It wasn’t as bad as that, Petra chastised herself. She had an apartment and a fancy smartphone. She went out for brunch. But there was a gulf between the airy apartment that the world probably thought she could afford as a doctor and the dark, cramped space that she hid in tonight. She had grown up without luxuries, accustomed to waitressing, re-balancing her checkbook, forgoing backpacking abroad in favor of camping out at the financial aid office. Money, truth be told, was part of the reason that she became a physician. She liked the idea of financial security, and she thought it would put her mother at ease about Petra’s future. Lisa Lale was a worrier, too. It was no wonder, having had to support first Petra, and then Petra’s half-sister Ellie, after Lisa’s husbands divorced her. But she hadn’t been one of those strong, silent women. Lisa was a clucker, a hand-wringer, a sobbing, sighing second-guesser. She had a tendency to fret over every decision that she had to make, and now that Petra was on her own, Lisa agonized over her daughter’s practice, too. Petra learned long ago not to tell her mother half the things that went wrong in her life. Her mother’s quavering would probably kill her.
I should probably take off my shoes, Petra thought, staring at the ceiling. It seemed a gargantuan task.
The phone rang. Luckily, it was on her night table and she only had to move her arm to find it. “Tell me. Tell me why I’m already a failure at age thirty-one,” Petra said, without bothering to see who it was. It could only be one of her best friends: Sarah or Helen.
“You need a good fuck is all,” Sarah said.
“Why do gynecologists always think that everything begins and ends in the vagina?”
“Well, it does, in most manners of speaking.”
“I can hear you smirking.”
“You can’t hear a smirk. It’s a facial expression.”
“I can hear yours. Your lips smack away from your gums like a rubber band.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah, I associate that twang with smug amusement now. You’d be funnier if you didn’t laugh at all your own jokes, Sarah.”
“Feisty. What’s wrong with you, anyway? Tell the doctor your troubles.”
Petra jumped from the bed and began to pace. She felt embarrassed. She and Sarah were friends, yes, but competition had also been inevitable. Medical school and residency fostered envy and tension, especially among people who were used to being smart and in control of everything. But she didn’t feel smart or in control now. Sarah and Helen were great. They didn’t take bullshit and they didn’t celebrate when others failed. But Petra didn’t want to be the one they pitied. She didn’t want to be Poor Petra.
“You don’t need to hear me cry,” she told Sarah.
“Sob on me, Petey. I’m like a washcloth. I can be wrung out. I love terrible dating stories. Besides, I need the distraction.”
Petra could hear Sarah was moving around her apartment, folding clothing or straightening her papers. Sarah collected file cabinets the way other people collected Shaker furniture. Raven-haired Sarah was the most organized person that Petra knew. Sometimes, Petra could pretend to be like her. People even thought she was like that: Dr. Lale, organized and calm. But at most, she achieved a kind of superficial neatness. The bathtub sparkled and there were no weird smells from the refrigerator. But under the bed lay unmatched socks, playing cards, pennies. The closets were jammed with oversized, undersized, and just plain dirty clothing. Copies of her tax returns sat in piles on her desk. Pen caps and more nickels and dimes lurked in the drawer. Late at night, she thought of scraping together all the loose change in the apartment, rolling it up, and taking it to the bank. But usually, she abandoned the project halfway through and left little piles of money, like pots of gold, scattered throughout her apartment.
Sarah would never have made a mistake like opening her own practice right after residency. She had gone to work for The Factory and now she could afford premium-steel file cabinets in all colors of the rainbow. Petra, on the other hand, had spent all the money that her father had left her on renting the Pearl District office space, an examining table, a fancy spirometer, and countless little boxes of sterile pads, bandages, syringes, and creams. Oh sure, she had told herself at the time that it was a sensible decision grounded in theories about long-term versus short-term fulfillment and projections about customer base—no, patients, not customers—and so forth. But, really, her main impulse had been to build something, to own something, to say that it was hers and hers alone.
