by Score, Lucy
“You know what sucks?” Luke said. “Hummus.”
15
“And then my father-in-law moved in, so now every Monday night is lasagna night because it’s my mother-in-law’s recipe. For once in my life, I’d just like to have what I want for dinner, you know?”
It was a rhetorical “you know.” Mack had learned from the four previous “you knows” that Ellen, a redheaded, slightly overweight mother of two with borderline blood pressure, had dropped during the first five minutes of her appointment.
Mack didn’t bother responding this time. It didn’t feel right carrying on a conversation while she was examining the woman’s cervix. Awkward conversations and pap smears. Another exciting day in the life of Mack O’Neil.
“And then there’s Barry and his freakin’ socks on the floor next to the hamper. I mean for fuck’s sake, Barry—sorry—you can lift the toilet lid and leave it up, but you can’t lift the damn hamper lid?”
“Little pinch,” Mack said, collecting the cells from the cervical wall.
Her patient winced but kept up the one-sided conversation.
Mack tucked the sample in the collection jar and screwed on the top.
“Are your periods regular?” she asked, ticking down the standard list of gynecological exam questions.
“They’re fine. I’m just stressed. But who isn’t? Ha. I mean, it could be worse. There could be two Barrys.”
“Any new medical developments in your family history?” Mack asked, sliding the speculum out of what her patient had referred to as her lady cave.
Ellen breathed a sigh of relief and scooted away from the edge of the exam table. “Not unless you count my mom passing out from her blood pressure meds.”
“We should talk about your blood pressure,” Mack said, glancing at the measurements Freida had taken earlier. They were high.
“Dr. Dunnigan is giving me until the end of the year to lower it lifestyle-wise. If it’s not lower by Christmas, she’s putting me on a prescription. I hate prescriptions, you know? Just one more thing to remember and worry about.”
When Ellen pushed her hand through her hair, Mack caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.
“You know, cigarette smoking isn’t the best of stress relievers.”
“Oh, ha. I don’t smoke,” Ellen said, looking shifty-eyed.
Secret smoker, Mack typed in her notes. At least unconscious patients couldn’t lie to you.
“Good. Because with borderline blood pressure, all that stress, and you being on oral contraceptives, you’d be cruising for a stroke.”
Ellen was uncharacteristically silent.
“So no smoking then?” Mack pressed.
Her patient shook her head. “Nope. No smoking.”
Mack’s eye twitched. Being lied to was a pet peeve. Being lied to by someone who was so wrapped up in their fabricated version of reality took her right back to childhood. But Ellen wasn’t Mack’s mother, she reminded herself.
“We’re all done here, Ellen. You can get dressed and check out at the front desk,” she said. She forced a smile and left the room.
The nice thing about being a doctor was that there was never enough time for moping. Mack didn’t have to come to terms with her annoying feelings about her past because her present was too busy.
She passed Russell in the hallway as he ducked out of the supply closet and headed in the direction of the break room.
He gave her a curt nod that she didn’t bother returning. They had a tentative, unfriendly truce, and she was comfortable with that.
Exam Room 2 held a grandfather and grandson duo. The younger of which was enthusiastically vomiting into the trash can.
“It’s okay, Tyrone, you’re not in trouble,” the grandfather, Leroy, promised, mopping the boy’s brow with a damp paper towel when he looked up wide-eyed at Mack like he’d gotten caught.
She flashed them both a sympathetic smile and checked the chart. “Hi there, Tyrone. How are you feeling?” Stupid question.
“Do you feel good enough to sit on the table, bud?” his grandfather asked.
Tyrone nodded wearily and, with Leroy’s help, climbed up on the exam table.
He was average height and weight for an eight-year-old. But unlike the average eight-year-old, he was dressed like a mini grandpa in shorts, a t-shirt, and suspenders. Mack couldn’t decide if it was adorable or creepy.
“I’m going to look you over real quick, okay?”
