by Beth K. Vogt
“Well, that’s good.”
“Fixing that could be pricey, but there’s no sense worrying about it until we know what we’re dealing with.” Zach added two slices of cheese to his sub. “I also have a hunch we’ll find old pipes, which means those are going to have to be replaced too.”
“Just in the kitchen?” Dad ignored his lunch . . . and Winston’s demands for food.
“If the pipe isn’t up to code, Geoff and Jillian would have to redo the entire house.”
The kitchen remodel was like all those times when I’d gone clothes shopping. I started out, my expectations high, knowing just what I wanted, how I wanted to look. I’d browse the racks, select a few items, encouraged by Mom’s assurances that a top was my color. That a certain brand of jeans would fit.
And then, in the dressing room, disaster would strike when I was confronted with all the issues of my body. Short-waisted. Big-chested. Overweight.
Time to adjust my expectations to reality.
I welcomed the clasp of Geoff’s hand, but he only gave my fingers a squeeze before letting them drop. His reassurance quick. Fleeting.
I never should have suggested we do the kitchen reno so soon after I finished radiation—even if Geoff had been talking about the project while we were dating. It seemed like a good idea at first—temporary, welcome confusion added to our lives. But now the costs were being tallied in my head—elusive, unknown numbers I tried to add up and balance with the bottom line in our bank account.
“Like Zach suggested, we’ll wait and see what his friend says.” Geoff offered a laugh. “I’ve been trying to think up a joke about a house demo all weekend, like Chip Gaines, you know? But I’ve got nothing. Maybe I should just take a good swing at the wall with a sledgehammer.”
Zach held up a hand. “Not without supervision, man. We’ve got enough to worry about as it is.”
Everyone’s laughter seemed a bit forced, fading into silence. Dad took the opportunity to slip Winston a nibble of meatball, and I pretended like I didn’t see it. When no one else spoke up, I figured that was my cue to deliver my news.
“Something else happened on Friday . . .” I paused as I became the center of attention, the concern in Mom’s gaze unmistakable. I’d forgotten my own “tell them straight up” motto. “I lost my job.”
Only Geoff and I were ready for my announcement because we’d had a day and a half to get used to the idea. Some. My words were a sucker punch, unfair to both my parents and to Payton and Zach.
Tears welled up in Mom’s eyes. Once again I was making her cry. All humor left Dad’s face. Payton gasped, and Zach reached for her hand in much the same way Geoff would have comforted me. But I was too caught up in my own unwanted moment of drama to try to decipher what was going on between my younger sister and the guy she was “just friends” with.
“What happened, Jilly?” Dad’s use of my childhood nickname soothed my frayed nerves.
“It’s a long story. To be honest, I haven’t been able to keep up with my workload for quite some time. Since I had my mastectomy, really.”
“Surely you explained that to your boss.” Mom’s words were short, her mouth tight.
“Yes. He’s been understanding and patient. Everyone at work has been great.” I found myself fighting to shoulder the burden of everyone’s need for an explanation. “But there comes a time when I should be able to do my job again. And I can’t.”
“Then they should continue to be understanding—”
“I’m not sleeping well, Mom. I only manage to work part-time most days and I’m always concerned I’ll make a mistake. I have a hard time tracking my tasks. I’m forgetting the details of things I’ve done for years. I heard about ‘chemo brain’ when I was first diagnosed. I just didn’t think I’d deal with it.”
Chemo brain. I’d said the words out loud. Another label to live with. How many undesirable labels would I have to carry in my life? The words weighed on my heart like the breast form I wore. Awkward. Unwelcome. There were times I forgot, but all too often I knew only one of my breasts was my own.
“I’m so sorry, Jillian.” Payton’s voice lured me out of the gray depths of my thoughts. “I know this is hard for you.”
Her words, unsullied by false platitudes or suggestions of what to do, gave me room to breathe. To not have to pretend that I was okay. “I’m still trying to figure out what I’m going to do next. Geoff didn’t find out until yesterday morning.”