“The problem is that I’m a loser,” Petra said, finally giving in. “I can’t attract patien—I mean, people. I can’t hang on to the ones that do get lured in. I don’t know how to get myself out there. I don’t know how to attract the right—er—men and others to come in for all the things I have to offer.”
“We’re not talking about boys, are we, Petey?”
Petra sighed. “No, we’re not talking about boys.”
“Why can’t we ever talk about boys?”
“I promise, we’ll talk about them later.” Unaccountably, her thoughts flew to Ian Zamora. Now there was someone worth giggling about with one’s girlfriend. With that crooked smile, the shiny glasses and shinier eyes, and very nice arms.
Except he’s your patient, her inner Hippocrates yelled. First do no fucking harm.
Clearly, inner Hippocrates needed his own T-shirt line.
But it was true. Ian Zamora was a patient. She was going to have to be able to take care of him without drooling over him. Petra shook herself. “Right now, I have more pressing problems. Like, how am I going to drum up more business? What am I going to do if I have to shut down my practice? How am I going dispose of all those shiny, lacquered office chairs I picked out after I’m destitute and unable to afford a cell phone to call the Salvation Army to pick them up? I love those chairs, Sarah.”
She heard Sarah open a drawer. “It’s hard striking out on your own,” Sarah said. “That’s why so few of us did it.”
“I think I lost my head when my dad left me that money. It was so unexpected. I hadn’t talked to the man for fifteen years. Figures he’d be the one to get me in over my head.”
Petra tried to sound light, but Sarah understood. “Anything I can do?” she asked.
Sarah had snapped into advice-giving mode. Petra did this, too. She was, after all, a physician. Nevertheless, she braced for some of Sarah’s straight talk.
Petra gathered a deep breath. “I know they frown on sending patients away from The Factory farm, but maybe you could nudge some my way. Those teenagers you treat must break out in hives sometimes.”
“Not the ones I see. Most of them are too horny to care whether they’re allergic to anything. Look, I know things are tough for you right now, but at The Factory, I’m a pill vending machine. Scratch that. I’m more of a handy birth control prescription printer. If I were a vending machine, I’d take in cash and that would be awesome. Stupid physician drug dispensary laws. And as for hospital work and research? Even Helen’s not happy with that. What I’m saying is that you shouldn’t beat yourself up. It’s not like I’m ecstatic with my life. You didn’t make such a bad choice.”
“It’ll be a bad choice if I go under.”
“It’s a brand-new practice. Give it a while. Besides, if there’s anything I’ve learned from working at The Factory, it’s that you have to advertise and network. Do you have a web strategy?”
“I have a website.”
“That free website from Brazil?”
“St. Barts. St. Barts is classy.”
“Petra, if you feel the need to qualify something as classy, it is usually the exact opposite of classy. Let’s examine the facts. You’ve got a free website that proclaims its cheapness with its name: Freeeeebie with five Es, dot BL, slash server, dot number sign, exclamation point, DocPeetra. And what’s with all the extra Es everywhere? Were vowels on sale? And how about the flashing banner ads on all sides? It’s in Spanish.”
“French.”
Sarah snorted. “Right,
because language choice is really going to help. Pete, darling, you know I love you. But…you’re cheap when it comes to the things that make an impression.”
“I’m frugal.”
“No, you’re cheap. Remember when we all decided to go on that health kick in third year, and you wore scrubs to the gym instead of exercise gear?”
“They were perfect workout clothes.”
“And you used a rubber band to hold up your hair?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I think it still had the words ‘romaine lettuce’ and the code stamped on it. Cheap, cheap, cheap, Petra, that’s what you are. How is anyone ever going to find your site with that web address? And if they do, what does it say about you?”
“Websites aren’t that important anyway.”
“They’re something. And you, my friend, have nothing. Zero, zippo, zilch, nothing, nada.”
“Not helping, Mr. Roget.”
“Okay, let’s forget the website for now. What about those physician-ratings type sites? Are you on them? Have you Googled yourself to see how you’re doing? You have to make sure all the doctor-review pages have your name and information down correctly—you know, credentials, office location, what insurance you take. You have to get some reviews up—”
“Reviews?”
