Chapter Twenty-Two Vanya
“Damn, Vanya, the flexibility is unreal,” Gordon states as he tests his ankle.
“Keep the athletic tape on for as long as you can. You’re not skating for a few days, right?” I confirm while updating my files after his one-hour session.
“No games till after Christmas. How about you?”
“No hockey games for me either,” I answer with a smirk, knowing full well that’s not what he’s asking.
“You know that’s not what I mean. Are you taking time off to go home? Jeremy says you’re originally from Toronto.” Gordon puts on a sweater and gathers his sports bag while making small talk.
“I’m staying around. The clinic is closed but I have other things I need to work on.”
“You work too—”
A knock interrupts the rest of Gordon’s comment, thank goodness.
“Come in. We’re done,” I call out.
“Just checking to see if you’re wrapping up soon.” Pete sticks his head in. “Eric Deichert is in room four.”
“Eric Deichert? The OSU football player? I know him,” Gordon declares cheerily. “Are you fixing all the athletes in town, Vanya?”
“It’s just a consultation,” I state absentmindedly while opening a new file. “See you next time, Gordon.”
I’m walking out, gearing up for the consultation, when I notice a large man filling the doorway of room four. He has to be at least six-five and over two hundred pounds of muscle.
“Hi, Dr. Vanya Kapur. It’s so good to meet you.” The man I assume is Eric Deichert says with a hand outstretched. “Now that this hockey goon is finished hogging all your time.”
“Who are you calling a goon, old man?” Gordon banters back.
I take Mr. Deichert’s hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Deichert. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
“He’s an old retiree, Vanya. Eric’s got nothing better to do,” Gordon continues to jive.
What is it about athletes and their constant trash talk? Is this part of their university education, or something?
“Please, call me Eric,” he says while shaking my hand. “Don’t listen to this man-child. He doesn’t know how to participate in adult conversations.”
Despite the mutual digs, they do the man-clasp-shoulder-slap greeting that indicates an easy familiarity between athletes. I’ve seen plenty of versions of it in the last few months. By the time I finish washing my hands and lifting the back rest of the medical exam table, Gordon is gone. Eric and Pete have closed the door so the three of us can talk privately.
“How long have you had issues with your calf, Eric? Does it stem from a football injury or something else?” I get down to business.
“It started as an irritating tightness about a year ago. I thought it was from working out, so I did the usual rest, ice, elevation thing. The worst of the pain would ease for a while but kept coming back.”
“Can you tell me your pain level today?”
“I’m always at around a five or six, but it gets worse sometimes. Did you see the test results?”
“The ultrasound was inconclusive. Do the physical therapy sessions help improve mobility and pain level?”
He gives one curt nod. “Pete and Kyle have me on a manageable regimen but it’s driving me nuts not knowing what’s wrong.”
“Understandable. I’m sure the uncertainty is frustrating. During today’s consultation, we’ll see if you’re a good candidate for a particular sequence of imaging. Are you ready to start?”
He leans back and gives me a toothy smile. Eric does the typical small talk chatter that I barely process. The yapping is vaguely familiar: Have you enjoyed Columbus so far? What are your holiday plans? You’re too young and pretty to be a doctor. Blah, blah, blah.
I attempt to answer his questions in a friendly manner while offering rote explanations of my measurements, but for the most part I’m lost in the process. Despite acknowledging the frustration of patients who want answers now , the task of diagnosis is, I dare say, enjoyable. In a job that is mostly about managing the simple wear and tear of joints, the opportunity to work with a challenging case intrigues me. Identifying the elusive root causes of discomfort is particularly suited to physiatrists, since we treat the patient holistically.
The hour goes by quickly. I conclude that this isn’t the usual muscle or tendon problem. Eric is manifesting what I’ve only seen once in Harvard when a vascular specialist had joined our team to diagnose a patient with similar calf pain. The mysterious, chronic discomfort turned out to be a compressed artery. It wasn’t life-threatening in that case, so I’m keeping my suspicions to myself until we finish the tests.
“The staff will reach out to you when we’ve scheduled the imaging. Good to meet you, Eric.”
I leave with the intention of scarfing down my lunch before the next appointment. The morning of three straight hours with patients went by quickly. I need to gather myself before I get swamped the rest of the afternoon. Unfortunately, privacy isn’t in my future. Pete follows shortly after I enter my office.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“Yeah, what’s up?” I motion to a chair while taking a drink.
“I wanted to apologize for Eric. That was out of line,” he states, grabbing the back of the chair instead of sitting.
I pause from taking my first bite. “What are you talking about?”
“I can’t believe he was hitting on you while you’re busy helping him,” he exclaims. “You don’t have to work with him anymore if he made you uncomfortable.”
Oh. Oh. Is that what he was doing?
I had been so immersed in the process, I was only pretending to hear half of Eric’s small talk.
“I didn’t even notice,” I admit honestly. “It was a standard assessment as far as I’m concerned.” In fact, I barely looked at Eric’s face or heard his chatter.
However, Pete’s worry reminds me to pay attention to the nuances. My strict no-mingling with coworkers or patients emerged from uncomfortable interactions I’ve had in the past. Times when my obtuseness was taken as encouragement, or my reluctance as insulting. This isn’t to say I blame myself, but I can acknowledge that I’m not a stellar reader of social cues.
