to move. To get some fresh air and let my mind breathe. Somehow. Some way. Before the sun rises or not.
Taking a walk around my new neighborhood was probably not the best idea this early, but it sounded good at the time.
It brought me here, after all.
I take in the half-lit sign through the window of my booth that once read “House of Bread” but now says “Ho of read.” Kinda sounds like a slutty bookshop.
Reason enough for me to love it here.
The diner is deserted, aside from me, a mom-and-pop duo manning the kitchen behind a wall that reminds me far too much of home. Not that it’s not clean inside. From what I can tell, it is.
I receive all the confirmation I need about this side of Atlanta being purebred Strikers country from the dated player memorabilia on the walls.
Team photos dating back to the early 1900s cover most of the drywall surface, with jerseys displayed in shadowbox frames and number patches plastered along the trim of the bar seating.
Ho of read must be a generational diamond in the rough.
Because, if I’m being honest, this place is dated.
Clean with care, yet hella aged in build.
Upon entering, I instantly noticed the clanky door covered in rust. Rust that WD-40 couldn’t hold a candle to.
It’s small in size, reminding me of the restaurants you see in old horror movies where you just know the main character will make it a point to go inside.
All signs scream that it’s a bad idea, yet they do it anyway.
Kinda like me, I suppose.
The leather booths making up the main seating area seem to have once been black but look gray from years of fading and wear.
There’s a bar top along the opposite side of the entry door with spinning barstools.
It’s eclectic and timeless. Homey in a way, but could also feel frightening depending on who’s observing.
Call it a gut feeling, but I get a strange sense of peace here.
I know if my father ever knew I was venturing to a run-down diner a few miles from home, he’d have a conniption fit.
The little diamond caught me by surprise.
And I live in a nice neighborhood. A really nice one, actually.
But I suppose one street off the beaten path can lead you anywhere.
I can pretend my being drawn here is a coincidence, but it’s not.
It’s exactly like the diner mom and I used to frequent before school every morning.
Before she gave up on herself and life. It’s one of the few times throughout my childhood I can recall nothing but positive memories.
Where it was just her and me, bright and early, before everyone else in the world was awake, talking about our day to come and all the reasons we were grateful to have each other.
My dad was a truck driver—still is—traveling across the country more often than not. So, most of the time, it was just me and mom. Solo trips to run-down diners were our thing. Well, in our case, one run-down diner.
Broken Egg.
Maybe House of Bread will be my new place.
I’m nervous about this new start, no matter how equipped I feel to be here.
I’m a damn good doctor. I know this and don’t need the reminder.
I’ve received Early Career Physicians Awards, public recognition for my bedside manner, and have the ability to act quickly under pressure.
But I think knowing I’m leaving behind a life that shaped me in more unfortunate ways than good scares me more than it should.
I’m not even sure it’s the new job that intimidates me.
I think it’s the place.
There’s a questionable lure of the unknown in Atlanta. A threat that change is coming, and maybe it’s in something unexpected. Something I hope to all things holy, I want. Maybe I just don’t know it yet.
I’m already dressed and ready for my first day of work.
I picked my lucky, teal sea turtle scrubs, the same ones that have stood the test of time throughout the toughest obstacles in my medical career.
A dark contrast compared to my typical all-black wardrobe.
My lucky trinket is tucked safely in my pocket, ready to bring on all the good juju of new beginnings.
I wouldn’t exactly call my personality colorful, much like my job description. It’s wild behavior for me to be the vibrant pediatrician, yet dress like an emo adult by night. Not really emo, but I feel most like myself in dark colors, aside from my cat-eye reading glasses.
It’s around the little rugrats that I break out the bright colors and disorderly prints. It’s fair to feel comparable to Hannah Montana, living the best of both worlds. I’m two people at once.
Except, I plan to fight the somberness right out of me, ready to cultivate new challenges and experiences that better myself. I need the drab side I cling to out of anxiety and restless fear to go away. Stepping into a place that’s familiar, whether exact or replicated, steadies me.
I have a new house, and a gorgeous one at that.
I bought it with my hard-earned money, and I deserve to appreciate it.
Who knows, maybe I’ll meet new friends and host weekly dinners or bonfires during the winter?
Or maybe I’ll finally start dating. God, I’d love to meet someone.
A stable man with enough confidence in what we have to handle being with a busy doctor.
Does he even exist? It’s like the second a nice guy learns about my career, he gets little-man syndrome and dips.
The nice guy could be the problem.
The waitress, whom I’ve now learned is named Wynonna, sets a glass of water in front of me and saunters toward what looks to be an old record player sitting on an idle shelf. I watch from a distance as she adjusts the arm, placing it in position against the record.
“Vienna” by Billy Joel sings out, and my heart settles.
I love this song. Not just the fact that it’s an oldie, but because of the soul it brings out of anyone who listens.
It represents moving forward and finding purpose, exactly how I am now.
I’m not sure if this is the divine intervention I needed to prepare me for the day ahead, but I’m excited for what’s in store.