“Yeah, patient ratings. Testimonials. Get someone to write something nice about your staff, your bedside manner, the damn magazine selection. Ask all your patients to do it at their appointments and have them give you a bunch of stars.”
“Do people even read the magazines anymore? Don’t they have smartphones to keep them entertained?”
“Please tell me you have magazines in your waiting room. Or a TV, or something.”
“I have a copy of Time and People. Maybe a US Weekly. I could put out my old Scientific Americans.”
Sarah was very, very quiet.
“Oh hell,” Sarah said, finally. “This is going to be more work than I thought.”
• • •
Gerry, Ian’s head chef, business partner, and buddy, noticed the bumps on Ian’s arm right away. “You could kill the cat,” Gerry said, spearing a meatball with his fork. He shrugged when Ian sent him a glare. “What? It’s a lump. And mangy. I never knew what mangy meant until I saw a picture—or five million—of that cat. Who has the mange nowadays, anyway? It’s like scurvy or leprosy. That cat was probably around when people still suffered from those diseases.”
“You’re suggesting I get rid of a woman’s beloved pet because it’s got an unfashionable ailment?”
“I’m not suggesting you throw it in front of a trolley or anything. I mean, put the darn thing out of its misery. It’s, what, ninety in cat years? It would be a mercy killing. Better than what you’re sentenced to. Shots once a week? Are allergies even real? Besides, it’s not like Danielle and you are really, really serious yet. You’re just gambling on the long-range possibility of a stable relationship. Just because you hate living alone in your glass tower—”
“I don’t care where we live, Ger. She’s perfect for me. Smart, pretty. But more importantly, I’ve finally met a woman who understands about my schedule—”
“Maybe if you eased up, you wouldn’t need a woman who doesn’t care that you’re a workaholic.”
“I’m okay with the shots. The shots are fine. And soon, cat dander won’t bother me. With a little immunotherapy, I’ll get over it.”
Gerry drew a disgusted face and made a big show of pushing aside his plate. Most of the kitchen staff had already left the table to begin pounding, chopping, and cursing at high volumes. One of the bussers, Marco, started clearing the table from the staff meal. Gerry stood up and stretched. “All right, all right. You’re trying with the cat lady. I shouldn’t insult her. Plus,” Gerry admitted grudgingly, “she’s plugged in to the food scene here. And her voice is so honey-sweet that you can almost forget the fact that she’s a lawyer and she’s fleecing you left and right.”
It was high praise from Gerry. Ian grabbed a pile of dirty plates and headed toward the sinks. He helped Marco load the huge industrial dishwasher. Idly, he thought about Petra Lale. “Plus, I like my allergist. If I’m going to get stuck with needles, then at least she’ll be a good person to see week after week. She’s…very nice.”
And she has a beautiful laugh.
“Lady doctor,” said Gerry, brightening.
“Yes, I’m told they’re allowed to practice medicine now. They even vote and ride bicycles astride.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a female’s healing hands on me, even if she is an allergist. If the woman’s loaded, I could live with being man candy. I’d drown my shame in baubles and bonbons.”
Remembering the talk he’d had with Dr. Lale, and the empty state of her waiting room, Ian shook his head. There was no way this doc was pulling in the big bucks, if that was the way her practice operated. He wondered if he should try to send people her way. He remembered what it was like to start a new business—No, he told himself. He could not afford to start seeing her as a woman in need. She was his physician. End of story.
“Trust me, she’s not your type, Ger, fiscally or physically.”
“Introduce me anyway,” Gerry called as Ian walked away.
