“Ben,” I say.
He looks up without smiling. “Oh. Hi.”
“I need you to take out the trash.”
He sighs. “I’m working, okay? This is… it’s not a good time. I’ll do it later.”
Bullshit. I can’t see the screen, but I bet he’s just doing a crossword puzzle.
“You had all day to take out the trash,” I point out. “You could have done it at any time today but you didn’t.”
“Look, I said I’ll do it,” he shoots back. “Why do I have to get up and do it this instant just because you came home from work and are all pissy?”
“Because it’s overflowing.” I put my hands on my hips. “And the kitchen is covered with garbage.”
“You know,” he says, “you can take out the garbage too. It’s allowed. Or was it in our marriage vows that I have to take out the trash?”
I glare at him. Taking out the trash is a chore that Ben always owned ever since we moved in together years ago. I always cooked and did our laundry, while Ben always took out the trash.
When I don’t step up to his bait, Ben shoves the laptop off his legs. “Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll take out the trash if you’re incapable of doing it yourself.”
I follow Ben down to the kitchen where he makes a big show of changing the trash as noisily as possible. I know I shouldn’t do anything to make the situation worse, but I’m steamed too. It’s his mess that I want to clean up. I’ve been at work all day and he’s just been lying around the house. Asking him to do the one chore he’s always done is not at all unreasonable.
“By the way…” I yank the box from his Swedish meatball dinner off the kitchen counter and wag it in his face. “When you have a microwave meal, you’re allowed to throw the packaging away. I’m not, like, saving it for arts and crafts projects.”
“Noted,” he mutters.
“Also…” I fumble around the counter again and pick up a little square of paper. “Why am I always finding these on my counter?”
“That’s cheese paper,” he says. “It separates the slices of cheese in the packaging.”
“And those can’t go in the garbage because…?”
“What the hell do you want from me, Jane?” Ben’s voice raises several notches. “I’m taking out the trash like you wanted!”
“I want you to throw out your goddamn cheese paper!”
“I’m sorry you’re so inconvenienced by my cheese paper. I had no idea.”
“Well, I am!”
Both of us whirl around, simultaneously sensing Leah’s presence at the entrance to the kitchen. She’s standing there, staring at us with her big green eyes.
“You’re fighting too loud again,” she says. “I can’t hear Dora.”
Ben’s shoulder’s sag and he looks mildly embarrassed. His parents got divorced when he was a kid and he always told me how difficult it was—both the arguing before the divorce and the chilly relationship after. My parents are divorced too. The fact that both of us came from broken families increases our risk of divorce—I pointed this out to Ben when we were first married.
“That will never happen to us,” he said confidently.
“Why not?” I pressed him.
“Because we love each other too much.” He touched my face. “And you’re my best friend.”
At the time, I agreed with him a hundred percent. There were so many people out there who got married for the wrong reasons, but we didn’t. We loved each other very much. And he was right—we had become each other’s best friends. I wanted to be with him more than anyone else in the world, and I couldn’t imagine life without him. I couldn’t conceive of a situation in which we would ever want to get divorced.
Now…
Sometimes I wonder if we’re just one cheese paper away from it all being over.
Chapter 10
It’s ten past nine and I was supposed to see my first patient ten minutes ago.
It’s just one of those mornings where everything has conspired against me. Leah decided she would not allow herself to get dressed this morning. I’m not sure how she decided this—she just woke up and made the determination that today would be “a home day.” She explained to me, “It’s just too cold.”
Well, it is cold. But too damn bad.
I ended up having to wake up a very cranky Ben, who agreed to get her ready for preschool with only a minimal amount of whining. I didn’t even complain about the fact that the shirt he dressed her in was about five sizes too big—you could almost see a hint of nipple. I swear to God, if there is one piece of clothing in her entire drawer that doesn’t fit her, Ben will find it and dress her in it. But if I point out to him that he dressed her in something ridiculous, he’ll just say, “If it doesn’t fit her, why is it in her drawer?” Admittedly, I don’t have a good answer for that, so I keep my mouth shut.
Then when we actually got to the daycare, Leah clung to my leg to keep me from leaving. She actually wrapped her little arms and her little legs around my calf and would not let go. Mila had to wrench her free, all the while shaking her head at me. She didn’t even know about the nipple yet.
Then as I drove to the VA, I got stuck at absolutely every red light. I ended up trailing behind two separate school buses. And at one point, I got trapped behind a funeral procession.
So by the time I park my car and get into the lobby, I’m very late. I used to pride myself on being very reliable and prompt, but that’s all gone out the window since Leah came into the picture. Right now, it’s a bit of a miracle when I’m on time.
As I race through the lobby, I see that one thing is on my side: the elevator is already here and waiting for me. I don’t even mind the fact that it’s George’s elevator. I just need to get my butt upstairs. I jump into the elevator and before I can stop myself, I slam my hand into the button for “six.”
George stares at me in utter shock and horror, as do the other two people already in the elevator. I feel shocked and horrified myself. But really—it was a natural thing to do. I’ve lived in buildings with elevators for most of my life, and I’ve never been in a situation where I had to say, “six please,” instead of just pressing the button myself. I feel like I’m in Crazyland here!
