Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Jeff
It’s not even mid-August and Philadelphia is already a sweltering mix of body heat and food truck odors.
In the two-block walk from the orthopedic building toward my new (new to me but very, very old) Washington Square apartment, my back has produced enough sweat to soak through my scrubs and make me want to dive into any of the fifteen hipster bars I’ve passed for the sweet relief of a cold beer and some air conditioning.
Chicago isn’t much better, but at least you can find some relief when a breeze rolls off of Lake Michigan.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I lift it out expecting to see a call from Kevin, the trauma surgeon that I’m meeting for drinks.
I tried to get my own co-fellow in the spinal cord injury program, Dustin, to tag along, but he did not seem interested in anything other than consulting on the bone resection he was performing later.
It would be a long twelve months of fellowship if I didn’t “branch out,” to quote my mother.
It seems silly to make friends when my expiration date here is closer than a bag of frozen peas.
But I don’t want to wallow in my homesickness, either.
I slow my stride and check the screen. Speak of the devil.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Honey! I was worried. The nurses told me you were in surgery, but I wasn’t sure they knew who you were,” she explains. Somehow, she makes the dumbest shit seem perfectly reasonable.
“Right. Well, I was in surgery. Everything good at home?” I ask. I can hear Sam in the background, her little voice singing something about stinky feet and Uncle Jeff. No matter how many times I explain what an orthopedic surgeon is, Sammy’s convinced I touch feet for a living.
My mom puts her hand over the mouthpiece and tells my 8-year-old niece she should drink some water to dilute her high. Before I have a chance to ask what the hell is going on, she comes back to me.
“Sorry, hun. I caught Sam gnawing on the sugar cubes we give the horses and she’s out of her mind—bouncing off the walls. Everyone is good.”
My mom tells Sammy not to tie the dogs together and I wait until she can refocus. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all settled in. There’s a care package on its way!”
Jesus. “Ma, you really didn’t need to—”
“Oh shush. Everyone needs a little t.l.c.,” she tells me.
This may be true, but a Donna Harrison care package has little to do with what most people would consider t.l.c.
“It’s only been a few weeks,” I remind her. And if she keeps up at this rate, I’ll have at least 40 strange packages to deal with by the end of this fellowship.
“And I miss you already, J.J.”
I can hear the tears in her eyes. The familiar pang of homesickness rips at my obliques. Eleven more months. That’s it. Then I can start my career close to home. Help my sister with my niece. Make sure the therapeutic riding center my mother runs has everything it needs.
“I miss you too, Ma. But I gotta go. I’m meeting some people from work—”
She’s clapping, possibly jumping up and down.
“You made friends!” she chirps.
A man in a suit looks at me as he passes, his brows pulled together in amusement. I realized after graduating from medical school that I’d never be older than six in her mind.
“Alright, Ma. Gotta go! See you on our Zoom call on Sunday,” I promise, picking up my pace when I see the sign for The Rusty Hammer.
“I love you, Jeffry James,” she tells me. I smile because I’ve heard it so many times that it is engraved on my frontal lobe.
“Love you, too, Ma. Tell Sammy and Sis the same.”
“Will do.” I hear her yelling to Sammy before she even ends the call, making sure to give her my love the second after I ask her to. The woman is nothing if not reliable. But she’s proven that every moment of my life.
I duck into The Rusty Hammer and search the long, crowded bar for the familiar blues of scrubs and find Kevin’s carefree grin just as he sees me and waves both hands over his head.
He’s sitting beside a dark-haired woman in scrubs who is eyeing me over the rim of a highball glass like she’s a crocodile and I’m an unlucky wildebeest crossing her river.
Kevin pulls the stool he’s tilted against the bar off the wood ledge and knocks on the metal seat. I sit and Kevin slides a pint glass in front of me.
“Jeff, this is Meredith,” he says as I hold out my hand to her. “Mer, Jeff.”
She slides her hand into mine and tilts her head, her eyes narrowed, studying me.
Seconds tick by, long and slow. But this woman keeps looking right into me.
I break eye contact first and look down at the tattoo inside her wrist—a sketch-like rendering of a pair of lungs surrounded by watercolor streaks.
“Kevin, we can’t hang out with this guy” she says, still staring at me.
“Come on, Mer. Leave him alone—”
“You know the deal. No one better-looking than me.” She smiles and I hear the theme song from Jaws. I slide my hand out of hers as she continues, “I already made an exception for Devon.”
“Nice to meet you. I thought you’d be a guy from the way Kev described you,” I say, lifting the beer to my lips. “But now I feel like a sexist shit.”
“Did he say I was tall, dark, and handsome?” She tilts her head.
“No. He said your balls were way bigger than his,” I tell her and she grins wider.
“They so are! But I know Kev didn’t say that. Kev would never say balls. He would have used the word testicles. He’s refined. Private school boy. Studied at St. Timothy’s Academy of Deuchedom or some shit.” She jabs an elbow into Kevin’s ribs and he shakes his head.
“Are you funny, Jeff?” She doesn’t let me answer. “I think he might be funny, Kev.” Meredith is still looking at me with narrowed eyes. “You sure you don’t want to uninvite him? You know Devon’s a sucker for funny.”
Kevin ignores her. Keeps his pretty blue eyes right on me.
“Meredith’s a CT surgeon, so lucky you. You’ll be seeing her around the hospital.” He pats my back. “Now she won’t just have me to emasculate.”
“You need to be a man to be emasculated,” Meredith shoots back, leaning across the bar to get a refill. The young bartender hurries over and she reaches up to squeeze his man bun. He doesn’t even flinch. “Jeremy, can I get another Brown Derby, please? And something light for Devon.”
Bartender Jeremy nods but doesn’t move. He’s hypnotized. Catatonic.
Kevin’s phone pings on the bar and Jeremy’s trance is broken. He scurries off to get the drinks and Kevin lifts the screen to eye level, reads the message, and stands.
“Dev’s here,” he says, lifting his drink toward the door. I swivel in my chair for an introduction and freeze as I take in the oddly familiar brunette standing behind my stool.
Those wide bright eyes—glowing now with alertness.
That gorgeous smile—more cautious than it was that night but still so arresting that I nearly tip over my stool as I stand and face her.
I find myself hoping for some reciprocal recognition as she puts her hand out to me and ignores Meredith’s low whistle.
One side of her mouth lifts further and I take her hand and nod like an idiot as she says,
“Devon Gallagher. Nice to meet you.”