The boy nodded again. “Okay,” he rasped.
During the physical exam, Leroy kept up a running patter of conversation. His daughter was a single mom, and he and Tyrone were close. The school nurse called him when Tyrone threw up at school.
The boy’s lymph nodes were swollen, and he had a decently high fever.
She took out her scope. “Let’s take a look at your throat, buddy. Can you open wide and say ‘ah’?”
Tyrone did as he was told.
The poor kid’s tonsils were covered in white goop and red spots.
“It looks like strep throat,” she told the grandpa, reaching for a swab.
“What does strep throat look like?” Tyrone asked in a rasp.
“There’s white junk and red spots all over your tonsils.”
“Cool!”
“The test is fast, and we can do it here. If it comes back positive—which it will—I’ve got a prescription for antibiotics with Tyrone’s name on it.”
“When will he start feeling better?” Leroy asked.
“Once he starts the course of antibiotics, he should start feeling better within a day or two. Lots of fluids will help the antibiotics work to flush out the bacteria. You can give him acetaminophen for the pain.”
“Am I contagious?” the kid asked.
“Yes, you are. But after twenty-four hours on the medicine, you won’t be. I need you to ‘ah’ again while I swab your throat, okay? I promise I’ll be quick.”
She made quick work of it, in and out with the swab before the boy could gag.
“So you like gross things, Tyrone?” she asked.
“Yeah!”
“Want me to take a picture of your throat?” she offered. “Then you can show everyone what it looks like before the medicine starts working.” And not breathe on anyone while doing so.
“That would be so cool.”
She snapped a shot with the grandfather’s cell phone.
“That was smart,” Leroy said, while Tyrone admired the photographic evidence of his strep throat. “Now, he won’t try to show everyone the real thing.”
Mack smiled. Maybe she was getting the hang of this country doctor thing.
* * *
It wasn’t a twelve-hour shift in the emergency department or a trauma call. But a day in family practice was still exhausting.
She stirred the reheated soup she hadn’t had a chance to eat the first time around when a walk-in with medication side effects showed up.
Russell had been busy, too. Though he’d seen fewer patients than she had. She kept an eye on the numbers and felt like she’d won there.
She turned the page in the medical journal, keeping an ear out for any trouble in the waiting room.
But the trouble was coming to her. Russell stalked into the break room, his white coat billowing out behind him.
He slapped a handful of printouts down on the table in front of her. “What is the first line in the patient notes on Ellen Kowalski?”
Warily, Mack picked up the paper. “Ask patient if she’s reconsidered taking anxiety medication.”
Shit.
“I missed the notes section. I’ll give her a call at home—”
“Now, read the first line of Tyrone Mahoney’s notes.”
“I get it. I forgot to check the patient notes. It won’t happen again.”
“Engage Leroy Mahoney in conversation about his surgery, including blood thinner use,” Russell read from the paper over his reading glasses.
“Why is that even in a kid’s chart?�
�� she asked, growing irritated with the shaming performance.
He slid the paper to her again. “Because Leroy will do anything to avoid going to the doctor. He’ll take his grandson, but he cancels almost every appointment we’ve made for him since his hip surgery. We use his grandson’s appointments to check up on him. Especially since he stopped refilling his blood thinners.”
She read the file and sighed. “I’ll fix this,” she promised.
“There shouldn’t be anything for you to fix. How difficult is it to take thirty seconds to read the notes, Dr. O’Neil? Carelessness costs people lives. And this is why I’m here in Benevolence on my day off instead of admiring my wife in an evening gown on our way to a fundraiser.”
Mack pushed back from the table and rose.