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I couldn’t feel more mortified if I had soiled myself.
George glares at me with such venom that I’m really glad no weapons are allowed in the VA hospital. “Well,” he snaps at me, “now we all have to go to the sixth floor first.”
The other two people in the elevator groan.
“I’m really sorry,” I say to them. I can’t tell if they’re angry at me or embarrassed for me. Maybe a little of both.
Well, at least this gets me to my floor really quickly.
I dismount the elevator, still profusely apologizing to everyone inside. I don’t know why all the VA staff hates me. Am I really so unlikable? Maybe I am. After all, even my own husband doesn’t seem to like me very much.
As I walk into Primary Care C, it suddenly occurs to me that I forgot my stethoscope in the car. How did I forget my stethoscope? It seems impossible. I mean, I’m a PCP. Forgetting my stethoscope would be like walking out the door with no shirt on.
Well, I need a stethoscope.
Dr. Kirschstein catches me sneaking in late. He strides over to me, his hands in the pocket of his white coat. “You’re late for your tour of duty, Dr. McGill,” he informs me in a stern voice.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “Leah was being difficult.”
He regards me thoughtfully. I’m worried he’s going to ask me to drop and give him twenty, but instead he says, “I never brought you that book of my wife’s on childrearing. I’ll have that for you this week.”
At this point, I think I desperately need it.
With Dr. Kirschstein satisfied, I head to the waiting room, where Barbara is reading a paperback. She doesn’t even look up when I enter the room. “You’re late.”
I nod. “There was… a family e
mergency.”
That sounds vague enough. Not that I need to explain myself to Barbara, but I guess I do.
“Hey,” I say to her. “Do you, by any chance, have an extra stethoscope?”
Barbara looks up at me with an expression to indicate that she thinks I’ve completely lost my mind. I guess that was a long shot.
My first patient, Maggie Engstrom, is a woman, believe it or not. Occasionally, female patients are seen at the VA. And as the newest hire, it’s assumed I’m the only one who has retained any competence at doing pap smears, so that’s what I’ll be doing today. I’ve already stolen supplies for the procedure from the supply closet on the unit next door.
While Ms. Engstrom is changing into a gown, I locate Lisa, who appears to be between patients. Lisa is very much about the VA rhythm—she shows up a comfortable five to ten minutes late every day without the slightest bit of guilt about it. She smiles when she sees me, totally up for chatting instead of rooming her next patient.
“What’s up, Jane?” she asks me. She’s dressed in skintight black pants with high-heeled black leather boots that come up to her knees and her neck is draped in two different scarves. Although she admittedly looks very good, the whole thing feels vaguely inappropriate for the attire of a physician. Her red lipstick is definitely questionable. But I know most people would say Lisa is much better dressed than I am—I just don’t understand these modern fashions. I should have been born in 1930.
“You don’t happen to have an extra stethoscope, do you?”
Lisa laughs. “That depends. Do we get to have lunch again with Dr. Cutie McCute?”
I roll my eyes at her. “You have a very annoying crush on him.”
“I think he’s my soulmate,” she says soberly. Although her words remind me of a time, a very long time ago, when I thought that Ryan Reilly could be my soulmate. Well, not my soulmate in the sense of the word that we had anything actually in common, but soulmate in the sense of I wanted to spend my life with him and someday get buried in a plot next to his. I have very morbid fantasies. “Let me put it this way: I’m not putting him on my list because he’s not technically a celebrity, but if I did, he’d be number one.”
“Even before Hugh Jackman?” I clasp my chest in mock horror.
“He’s sexier than Wolverine,” she says.
Wow. That’s quite a compliment coming from Lisa.
“Don’t forget you’re married,” I remind her.
“As are you,” she says pointedly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She raises her eyebrows at me. “You think I don’t see the way you look at him? Or the way he looks at you?”
I can’t quite look Lisa in the eyes when I say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Suuuure you don’t,” she snorts. “Fine. I understand why you don’t want to have lunch with him. Or at least, I can understand why Ben wouldn’t want you to have lunch with him.”
“Ben doesn’t know about Ryan.” I shift between my feet. “Not that there’s anything to know.”
Lisa pats me on the shoulder. “Be strong, Jane. Let me get you that stethoscope.”
It turns out all Lisa’s got is one of those cheap-o stethoscopes that you can probably get at the dollar store or something. I don’t even know why they bother to make those things. Anyone who claims to hear anything with those stethoscopes is a bald-faced liar. Oh well. Hopefully, I won’t have a bunch of people coming in with new murmurs or pneumonia before I can make it out to my car.
Maggie Engstrom is sitting in the examining room, wearing her gown. Sometime over the last year, I’ve gotten so used to seeing male patients that seeing a female makes me nervous. And something about Ms. Engstrom makes me nervous in general. She’s about my age, overweight but clearly very well-muscled and athletic with closely cropped hair. She’s not active duty, but I can definitely imagine her in combat.