“I’m glad you saw it that way,” Pete says, though he doesn’t seem glad at all. “Still, I told him he was being inappropriate.”
“I get caught up in the work especially with a case like Eric’s. Thank you for bringing the issue to my attention. However, I’ve got it from here and will better reinforce professional boundaries in the future.”
He raises his hand and lowers it, like he can’t decide if he should wave goodbye. I make the decision for him.
“I’ll see you later,” I utter with casual cheer because I’d like to move on and think about the rest of the afternoon. He takes the hint and backs off, trusting me to reinforce the professional boundaries.
As I mull over the words, my thoughts go straight to Jeremy.
My body shivers as I recall him holding me, kissing me, arousing me. I still can’t believe he gave me an orgasm while he was on his knees . And I swallow the bitter taste of regret for those professional boundaries I fail to uphold when it comes to this one man.
Hypocritical much, Vanya?
“I’ll leave you to finish your lunch,” Pete says from my doorway.
“Thanks, Pete.”
Finally, I can swallow my sandwich—and my guilt about Jeremy—in peace.
A sound of surprise comes from the hallway before Pete yells, “Oh, hey, Jeremy. Merry Christmas, man.”
Jeremy? As in my Jeremy? He isn’t due to come in till after Christmas. What is he doing here?
“You too, Pete. My mom is in town and made a ton of food for the staff. Everything’s in the lunchroom.”
That is Jeremy’s voice, alright. I’m not sure what to do with the sandwich that has turned to cement in my throat. And did I just call him my Jeremy? What the hell is wrong with me?
“Fuck, yeah! Did she bring empanadas?” Pete asks but doesn’t wait for an answer.
Jeremy stands by my door and lifts his chin. “There’s lots for everyone, Vanya. Come join us.”
A large gulp of water barely clears my throat. “Thank you, but I’m good.” We both glance at my sad looking lunch. “I don’t have time right now. That’s super nice of you and your mom to bring food.”
“She’s only in town for a couple of days during Christmas and spends most of that time cooking. The staff here and at the Mavericks’ arena won’t let the holidays go without asking about her food.”
“If you learned to cook from her, she must be spectacular.”
“Come find out, doc,” he says with a grin so warm and familiar, I can’t help but return it.
Jeremy looks stunning today, wearing a gray sweater and dark jeans. I’ve seen him shirtless or in athletic wear. I’ve swooned over his prowess on the ice. And I’ve admired the way his tailored suits hug his body when he’s dressed to and from the arena. But this casual elegance is new. He might as well be a fashion model for how well everything fits. The pull of the sweater across his chest and the narrowing of his upper body from broad shoulders to flat waist to narrow hips. My eyes stray between his muscular, hockey-player thighs before I can stop them.
I stand so abruptly my chair wobbles when it gets pushed back. “Can’t! I, um, busy. I’m busy.” I stammer and fuss with a folder on the table so my eyes don’t stray where they shouldn’t.
“I thought you’d say that, so I packed some away for you.” He steps forward to lay a plate covered in foil on my desk.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
It strikes me that Jeremy’s thoughtfulness is more than a nice gesture. It’s insightful. He knows I won’t easily socialize during a busy day. He’s noticed that I’m reluctant to socialize at work. But instead of reprimanding me for my workaholic tendencies, Jeremy shows care without fuss or judgment.
“Got you something else.” He plops a winter-themed gift bag beside the plate.
My gratitude turns to anxiety. “Jeremy, you shouldn’t have. I don’t accept gifts from patients.”
I’m appalled that he would buy me something. More than that, I’m foolishly wondering what buying me something means .
“You were willing to take the empanadas and Christmas cookies. This is no different.” His voice is clipped like he’s hurt. “Besides, I’m giving it to my PBS buddy, not my doctor.”
He pulls out a folded tote bag and a DVD pack featuring the concert we watched together last week. With a flourish, he announces, “Congratulations to you, Dr. Vanya Kapur, for being a sustaining member of your local public broadcasting station.”
A bubble of laughter escapes when I reach out to receive his adorable offering. I don’t usually take gifts, but this isn’t a gift exactly. It’s a donation to a good cause. Who can call something like this—so simple and platonic—inappropriate?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t get you anything.”
“You can cover the cost of popcorn during the next Musical Monday.”
“Deal.”
We smile at each other for a while, neither willing to end the moment. Honey brown eyes glint with warmth, like they’re touched by the sun even though we’re indoors and under florescent lighting.
But it doesn’t matter how mesmerizing he is physically. What truly matters is how he is in the world. How much he cares about other people. Jeremy Lopez is attentive and understanding in a way I’m not used to from anyone but my best friend.
Maybe that’s the solution here. Instead of focusing on my weird and unprecedented attraction to a patient, I should try to think of him as a friendly neighbor who shares my love of musicals. There’s nothing wrong with that, right? Right?
No one has to know that I think about his words every night.
I’ve got so many reasons, Vanya, you have no idea. You’re beautiful and smart and caring. And the way you look at me makes me so fucking hungry for more. Like I’m the only one I want you to see.
No one has to know that he’s already all I see.