“She was asleep when I came in late Friday.”
“And he was already at the gym when I woke up.”
“Thanks to the team and me tearing their house apart.”
“It’s fine, Zach.” I offered him what I hoped was a genuine smile. “At least we got to have the first book club get-together at the house there before the renovation started, right?”
“Right.”
“The what?” My mother grasped for a chance to change the conversation.
“Johanna, Payton, and I are trying to read a book together.” Even as I spoke the words, I heard echoes of the tension between the three of us from a week ago.
“That sounds like fun.” Mom seemed eager for all the details.
Why tell her any differently?
“If we all agree to continue with the book we selected.”
“What did you decide to read? A bestseller?”
“We chose a biography—but even that was a difficult category. Should we go with a historical figure or a contemporary one or a celebrity?”
“And?”
“Contemporary.”
“And . . .”
“And what?”
“How did the first discussion go?”
I waited for Payton to step in, but she appeared ready for me to handle all of Mom’s questions. “We got, um, a little sidetracked, didn’t we, Payton?”
Not that I was going to tell Mom that we were interrupted by her texts.
“Yes . . . we did.” My sister tossed me a wink. “I think we’ll get better at sticking to the topic as time goes on, if Jillian has anything to say about it.”
It was odd to feel aligned with Payton against Johanna. I was the peacekeeper. The one who stayed neutral when my two sisters argued—as they inevitably did. And if I was close to either of them, it was Johanna, who was only two years older than me.
But today . . . today I’d sit on the bench with Team Payton.
Johanna never could decide which she liked better. Being at the hospital during peak hours, when things were busy, the pace a bit frantic, but all the while knowing she and her staff were prepared? Or was it times like now, early morning, when the hospital was just coming back to life, and she was the first one to arrive, to get a head start on things? She already knew they’d be short-staffed in the outpatient pharmacy, thanks to a pharmacy technician calling in sick, but all other locations were fine.
She had a meeting later to talk about updating their procedure for restocking crash carts, but she’d been doing research and relished the challenge of improving the process. She’d also e-mailed several colleagues, asking how they were doing, putting out subtle feelers to see if they might be open to a job change—all potential candidates for the assistant director position.
She slipped on her white lab coat as she exited her office in the back of the main pharmacy, stopping as the hospital CEO approached, accompanied by a tall man she didn’t recognize. With his tan and his lean build, he could be a runner—a runner who ignored the benefits of sunscreen.
“Good morning, Johanna.” Dr. Lerner stopped just outside the pharmacy. “You’re here early, I see.”
She was always early, as Dr. Lerner was well aware. Her dedication to the job was one of the reasons she’d been selected as interim pharmacy director. “Yes, ma’am. How are you?”
“Doing well. I wanted to introduce you to Dr. Axton Miller. He’s from Tucson.”
“Good morning, Dr. Miller.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Thatcher.”
Dr. Lerner paused, an almost-imperceptible pressing of her lips together before she continued. “Dr. Miller is interviewing for the pharmacy director position. He’s a late applicant. Highly qualified.” The CEO reached a hand toward her. “As are you, Johanna. But after seeing his résumé, the administration felt we had to at least meet with Dr. Miller.”
“Of course.” Johanna fisted her hands in the pockets of her lab coat.
“I’m giving Dr. Miller a tour of the hospital and wanted him to see the various pharmacies before things got too busy.” Her boss frowned as her phone rang, taking a moment to silence it. “I apologize, Axton. I thought I’d turned my phone off.”
“No problem.”
Axton? Dr. Lerner was on a first-name basis with this guy already? Johanna stepped forward. “Why don’t I show Dr. Miller around?”
“I don’t want to interfere with your morning, Johanna.”
“As you already said, I’m here early. And there’s no one more familiar with how everything is run.” Her competition might as well realize what he was up against. If she needed to play tour guide, so be it.
