by Lexy Timms
Mel focused on her, refusing to look at the people who crowded the waiting room.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m here to see Dr. Layton.”
“I’m sorry,” the girl said, looking at her through eyes that refused to blink. “Dr. Layton isn’t taking appointments this week. Did no one call you to cancel?”
“I don’t actually have an appointment…”
“Oh, I see. I’m afraid we don’t take walk-in appointments.” She tapped a keyboard with nails that were bright red, faded to orange, with pink tips. They were long enough and sharp enough to give a panther pause for respect.
“I can set an appointment with Dr. Millen, but it’ll be about six weeks. If you insist on Dr. Layton, I’m afraid he’s booked up for the next six months.”
“Six…” Mel suddenly realized how much those couple of weeks in the jungle had affected his patients and his schedule. He tried to tell me. I refused to listen.
He’s also forgiven you. Move on. Are you seriously going to let some two-bit receptionist intimidate you?
“I’m not here as a patient,” Mel said quietly. Forcefully. “I’m just here to pick him up to go to the hospital.”
“Oh, you’re an Uber?” Mel could see the woman recalibrating her opinion of Mel and where she fit in the food chain. Given her expression, Mel figured that it was somewhere with pond scum and crazy cat lady. “I didn’t realize anyone had called you. I suppose you can sit over there,” She pointed in the general direction of the lobby. “If someone called you, they should be out soon. They’re all in a meeting. I’ll let them know you’re here as soon as they’re done.”
Mel’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you understand, I’m not really…”
The girl’s eyes grew equally hard. Icicles formed on each individual word. “Please. Have. A. Seat. Someone will be with you in a moment. You charge extra for waiting, anyway.” And with that clipped response, she turned back to her keyboard. One finger jabbed down on the ever-ringing phone as if trying to skewer the button on the end of the claw.
“Hastings, Mangal, Wilson, Layton, and Millen; how may I direct your call?”
Mel straightened up and looked behind her. There was an empty seat between two couches. Each couch held one older woman and one younger. Upon closer inspection, there seemed to be a pairing in the room, old woman and young woman. The senior was in her sixties or better, the younger was in her twenties.
Each one of them was beautiful. The older women seemed to be a mix of natural beauty, a lifetime of good foods, exercise, and modern medicine. The product of a lifetime of privilege. The younger were the ones who inherited the genes, the natural beauty, and health of the upper class.
Mel sat down.
“Good morning,” an older woman said to her right. “Are you here alone?”
“Uh, yes,” Mel said.
“This is my granddaughter Alicia.” The old woman indicated to the girl beside her. She and Mel smiled and nodded to one another.
“Are you a patient here?”
“Grandma!” The granddaughter adopted a scandalized wide-eyed expression, her mouth opened in a round ‘O.’
“What? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m a patient here. Oh, nothing major, just a light trim or tuck here and there to keep youthful.”
Alicia buried herself in a magazine.
“No, I’m…” Mel thought for a long moment. “I drive an Uber.”
“Ah.” The old woman nodded and turned away.
“Don’t let them bother you,” a young, pretty girl on the other side whispered. “They’re just scoping out the competition.”
“Competition?” Mel echoed, glancing uneasily around the room. “For what?”
“Listen,” the girl leaned over conspiratorially, “everyone in L.A. knows about Dr. Layton. Rich, young, handsome, smart…rich. These old women are here to get their sags lifted, tummies tucked, and eye bags shrunk, but they drag their granddaughters and daughters here to try to make a grab for one of the most eligible bachelors in town while he’s still eligible.”
Mel looked at the girl. She was very pretty, too; all the girls here were. “What about you?”
“I’m a little different,” she admitted with a laugh. “I admit that’s why I’m here.” The guileless grin she flashed Mel was too much, and she found herself laughing along with her, even when she wanted to scratch her eyes out. “But I’m not really after Layton. I kinda like that Millen. He’s cute, and very sweet.”
