by Peter Styles
Dr. Perfect
An MM Gay Romance
Peter Styles
Contents
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1. Jason
2. Mark
3. Jason
4. Mark
5. Jason
6. Mark
7. Jason
8. Mark
9. Mark
10. Jason
11. Mark
12. Jason
13. Mark
14. Jason
15. Mark
16. Jason
17. Mark
18. Jason
19. Jason
Epilogue
Jason
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Dr. Perfect
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1
Jason
“Mrs. Ward, are you sure your son had the flu?”
The robust woman hooked a meaty hand into the crook of her husband’s elbow as if seeking comfort. “Of course, I’m sure. He’s been sick for weeks, but he didn’t want to see a doctor. I begged him. I said, Brent, honey, you need to go to the urgent care center and get checked out. I told him that a hundred times, but he just kept saying it was nothing. I finally stopped bothering him about it because he would get so angry with me every time I brought it up. He never used to get angry with me. He was such a sweet boy, always bringing me wildflowers from the side of the road. I didn’t have the heart to tell him they were just weeds, really. He would just smile so big and—”
“Helen,” her husband interrupted, his face pale and worried. “They don’t need to know about wildflowers. They’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with Brent.”
I glanced over at Brent, who had become unresponsive. An oxygen mask now covered most of his face, but his breathing was so shallow I was afraid we were going to have to intubate and put him on a ventilator. Most concerning of all was the color of his lips. Blue. Why the hell were his lips turning blue?
Dr. Mark Johnson—my partner in crime, as he liked to call himself—was barking orders at the nurses. I could tell from the tightness of his handsome features that he felt just as helpless and confused as I did. He looked like he was about two seconds from calling Dr. Rosenfeld, our supervising physician. Rosenfeld would have to be apprised of the situation eventually since Mark and I were third-year residents and subject to oversight in every serious decision we made, but Rosenfeld was currently trying to resuscitate a patient who was in cardiac arrest. For the moment, we were on our own.
Twenty-seven-year-old Brent Ward had been admitted for flu-like symptoms, but it had been clear from the start there was more going on than his parents were saying. The guy hadn’t even been able to walk into the Emergency Department by himself, and by the time we got him, he’d collapsed completely. Now his breathing was so damn slow and shallow. And those lips. The color of under-ripened blueberries.
What’s going on with you, Brent?
I pressed my lips together and thought for a moment. “Does your son do any drugs that you know of?”
Helen Ward placed the hand that wasn’t gripping her husband’s arm against the swell of her bosom and gasped. “Of course not.” She shook her head violently, her eyes stretched wide. “Not our Brent. He’s a good boy; I told you that. He just has the flu. Bird flu or something.”
“These are not flu symptoms,” I told Mrs. Ward, getting agitated. “There is something seriously wrong with your son right now. His lips are blue. Was he having breathing problems when you brought him in? Was he lethargic? Confused?”
She nodded. “All of those. He said—” She gulped and glanced at her husband. “He was acting strange. I guess from the fever.”
“He doesn’t have a fever, Mrs. Ward. Was he taking any medication for the flu?”
She shook her head.
“And you say he’s been sick for a couple of weeks?”
She nodded.
“Off and on for a while now,” her husband added. “Not just a couple of weeks.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Weeks,” Mrs. Ward said at the same time her husband said, “Months.”
“And you’re certain he’s not doing any drugs,” I pressed. “You said Brent still lives with you, correct?”
Mrs. Ward’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she spoke. “I don’t believe I like what you’re implying. Brent is a God-fearing Christian and a good man. Goes to church every Sunday. Even sings in the choir.”
“Used to,” Mr. Ward cut in. His wife shot him a look of betrayal, but that didn’t stop him from continuing. “He’s been acting funny for a while, Doc. Hasn’t gone to church in months, and he quit the choir sometime last year.”
“He’s been under the weather,” Mrs. Ward said, her voice quivering. “He’s missed some practices, and he hasn’t felt much like going to church lately. Besides, he wouldn’t want to give this horrible flu to anyone else.”
“And he’s been moody lately?” At her confused expression, I added, “You told me he never used to get angry with you.”
She pressed her lips tightly together.
“He’s been moody as hell,” Mr. Ward said. “Sleeping all hours of the day, not interested in going to church anymore, lost his job a couple months back. There have been some shady characters stopping by, too, but they don’t stick around long. Not like real friends would. I got suspicious and went into his room while he was out the other day, and I found a bottle of pills tucked into his underwear drawer. They were in one of my Neurontin prescription bottles, but those weren’t any of my pills. I know what my pills look like. Saw some white powder on his desk, too, and my first thought was he was doing cocaine.”