“Look, Dr. Robinson, I get that you’re pissed off that you’re here instead of enjoying appetizers and tuxedos with your wife, but the situation is what it is. And if you can’t educate me on how to be good enough to not need a babysitter, there’s no point in being pissed off at me. Because you may not tolerate doctors who practice differently than you, but I don’t tolerate deliberate disrespect. I made a mistake, and I’ll fix it. I won’t make it again. And you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
Abandoning her once-again cold soup, Mack brushed past him—ignoring the gapes of Freida, Tuesday, and the two patients in the waiting room—and stormed into her office and shut the door. Seconds later, she heard Dr. Robinson’s door slam.
“Well, that was fun,” she said dryly to no one.
Her stomach growled. “Dammit.”
She sat down behind the desk and picked up the phone, then let out a girly squeak when the chair tipped backward without warning.
“Dammit,” she muttered under her breath. She put down the phone and picked up a sticky note.
Buy new fucking desk chair.
Carefully, she wheeled herself back in and picked up the phone again.
“Hey, Tuesday, would you mind bringing my soup in here when you get a chance?”
* * *
Finally, the last patient was seen. The last chart updated. The office locked up for the day. There was nothing between her and the sirloin she planned to grill tonight and the glass of red wine she’d earned. Mack dug for her keys in her bag and headed in the direction of her SUV.
Unfortunately, it appeared that Russell had parked his snazzy luxury sedan next to her vehicle. He was leaning against the hood, arms crossed over his crisp blue shirt. His polka dot bowtie made him look more approachable than her experience dictated.
Mack wondered how quickly word would spread in Benevolence if the two town doctors got into a fistfight in the office parking lot.
“Dr. O’Neil.”
She let out a soft sigh. Fine. One grumpy, aggressive obstacle. She’d personally hold it against him if he kept her from her steak and wine dreams. “Dr. Robinson.”
“I made a point in there today, and unfortunately in doing so, I also made a scene.”
“Yes. You did,” she said easily.
“For that I apologize. I know I’m coming across as a hard-ass. It’s not that I doubt your capabilities. I just don’t trust you. Yet.”
Honesty, even brutal, was better in Mack’s mind than polite lies.
“That’s fair. But it would be easier for both of us if you gave me an actual chance here. This is very different from what I’ve been doing. But I want to be here. And I want to provide the best level of care that I can. But I can’t do that if you’re making scenes about my shortcomings in front of our patients.”
“I understand, and I apologize for being unprofessional.”
“Accepted. And I’m sorry for missing the notes. I’m used to unconscious patients teetering between life and death, not having medical records and family histories at my fingertips. I won’t miss it again.”
“Good.”
“Okay.” She reached for her keys again.
“Are you confident in your ability to build a rapport with our patients?” he asked, recrossing his arms.
She took a breath. Honesty. “No. I’m not.”
He nodded, accepting her statement. “Then that’s what we’ll focus on.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Have a good night, Dr. O’Neil,” he said, straightening from the hood of his car. “Oh, and make sure you reach out to Ellen and Leroy this week.”
The steak and wine could wait, she supposed.
16
Ellen wasn’t interested in coming back to the office for a chat, but she was amenable to happy hour at Remo’s, a rustic-looking bar with a full parking lot on a Wednesday night.
Early, Mack took a spot at the back of the lot and answered a few emails on her phone. A couple of friends from the service. A headhunter wanting to know what her plans were after this stint in small-town America.
She stowed her phone and keys in her small clutch and headed in the direction of the front door. The porch was skinny, the cedar shake shingles had seen better days, but the exterior was remarkably clean for a bar.
Inside, the clamor of neighbors catching up warred with an undistinguishable country song on the jukebox in the corner. It smelled like hot wings and beer.
She spotted Ellen waving from the bar to the left of the sea of crowded tables. Intrepid servers wound their way through the mess, hauling pitchers of beer and baskets of fried deliciousness.
“Hey, Mackenzie,” Sophie, Luke’s sister, greeted her from behind the bar. She was dressed in a form-fitting Remo’s polo. Her hair was up in a spunky side ponytail that bounced as she spun a bottle of vodka in one hand. She sent a cheerful wink to a patron in overalls and a John Deere hat who was eighty if he was a day. “What brings you out tonight?”