Ian was still shaking his head as he entered his basement office. Field, his restaurant, forced him to put in long hours at his computer, on the phone, at the front of the house, in the kitchen, in the alley, and even in the supply closets. He had only one day off a week, and even then, he often found himself coming in to make phone calls and interview staff. When he got really stir-crazy, he went for a run. If he couldn’t leave, he did pushups in the corner of his office. He had a silly boxing ball hanging from the ceiling, and he stuck pictures of critics and bloggers on it. Sometimes, he felt like a troll under a bridge, hardly seeing sunlight. Back before Field had gotten popular, he played soccer on weekends, but now Saturdays and Sundays were his busiest days. Danielle was a saint to put up with the constant phone calls that had him dashing off to fix leaking roofs, remedy produce emergencies, and mediate wait staff wars. Yet, here he sat, devising ways to keep his allergist out of Gerry’s clutches. Not that Gerry was a terrible person. But Petra Lale seemed so vulnerable in her empty office.
He pushed up his glasses and rubbed his face. He hadn’t seen Danielle in a week. Maybe his mind kept dwelling on his allergist because he couldn’t remember what his girlfriend looked like. It wasn’t terrible to admit that he found other people pleasing to the eye, he reasoned. Petra Lale was an attractive woman. He was allowed a tiny, harmless crush.
By the afternoon of his next visit, he was feeling much more sanguine. He’d had an aberrant reaction to her last time. Luckily, Dr. Lale’s professional manner had also improved. She flew out of her inner office and administered his shots efficiently. She ushered him to a seat to wait out his reactions. Another patient, a kid sporting angry red welts on his upper arms, soon joined him. Then, all was quiet again—except for the kid panting loudly through his mouth. Every thirty seconds, he seemed to make a snort deep in his throat. Ian wondered if he should summon Dr. Lale. But just as he was about to rise up, the kid looked up from his iPhone, right at Ian. He seemed to be breathing in regular intervals despite the fact that he sounded like a llama working up to spit.
The kid smirked, then seemed to choke on a cough. Served him right.
Ian settled back down. They were the only ones in the waiting room.
The doctor’s office door was partly open and she was on the telephone. She seemed to be trying to soothe someone. She had a musical voice and when it pitched lower, it stirred the hairs on the back of Ian’s neck.
He decided that now would be a good time to call his girlfriend.
“How’s it going?” he asked Danielle.
The kid sitting across from him raised his eyebrows.
Ian turned a little in his seat. He lowered his voice. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, everything’s great,” Danielle chirped. “We’re fine-tuning the Hammerstein contract and eating some lunch. Chinese, from Golden Palace. We got the crystal dumplings and the chicken mixed vegetables and those funny little spicy noodles that you like. I told Mark and Janet to try them and they loved them.”
Danielle always assumed that he wanted a full report on what she was eating, even if it was a cookie from the break room. It was cute, if a little annoying. “That’s great,” he said. “Listen, are you going to be working late tonight? I was thinking you could stop by the restaurant—”
“Sorry, baby, I have to stay a lot longer. Billable hours, you know. We’ve got widows to swindle. Could you do me a favor, though? Would you stop by this afternoon and fill Snuffy’s water dish and give him some dry, grain-free kibble? No wet foodstuffs, not even if he begs for it. And if you’d entertain him for a little while with the feather toy? The vet says he’s becoming overweight and we need to exercise him more, but I haven’t had time to engage him in productive calorie-burning behaviors lately.”
“I could feed the cat,” he said, a little dubiously. “I can’t stay with him long, though. Allergic, remember?”
“Key’s under the flowerpot. Thank you. Love you.”
“Right. Okay. See you.”
Ian tucked away his phone.
“Was that your girlfriend?” the kid asked.
“Yes,” Ian said.
“Is she a model?”
“Uh, no,” said Ian.
“Then why were you sucking up to her?”
“I wasn’t sucking up,” Ian said. “I just happen to be around to feed her cat.”
“You’re allergic to cats. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Agreeing to feed her cat isn’t buttering her up. She doesn’t usually make demands on me, which is how we like it.”
The kid shrugged, as if not quite believing him.
It might have been wise to retreat at this point, but Ian couldn’t bring himself to give up to a preteen. “I actually like the cat, you know.”
Romance in Color Page 61