“That’s true. As I mentioned, Axton, Dr. Thatcher is our interim pharmacy director. She’s done an excellent job, too.” Dr. Lerner was already reaching for her phone again. “And I do need to take this call. Just come to my office when you’re done here, Axton. Johanna will bring you back.”
“I know the way.”
Oh, he did, did he? Was this his first visit to the hospital? If anyone knew her way around Mount Columbia Medical Center, she did. She spent more time here than she did at home.
Dr. Axton Miller. His name sounded familiar—or did it? She was almost certain she hadn’t met him before. And it was ridiculous to stand around here and try to figure out who he was. She needed to do what she’d been asked, return the guy to Dr. Lerner, and then get on with her workday.
“As I’m sure Dr. Lerner mentioned, Mount Columbia Medical Center is a three-hundred-bed hospital.” Johanna opened the door to the outpatient pharmacy, stepping aside so Dr. Miller could go in first. “It’s named after one of Colorado’s fourteeners. We have a reputation of serving a more select population who is willing to travel for a higher quality and more comfortable level of care.”
“So what you’re saying is, the patient is less concerned about cost and more concerned about their care experience.”
“You could say that.” Whatever the man did, he had some knowledge of consumer-focused health care. “We have a main hospital pharmacy, as well as both inpatient and outpatient pharmacies, and both OR and same-day surgery pharmacies. This is our outpatient pharmacy.” Johanna paused as Dr. Miller strolled through the area. “We’re also in the planning phase to add an IV cancer clinic, which would require a cancer pharmacy.”
“Yes, Dr. Lerner and I discussed that.”
Of course they had. No doubt she’d touted the merits of the hospital, as well as discussed plans for the future—two of her favorite things to do—as part of a job interview.
“How long have you been the interim pharmacy director, Dr. Thatcher?”
“Six months.”
“What are some of the challenges you face here?”
“There are no challenges.” None that she wasn’t handling—and none that she would discuss with him.
“Really?”
“No. Everyone knows what they’re supposed to do, and they do it.”
“I see.” Dr. Miller turned to face her. “No concerns about medication nonadherence?”
Who did this guy think he was? Johanna resisted doing a double take. Did he believe she had insider information for him—her competition? Not that he could be any sort of serious contender for the job.
“Would you like to go see one of the inpatient pharmacy locations?”
“That would be fine.”
They headed toward the elevators. “Are you and Dr. Lerner personal friends?”
“No.”
That canceled out any sort of private connection between him and her boss. Maybe Dr. Lerner had mentored him at some point?
“How did you hear about the job opening, if you don’t mind my asking?” Not that it mattered.
“I don’t mind. A colleague told me about it.” A glint of humor lit his eyes—one that remained the rest of the time they were together.
And his response told her nothing. Had Dr. Lerner contacted him? Or someone else here at the hospital? They were playing twenty questions, and he was an unwilling participant.
Half an hour later, she’d taken Dr. Miller to the various pharmacy locations, and now they rode the elevator in silence. What right did he have to come in here, disrupt her schedule, not to mention her direct route to a promotion, and then find something—or was it more than one thing?—humorous about their time together? Before she could continue questioning him, Dr. Lerner appeared in the hallway just outside the elevators.
“Dr. Miller, still with Dr. Thatcher?”
“Yes. We’ve had an excellent conversation.”
Now the man was flat-out lying to Dr. Lerner.
“Well, if you’re done here, I thought we could get some breakfast in the staff café. We can talk and see what kinds of questions you have about the job.”
Maybe Johanna should volunteer to join them so they could discuss the job together—a little professional two-on-one. But it would be better to walk away and act as if the appearance of this man didn’t concern her in the least. Because it didn’t.
“Enjoy the rest of your visit.”
“Thank you for the tour, Dr. Thatcher.” The glint of humor in Miller’s eyes had intensified, and a smile curved his lips.