“Why are you saying such horrible things?” Mrs. Ward demanded. “About your own son. You live to give him a hard time, don’t you? You’re never happy unless you’re starting something with him.”
An argument ensued, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I’d heard enough. I hurried over to Mark, who was running a hand through his dark hair, his eyes haunted as he watched his patient struggle to breathe.
“Respiratory is on the way with a ventilator,” he said. “He’s going to crash.”
“We need to administer Narcan,” I said triumphantly, knowing in my heart I was right. I pried open one of Brent’s eyelids and confirmed that the pupil had constricted. “It’s a drug overdose, and my money is on fentanyl. His mother was sticking to the flu story, but his father finally cracked and admitted he found pills in his son’s room and powder on the desk.”
“Jolene,” Mark yelled and whirled around to find the pretty, red-haired nurse standing right behind him, her blue eyes wide and expectant. She was so close, they’d nearly butted heads.
“Right here, Dr. Johnson,” she drawled in a Southern accent that was so thick it was almost unreal. “If I was a snake, I’d have bit ya.”
Jolene was off in a flash, all but running to retrieve one of the overdose kits we kept on hand in the ED.
Mark turned back to me and leaned against the side of the bed, his normally perfect posture slack with relief. “Good thinking, Jason. Of course, it’s an overdose. Unresponsive, cyanotic, dilated pupils… Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “We were told the patient was having flu symptoms and had been sick for a couple of weeks. It set our minds on the wrong track.”
“No shit,” he said under his breath, moving closer to me until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “I was running through every flu-like virus I could think of. Hell, I was thinking about the man we saw on YouTube that time. The one who had flu symptoms for a couple of weeks and then ended up losing his arms and legs.”
“And his lips,” I added quietly. “I know. I thought of it, too.”
He tugged gently at the bottom of my lab coat sleeve, a simple gesture that always made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I wasn’t even sure if he was aware that it had become a habit. Maybe it was unconscious on his part, but it meant something to me. A little signal just between us that reminded me we were a team.
Partners in crime.
Jolene Starr bustled back over with the overdose kit. Her hands shook as she worked frantically to remove the Narcan spray and affix the tip used for nasal administration.
“Here you go, doctor.” Her thick accent made everything she said sound lighter than the situation called for. Almost bubbly. Even when she was chewing you a new one, she never sounded truly angry. It was impossible not to like the woman. Besides Mark, she was the closest thing I had to a friend at work.
“Thanks, Jolene.” Mark took the Narcan from her and administered it quickly, spraying the drug into first one of the patient’s nostrils and then the other.
Jolene pushed an errant lock of red hair back from her pretty face and watched Mark with the same mix of awe and attraction that he seemed to inspire in everyone. He may have only been a resident, just like me, but Mark Johnson was a god around these parts. He moved like he owned the room and everyone in it. He spoke as if he were about to share the secrets of the universe, so you’d damn well better listen. And good lord, his smile. He could turn on that movie star smile like flipping a switch, and every time he aimed it at me, my knees got weak.
I had it pretty bad for him, and it was getting harder and harder to pretend I didn’t. But I had to pretend. He could never know that I thought of him as anything more than a fellow resident and friend. No matter how close we got, and no matter how many times I fooled myself into believing that the way he looked at me was different from the way he looked at other people, Mark Johnson was a straight man. I had to accept the fact that we would never be more than friends.
“What’s going on?” Brent’s mother asked, pulling away from her husband and staring down at her son’s near-lifeless body. “What are you doing to him?”
Mark gave her a reassuring smile. “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Ward. We suspect your son is suffering from an opioid overdose, and I’ve just given him the antidote. It’s a drug called naloxone, or Narcan, and it works very quickly to reverse the effects of whatever drug he’s ingested. We should see a change within a couple of minutes.”
“But what if he didn’t take any drugs? He said he had the flu.”
I marveled at the woman’s ability to hang onto the more comfortable idea that her son had merely contracted a nasty virus. I thought about explaining that, in this case, a drug overdose was the safer option than some unknown bug we would have to first diagnose and then treat. But she wasn’t ready to hear reason. Her husband, on the other hand, nodded with a resigned expression on his weary face.
“If he hasn’t overdosed,” Mark continued, “we’re no worse off for trying the Narcan. It won’t have any adverse effect on him if there are no opioids in his system. But if he has indeed overdosed, this could very well save his life.” He glanced over at the respiratory therapist, who had just entered the room and begun setting up the ventilator. “If this doesn’t work, we’re going to have to put him on life support, Mrs. Ward. He’s not breathing very well on his own, so we’ll have to let that machine do the breathing for him.”