“Girls’ night,” Ellen said, cheerfully sucking on the straw of a frozen pink concoction.
Or girls’ medical ambush, more accurately. Mack felt a stab of guilt for not being clearer on the phone. She just couldn’t seem to get this patient relationship thing down. She hated failing.
Sophie poured the vodka into a shaker. “It’s half-priced wing night, and onion rings are on special, too. What’ll it be, doc?”
Mack perused the shelves on the wall behind the striking bartender and spotted an okay merlot. She ordered a glass, watching as Sophie simultaneously poured two beers on tap while reaching for a wine glass.
It was a thing to behold, someone in their element. And right now, Mack felt a little too sensitive about being a fish out of water. She picked up her wine as soon as Sophie set it in front of her.
“I know I should go with a salad. But I have a soft spot for Remo’s hot wings,” Ellen said, staring mournfully at the menu.
Dutifully, Mack opened hers. “How about we split the garden salad and an order of wings?”
Ellen brightened, further driving the guilt knife into Mack’s chest. “That would be amazing!”
“There’s some tables on the patio,” Sophie said, nodding toward the doors as she trayed up a flight of beers at the service bar. “I’ll have your food brought out if you want to enjoy some fresh air.”
“Perfect!” Ellen bounced off her stool, carting her fishbowl-sized drink.
Mack took her wine and followed her new gal pal, who was trying not to whack anyone in the head with her oversized mom tote.
Ellen chose a table in the middle of the patio whereas Mack would have preferred the one in the corner. But her new pal seemed to enjoy being around people.
“Thank you so much for this,” Ellen said, sighing happily. “Do you hear that?”
Mack looked around them. The low buzz of conversation, the tinny sound of music coming from the crappy outdoor speakers mounted on the building. “Hear what?”
“No one asking me to do anything. No mom or wife or daughter-in-law, you know? Just me.”
“When’s the last time you had a girls’ night?” Mack asked, wondering if she’d ever had one.
“Do baby showers count?”
Mack wasn’t a socializing expert, but even she knew the answer to that one. “They do not.”
“So I heard Lincoln Reed sent you flowers,” Ellen said, leaning in and taking another slurp of pink alcohol.
And this was why she didn’t do girls’ nights.
“It was just a joke.” Mostly.
“Our Chief Reed doesn’t joke about women,” Ellen said knowledgeably.
“He does have a reputation,” Mack agreed.
Ellen waved her comment away. “That’s mostly just good fun. He’s not a misogynistic womanizer. He just loves women and dates them, serially and monogamously without any intentions to settle down. I mean, who can blame him? I settled down, and look at my life. I’ve got two kids who don’t listen to me, a husband who thinks I’m a laundry service, and my minivan smells like sports equipment and feet.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Sometimes I wish I would have kept right on dating Linc.”
It was Mack’s turn to lean in. “You dated Linc?”
This was insider information she wasn’t sure she wanted.
Ellen fluffed her shoulder-length auburn hair. “It was ten years and twenty-nine pounds ago. We went out a few times before I met Barry. He’s got a way with women. You know?”
“He certainly does.” A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Mack’s mouth. “Why did you stop seeing each other?” Great. Now she was prying into a patient’s personal life. Benevolence was rubbing off on her already.
Was she going to start asking trauma patients what their tattoos meant now?
Ellen shrugged. “Why does anyone stop seeing a beautiful firefighter?”
“Ah. The schedule,” Mack guessed. She understood that to “normal” people, the on-call shifts, long hours, and physical danger didn’t make a lot of sense. But she also knew exactly why some were called to those professions.
“Life-and-death jobs aren’t exactly conducive to family life,” Ellen agreed. “I was ready for kids and a house and a husband who would be around on weekends. Linc’s first love is his job. It was as amicable as splits get. I still get to wink at him in the produce department every once in a while.”