Noticing the sun beginning to rise, I check my watch—it’s now 6 a.m. The office doesn’t open until eight, giving me plenty of time to walk back home for my car and head to open. I want to get there at least thirty minutes before the rest of the staff so I can properly introduce myself.
Most of them have been employees of the previous physician, Dr. Wolk, for years now, and I wouldn’t doubt it if they were dreading this change. I need to make a good impression, while also establishing my role in the most loving way possible.
That’s nothing a few dozen donuts can’t cure. I remember spotting a shop down the street from my house with a line out the door. Must be a decent sign.
With no time to spare, I toss a ten on the table and stand to leave. “Don’t be a stranger now, Junie,” Wynonna calls out, her Southern Georgia accent strong.
Junie. She called me Junie. I’ve been nicknamed by a woman I spoke all of six words to, one of which was telling her my name before requesting a water. I realize now that Wynonna wasn’t avoiding conversation with me by keeping her distance, but maybe she felt I needed this morning to myself.
And because of that, I smile and say, “See you tomorrow, Wynonna. Thanks for the water.”
This is my practice. My very own practice.
“Eeeeekkkk,” I screech without worry, turning to find my new office manager, Gabriella, staring back at me with a megawatt smile on her face.
Good. I’m glad she matches my energy today. We’re gonna need it.
“Big day, Dr. Wilde?”
“The best day,” I tell her confidently, standing in the middle of the waiting room. I can’t help but take in all the updates I’ve made so far. It took bringing in a team of people after hours while I was still moving myself out of Tennessee and trusting that they would do what I hired them for.
I won’t lie and say I had high hopes—I didn’t. My initial worry was that they’d take advantage of the woman who’s essentially paying them prior to completion of the job and also happens to be states away.
But one small victory for mankind, because the renovation crew exceeded my expectations and proved my prediction wrong.
With the previous owner building the practice from the ground up, it was evident that no true and much-needed upgrades were ever done. The bones, however, were perfect—proof that the new way of building things will never live up to the old. In my case, I’m grateful.
The walls have been painted a slate gray, moody and warm in feel. Hanging from the ceiling along the entire circumference of the main lobby area are three-dimensional clouds painted in a soft white. A glow of light shines behind each of them, illuminating the space.
I’ve always found bright lights to be harsh.
I’m hoping for calmness. Three TVs are placed at random corners, while tactile toys and brain gym operating systems cover the main wall, floor to mid-wall height.
All hands-on activities are more neutral in color, while the true statement piece is the neon rug placed at the very center of the room.
Shapes of all different sizes make up a geometric cluster, each of them containing a picture of an animal. The contrast really makes the rug pop. I hope the kids love it.
I may have bought it simply because of the memories it stirs inside of me.
When I was a child, we had a rug similar in design, minus the animals. Every morning, I would wake up and beg my dad to play the “carpet game” with me. He would call out a random shape and color, and I had to jump on it from a starting point.
Think: The Floor is Lava meets Twister.
It was my favorite part of the morning, and an excitement I hope children feel when they walk through these doors.
My priority is to establish not only a safe space for them, but a loving and comfortable one as well.
Visiting the doctor’s office is not something kids typically enjoy.
It can be scary and often stir up bad memories, which lead to dreadful future experiences as well.
Even for the parents. I’ve seen countless mothers and fathers on anxious pins and needles while waiting to be seen.
The reason? Because nothing is kid-proofed, the staff have shitty attitudes, and the turnaround wait is pushing two hours.
Not at Wilde Pediatrics. I have new policies in place to ensure everything runs smoothly.
Not that I’m naive to the fact that it won’t always, but I’ll damn near try.
The name change makes me feel like a real doctor.
Having a place with my name on it—the same one my grandfather carried as he practiced pediatrics himself—means more than I could have ever predicted.
I’m proud to carry on the Wilde legacy somewhere new.
I’ve been around medical professionals from my mom’s side of the family for my entire life.
But one thing that they can’t teach you in medical school is bedside manner.
Attendings can preach about it all day long, but if you aren’t relatable and have even the smallest amount of nurture in your body, you’ll never make it where it counts.
At least, in Peds. Or possibly just what I consider to be most important.
Caretaking will take you far.
Maybe my time at the diner this morning was exactly what I needed.
Realizing I’ve been admiring for much too long, I turn to face Gabriella, except it’s not just Gabriella, but the rest of the staff as well.
“Welcome to Atlanta, Dr. Wilde,” they say in unison. “We’re here to support you every step of the way. This change will be good. We can feel it.”
Can’t say I expected to have a staff this supportive right off the bat, but I’m a smart enough woman to appreciate it.
My hands meet my hips, and I absentmindedly reach in my pocket for the butterfly trinket I keep in my scrub pants, spinning it between my fingers. It’s my personal form of good luck. Manifesting safe patient care. All the things, and I truly believe it to be what’s gotten me this far.
“I think so, too, ladies. Let’s do this.”