“Let’s just pray it works, then,” Mr. Ward said quietly.
Mrs. Ward straightened her spine. “Why are you wasting valuable time on this—” She grimaced and waved in the direction of the medication Mark still held clutched in his gloved hand. “I know my son, doctors. He would never do drugs. What do you normally do for people with a bad flu? That’s what you should be doing for him. Have you even done a flu test, for heaven’s sake? Checked him for West Nile Virus? Whatever he’s got, it’s really bad, and if I have to, I’ll have him transferred to another hospital.”
Just then, Brent began to stir. “Mama?”
“Yes, baby.” She rushed to his side and took one of his limp hands in hers. “I’m here, Brent. Mama’s here.”
Mark had Jolene check his vitals. “Looking better,” she said. “The Narcan seems to be working.”
Mr. Ward let out a huge sigh of relief, and his wife burst into tears.
Mark placed a hand on Mrs. Ward’s shoulder as she sobbed over her son. “We’ll probably have to administer another dose or two of the Narcan,” he said. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but it appears the worst of it is over. We have Dr. Whitham to thank for figuring it out before it was too late.”
Mrs. Ward shot a look in my direction, and I wasn’t sure if she was appreciative or resentful. If she wanted to hug me or hit me. Then she turned her attention back to Brent, who had roused even further. His lips looked much better—more plum now than blueberry.
I stepped over to Mr. Ward, who had remained more stoic than his wife. “I think you should stop by the pharmacy on your way home and pick up a naloxone overdose kit.”
The man looked horrified. “You think this will happen again?”
I shrugged. “From what you’ve told me and the fact that he’s just overdosed, I’m inclined to believe your son has a serious drug problem. This may not be the end of it. We can get him through this part of it, but it’s up to you and your wife to provide him with the ongoing support he needs to stop using. A counselor will stop by before he’s released to educate you on the dangers and recommend some rehab programs.” I patted him on the arm. “I wish I could make this easier for you. I really do.”
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he swiped at them with the back of his arm. “Thanks, Doc. You saved our son’s life, and you’ve been really nice to us. My wife… She means well, but she doesn’t—” His voice cut out and he swiped at a fresh spill of tears.
“She’s in denial,” I said. “I get it. I’ve had to deal with the same type of thing with my family, especially my father. Sometimes parents just can’t accept certain truths about their children.”
He barked out a laugh through his tears. “I can’t imagine your family not being proud of you, kid. You’re a doctor. And a hell of a good man, too. I can tell. You were so patient with Helen when anybody else would have wanted to shake the teeth out of her head.”
I smiled and chose not to admit that I may have wanted to shake the teeth out of her head, just a little bit. Mr. Ward thought what I had was patience, but it was something more akin to empathy.
I felt for people more than most. It was why I was so good with the families, and why I was always getting nominated to deliver the bad news when we lost a patient in the ED. I was the soother on our team.
Mark was the charmer. He was the one who could defuse the situation when someone got irate and started making threats. He also dealt with the higher-ups, like Dr. Rosenfeld, who was our immediate supervisor. I knew it did
n’t benefit me professionally to let Mark handle most of the office politics, but he was so damn good at it I hardly had a choice. I didn’t have his silver tongue or his infectious smile. I didn’t have his charisma or the commanding presence that made everyone stand just a little bit straighter when he was in the room.
If one or both of us were in the doghouse with Rosenfeld, I was just as likely to make things worse as better. I had a tendency to get defensive, but Mark knew just how to handle him. With a smile and a few well-chosen words, he could make everything right again.
But when it came to dealing with the families in times of worry or sadness, I definitely had the edge. Mark came off as too put-together, too perfect. People who were tearing their hair out with worry or mourning the loss of a loved one needed someone to come down to their level. Someone who could wallow right along with them and hold their hand without being overbearing or obtrusive on their moment. I could blend in that way, but Mark always seemed to hold himself apart—and just a little bit above—everyone else.
Dr. Perfect. That’s what I called him when I was pissed or annoyed with him, though I’d never said it aloud to another person. It was my own private joke with myself. My way of dealing with the feelings of inadequacy that were part of the package when you worked with someone like Mark Johnson.
I looked over at him. At his perfect hair and perfect features. His perfect bedside manner. He was assessing Brent Ward with a calm precision that belied his earlier confusion when he hadn’t been able to figure out what was wrong with the man.