“So when was your last menstrual period?” I ask her.
“Six weeks ago.”
“Is there a chance you could be pregnant?”
She nods the affirmative. “I also want to be tested for every sexually transmitted disease. Especially herpes.”
Herpes. A terrible disease but not as bad as glitter.
“Why are you worried about getting all these diseases?” I ask.
Ms. Engstrom shifts on the crackly tissue paper. “My girlfriend just found out she has herpes.”
I frown. “But why are you worried you have herpes?”
The patient looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Because she’s my girlfriend.”
“Oh,” I say, although I’m still completely confused. “I thought you said you might be pregnant?”
She nods. “Yeah. I’m bisexual. I’ve had three different partners in the last six weeks.”
“Oh,” I say again.
“I should probably just tell doctors right away so that we can avoid awkward conversations.” She adds, “Like this.”
The truth is, I’ve gotten so used to treating old men that have been with the same woman for fifty years (if they can be with a woman at all) that treating a bisexual woman makes me feel like I’ve got Madonna for a patient. (Am I dating myself with that reference? Should I have said Miley Cyrus? One of the Kardashians? I’m so out of touch.)
“No problem.” I try to sound all casual and breezy. “We can do that.” I glance down at my primary care checklist. “Do you do self breast examination?”
Ms. Engstrom snorts. “Are you kidding me? Look at my breasts! It would take me half the day to examine one of them.”
Admittedly, she does have fairly large breasts.
“I could do it,” she says, “if I had small breasts like yours.”
Gee, thanks. Actually, I don’t do self breast examination either, despite the ease with which I could apparently do them. Examining her own breasts is something that women might tell their doctors they do, but rarely actually do. Like flossing.
“So are we doing this or not?” Ms. Engstrom asks impatiently.
Time to dive in.
_____
It’s my job to bring the samples from Ms. Engstrom’s pap smear and STD cultures down to the lab on the first floor. Or at least, it isn’t anyone else’s job. It isn’t Barbara’s job, that’s for sure. She made that very clear.
I don’t mind making a trip down to the lab when I have a short break in my schedule. I’m able to avoid George’s elevator, at least. The only thing that concerns me is that the operating rooms are on the first floor. You have to pass by them to get to the lab. Which means there’s a chance of running into Ryan.
I’ve been avoiding Ryan for the last week, ever since our emotionally-charged tissue paper roll moment. I only saw him once in the lobby and I quickly turned and hurried the other way before he could see me. There’s no good that could come out of spending time with Ryan Reilly.
Unfortunately, the second the elevator doors open, I see him. I recognize him immediately, even though he’s got a surgical cap covering his only slightly graying blond hair. He’s standing in front of the entrance to the ORs, wearing his usual green scrubs and talking to a woman dressed similarly.
Damn, I have to walk past him. It’s the only way.
I square my shoulders and look straight ahead as I stride forward. As I walk closer, I catch a better look at the woman that Ryan is talking to. She’s probably ten years younger than me with ash blond hair pulled into a smooth ponytail. She’s too young to be an attending surgeon. A resident? A nurse?
Either way, she’s gorgeous.
She’s exactly the sort of woman I’d always imagined Ryan might end up with. Beautiful yet intelligent enough to work in the OR. And unlike me, she’s young enough to have a bunch of his babies. And it’s really obvious from observing them for even a few moments that there’s some serious flirtation going on. At one point, she smacks him in the arm and says in a mock scolding voice, “Dr. Reilly!”
Making excuses to touch
him. She’s so into him. Not that I blame her.
Well, good for him. I’m actually thrilled that Ryan seems to have forgotten about me and is cozying up to the surgical staff. I want him to be happy. I hope he marries some cute nurse and they live happily ever together. I really do.
As I pass by Ryan, our eyes meet. Even though the other woman is still talking to him, I can’t help but notice the way a smile curls across his lips and his blue eyes continue to follow me as I walk past. I try to keep looking straight ahead.
It isn’t until I get to the door of the lab that I dare turn back to look at Ryan. He isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s actually got his phone out and is fiddling with it. Good.
Then I feel my own phone buzz inside my pocket. A text message.
There are only two people who text message me regularly: Lisa and Ben. Lisa texts me whatever pops into her head during the day—sometimes I worry she texts me while she’s with patients. Ben used to text me all the time when we were first dating, but much less now. He still sends me interesting links he finds, but at least half our communications generally involve some sort of errand one of us has to do. For example, his last text message to me was: I have a headache. Could you pick up Leah today? The text message before that was a link to a story about a cheeseburger where the bun is made out of macaroni and cheese.
So chances are, the text I just got is from Ben or Lisa. Except I’m not at all surprised when I see Ryan’s name at the top of the screen.
Is this still your number?
The significance doesn’t escape me that he’s kept my number saved in phone all these years. And apparently, I’ve saved his as well.
I look up. Even though Ryan is still standing with the gorgeous girl in scrubs, he’s looking at me again.
I type back: Yes.
Chapter 11
When the package from Amazon arrives at our front door, I am so excited.
The Devil You Know Page 8