Somewhat reassured, Mel decided that it was okay to like the girl after all, and thus wasn’t going to have to waylay her in an alley later. The others in the room; she narrowed her eyes and found she didn’t like this version of herself very much. Was she…jealous?
Oh freakin’ great, she was jealous.
But you’re the one he’s going home with later.
One hand moved to her chest, fingertips brushing against the fabric that hid her scars. The women in this room screamed perfection she could never be. Had she known any of this, would she have ever come?
Whatever confidence she’d felt moments before from the flattering offer from Jessica the Uber driver faded, and she groped for a magazine to give herself somewhere to hide.
Behind her the door banged open. An elderly man who walked with a cane, but who radiated power with every step, strode into the room to a series of collective gasps.
“Is that…?”
“I thought he retired.”
“You don’t think…?”
Feeling like the only one without a clue, Mel watched as the receptionist scrambled to intercept, failed, and fell back away from the door as the man walked straight on through to the back as though he owned the place. The frown on his face spoke a whole lot of trouble for someone in whatever offices lay beyond.
Right where Brant was.
Chapter 11
“Bertram,” Mangal bolted to his feet, nearly upsetting his entire coffee cup, and still managing to send some slopping over the rim. “What’re you doing here?”
“I invited myself along,” Bertram Hastings said, heading for an empty chair and settling his bulk with a look of considerable relief on his face. “My name’s still on the door. My money’s still tied up in this firm. I do have the right to show up whenever I please.”
“And we’re honored to have you here.” Mangal glanced over to Brant, an unspoken warning to keep quiet. Not rock the boat. In other words, don’t say a word until the old man is gone.
Oh, this is going to be fun, Brant thought.
Mangal mopped at the coffee on the table with his handkerchief. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, but I would think you’d be enjoying your retirement, not hanging about your former workplace.”
He’s babbling.
Brant smothered a smile.
“Johnathan,” Bertram said slowly, a loud hint of warning in his voice, “there are a number of patients in your waiting room. I would think you’d want to get this over with so you could service their needs, vain as they are. Let Brant have his say, and then you can fuss all you want to about my comfort level.”
“Thank you,” Brant said, taking the bait quickly, not allowing Mangal to speak. The man’s mouth opened and closed much in imitation of the tropical fish that swam in their aquarium along the back wall of the room. “I promise this’ll be quick.”
“Steven, here, has informed us that you’re promising to toe the line, Brant,” Williams jumped in with a dismissive wave to the youngest partner, who was holding up a donut from the box in the middle of the table as if a cruller was some kind of shield. “I don’t think there’s anything more to be said. As Dr. Hastings mentioned, there are patients to be seen, so—”
“Just stop,” Brant said, holding his hand up to block the man’s exit. “I didn’t drag Bertram out of retirement just to cancel the meeting when he got here.”
“You?” Mangal asked, his brow furrowed. He smelled a rat, but wasn’t sure which way the wind was blowing. Not yet
. “You asked him here? Why?” His eyes darted around the room. Looking for allies, Brant suspected.
“Because it was Bertram Hastings who made me want to become a doctor. Because it was he who showed me that fixing a burn, repairing damage done by a car or fire or attack, was important. That putting someone’s body back together after a tragedy was a powerful way to restore confidence and self-respect.” Brant looked at each of the men in turn. Making sure they were listening.
Steven lowered his cruller, his eyes thoughtful.
Brant leaned forward, focusing on Mangal. Willing the man to hear him out. “I’m not denying what we have here. Yes, our business is getting rich off people who will never feel good about themselves, if we’re honest. Larger breasts, smaller breasts, too many wrinkles, too little sun, too much sun, they lose the fight against age and we’re supposed to hide it. Fine. That’s fine. It pays the bills, it helps them feel better for a day or a week or a month, or a year…until they’re back under the knife because age will always win. But that’s okay, because there are people out there who need us. People who have been through hell, and go through it again and again because the horror they survived is etched into their skin; it’s burned indelibly into their flesh and bone, and the world doesn’t want to see it. We don’t want to see the traces of pain and suffering. We turn away and we cannot, dare not, look.”