“My pleasure, Dr. Miller.”
As the two disappeared, laughter floated back down the hallway.
The joke was on her.
The first of her staff began to arrive, saying good morning. Johanna barely heard them. This was no time to panic, even if she had been aiding the enemy.
Let the administration interview someone else. Due process. It didn’t change anything. She’d proven herself. Miller was an unknown—except for his résumé.
His résumé.
A few moments later, Johanna was in her office, in front of her computer, googling Dr. Axton Miller of Tucson, Arizona.
He’d graduated from Rutgers’s PharmD program. A visiting professor to their dual PharmD/MD professor program. Participated in several humanitarian trips overseas. Nice touch.
And he’d started an off-site chemo program at the hospital in Arizona.
The words on the screen seemed to blur for a moment, causing Johanna to blink. Once. Twice.
“He’s a late applicant. Highly qualified.”
Dr. Lerner’s endorsement of her rival burned like antiseptic poured on an open wound.
She knew why her boss was so impressed with Dr. Axton Miller. Dr. Lerner wasn’t understating anything when she said he was highly qualified. The man was more qualified for the pharmacy director position than Johanna was.
ONE GOOD THING about not having a job—not that I was making a list—was that I wasn’t missing work to be at my doctor’s appointment. And it didn’t matter that Dr. Sartwell was running a few minutes behind. I could wait . . . and wait . . . and wait.
Small comfort for a newly unemployed woman.
But any consolation in the midst of all the upheaval in my life was good. Of course, I’d be the one meeting the plumber at the house later today while he checked the kitchen pipes. And also meeting the person from the mold removal company, who would tell me how bad that issue was. After all, Geoff had a job—and I was thankful for that. It only made sense that I met with people as needed during the renovation—not that we were hoping for any more issues to come up.
At least Dr. Sartwell and I were only talking today—no actual exam. Even so, her medical assistant had insisted on taking my blood pressure and temperature and weight. Funny how cancer and chemo and radiation made stepping on the scale the last thing
I cared about.
Having to get weighed meant I was still alive.
For now, I’d sit. Relax. Not think about leaking pipes. Or mold. Anything happening outside this room? I didn’t have to deal with it. Reality was, as a patient, not a medical provider, I couldn’t handle any of it.
Every noise beyond the walls was muffled. Footsteps. Ringing phones. Voices. If I closed my eyes, the silence in the room surrounded me. Separated me from anything waiting for me. I could just be here. There was something comforting about the clean scent of ammonia that lingered in the room. I didn’t have to think about the mistakes of the past week that left me unemployed. Or the unknowns that loomed ahead of me.
Tears threatened, the edges of my eyelids wet. Then I exhaled and accepted the moment. The quiet.
And found safety in the silence filling a doctor’s exam room.
Dr. Sartwell entered with her usual gentle rap on the door, a “Good morning,” and her easy smile. All familiar after so many months of diagnosis, treatment, and follow-up appointments. I acknowledged her apology for being late for my appointment, deciding not to explain that I’d enjoyed the extra moments of solitude.
“How are you doing today, Jillian?”
“I’ve been better.” I wasn’t being coy. Just honest. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ve certainly been worse. But I’ve been better, too. I lost my job.”
Dr. Sartwell stopped typing in her laptop. “What happened?”
“I can sum it up in two words. Chemo brain.” Now the tears started flowing, my throat constricting. “Every day . . . I told myself I could do my job . . . that tomorrow . . . would be better . . .”
I paused, fighting for control. I wasn’t going to break down and sob like a three-year-old on the verge of a tantrum. I twisted my fingers together, swallowed, willing myself to continue. To adult.
“I’m good at my job.” A harsh laugh scraped raw against my throat. “Correction. I used to be good at my job. BC. Before Cancer. And before my mastectomy. Before chemo. Before radiation.”
Before. Before. Before.