Mangal had the grace to look uncomfortable at this. He fiddled with his coffee cup, refusing to meet Brant’s eyes.
“These are the people who need us. Everyone here says the same thing; vanity pays the bills so serious work can be done. It’s become a professional joke, an insider’s chuckle that put the nail in the coffin about what we do. We do nothing but play silly-putty with the idle rich. We have no practical use when we turn our backs on the very people we swore…that I swore to help.” He pictured Maria and the parents of that baby in Belize born with a cleft palate, and remembered how it felt to be able to do something to help, to make a positive difference in the world.
He pictured Mel, and remembered every word that Mangal had said. The useless braying of Williams, trying to look smart to his superiors. His expression hardened, and the next words were spat through clenched teeth. “And when you’re confronted with someone who does remember what it means to heal the sick, to be somewhere she’s needed, you treat her like a hedge witch. Like a poor, ineffectual quack because she doesn’t suck up to the rich—”
Mangal shot to his feet for a second time. “See here!”
“SIT DOWN, MANGAL! I’M NOT FINISHED!” Brant was on his own feet in that same instant, slamming the palms of his hands down on the table hard enough to toss the coffee cups in the air. “YOU WILL HEAR ME OUT!”
Brant didn’t miss the restraining hand Bertram laid on Mangal’s shoulder. Or the way Mangal sank back into his seat.
“You’re a coward, Doctor.” Brant shot that word at him like a rock from a sling. “You don’t dare do anything of significance or go where you’re needed, precisely because you’re not needed!”
“Brant…” Bertram warned.
“I’m gone. Whatever money is invested in this place on my mother’s behalf goes with me. My patients go with me and, most of all,” Brant stood, “the last pretense of compassion for a patient goes with me. Right now, there are press everywhere. If you, any of you, try to fuck with me, I’ll vilify you to the international press. And it won’t take much work, trust me.” Brant spun and stormed out, fists clenched.
“Brant!” Steven ran to catch up.
“Steven.” Brant chopped the air with one hand. “Not this time. No more. I thought about it all night, but I cannot, cannot throw away everything I believe in.”
“Brant,” Steven hissed, with a wary look over his shoulder to see if anyone else was listening. “If you leave now, you don’t have hospital privileges.”
Brant stopped cold. Doctors had to have agreement with hospitals. The arrangement was with the practice, not the doctor.
“Who’s going to do the surgery?” Steven asked then turned and walked away, a sharp look of disgust on his face.
Brant wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or at the men in the other room. He’d thought about the situation he was in all night. Why hadn’t he even considered his hospital privileges? He left the hallway in a daze, only half aware of the women who confronted him with the usual round of ‘meet my granddaughter’ in the lobby. They posed, both poised and catty, as they shot withering glances at the other women in the room. When had it become so full? One of the women grabbed his arm.
It took him a minute to realize who it was.
“Mel?”
“Did you forget we need to be there for Maria?”
She’s pissed. Why the hell is she pissed? Brant opened his mouth to speak, though to say what he had no idea. He was saved, rather dubiously, by one of his mother’s cronies, who’d seemingly materialized out of nowhere. “Mrs. Stewart-Prentiss?”
“Just Stewart now, dear. I’m so glad I caught you. I was hoping that maybe you could take a look at Gwendolen; she says she wants her breasts larger, but I think they’re perfect. Would you mind giving an opinion? Gwennie, dear, let the nice doctor see your breasts.”
Another hand. Another voice. Who was it? He couldn’t keep track.
“Dr. Layton, my Jennie here has beautiful legs.” Another younger woman appeared in front of him. “Show him, dear. See? Just beautiful, but do you think if you worked on her tiny little nose here, it might show better if—”
“Doctor, do you remember my Annabel? She doesn’t need bigger breasts, I’m sure you can see that already, it’s her butt—”
Mel was squeezing his arm so tightly he was losing circulation in his fingers. Then, as if by magic, the crowd started to melt away.
“Ow!”
“What a rude driver! Someone call this Uber company and lodge a complaint.”
A woman squealed, hopping on one foot, and cupping crushed toes with one hand. Arms were rubbed, pinched skin pinking under the artificial lighting.
A haughty sniff from Mrs. Stewart-Pren…wait. Just Stewart. “We’d be happy to drive you anywhere you wish to go Doctor, our driver’s downstairs.”
“These working types are so frustrating…”
A raised hand. Someone was about to strike Mel?
He realized she was the one responsible for the stomped foot and not so subtle nudges. He bit his lip to keep from laughing as she drew him along with a sharp tug, leading him out of the room like he was a small child being towed out of playgroup.
Except this small child was just as eager to leave.
The sun outside might have been bright, but he could see the storm clouds gathering over Mel’s head as she let go of his arm, turning on him with a snarl and a look sharp enough to draw blood.
“What?”
“Where. Are. Your. Keys?” Mel hissed between clenched teeth.
Amusement fled. Angry Mel harkened back to the jungle. This was the woman who had faced down panthers and snakes and government officials. Eyes wide, he pulled a set out of his pocket and handed them to her. His hand only shook a little.
“You drive,” she snarled and stormed off.
He would have bet money she had absolutely no idea where she was going, but he wasn’t fool enough to point it out to her. “Where?” he shouted as she reached the curb. Stopping her before she went too far in the wrong direction.
She rounded on him “To the hospital? Remember a terrified little girl you left all alone? Her?”
Behind him water trickled on an endless path, cascading down over the back of a leaping dolphin, only to be circulated around and sent back through the whole cycle again and again.
He’d been here before.
He’d had no idea what the hell he’d done to make her so angry the last time either.
Brant stood on the sidewalk, listening to the echoes of her staccato stride as she crossed the parking lot. Somewhere birds sang. Water flowed.
; Even her walk sounded angry.
Brant’s phone suddenly chirped.
I demand you call me straightaway.
It was the only thing on the screen.
From his mother.
Brant tried to do the calculations—what time was it in Paris? And which one of them called her? But the straight back of the angry woman in front of him also demanded his full attention.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and followed Mel. At the front exit she stopped and looked up at him. “I don’t know where you parked,” she said, biting each word like she was explaining that water was wet to a particularly inept toddler.
By this time Brant’s mood was shifting from confusion to anger. He had no idea why Mel was so angry, and he got no clues from that ramrod-straight spine. She couldn’t have heard him in the conference room. She couldn’t possibly know he’d just quit his job. That he’d just lost any chance of working on Maria.
His phone rang. His mother. Again. He turned off the ringer and stalked past Mel to the place he’d parked, taking a perverse delight that she was forced to backtrack halfway across the lot. Of course, she’d had no idea that this was the lot reserved for patients. The executive lot was around to the side of the building, in the shade.
Why the hell didn’t she just use the car she’d brought?
He felt his own back stiffen. It was one thing to be attacked by your co-workers. You kind of expected a certain level of backstabbing in a business setting.
Quite another to be betrayed by someone you loved. Especially when everything was going all to hell around them.
What had he done wrong? He was the hero of the whole thing—in a sense. He’d come with a full head of steam, proud of himself for getting Maria safely into the hospital. He was making a stand. He felt as though he was the protector of damsels in distress or at least the nearest facsimile thereof. And now…it was all falling around his ears.
He unlocked the car and fell in as much as sat down. He didn’t wait for her to sit, to buckle in. As the car fired up and roared to life, the phone vibrated in his pocket.
I insist you phone me immediately!
