Page 12 of Maybe
“What?” I was having none of it. I suspected until his mother had died, he’d been as miserably dull and straight as the rest of us. “No he hasn’t!”
“Isaac! Keep your voice down,” my mother hissed. “You’re drawing attention to yourself.”
In retrospect, this conversation coming off the back of five twelve-hour shifts might not have been my best idea. But I’d die on this hill. Even if Ezra was one now (and I was yet to be convinced), bad apples didn’t start that way. Somewhere along life’s path, small betrayals took root; in Ezra’s case it was one fucking huge one. And from that seed grew something twisted and resentful. Was it any surprise he was angry with us?
“We killed his mum, then moved into his bloody house.” I rarely provoked my mother on purpose, but sometimes, needs must.
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Isaac. Her death was an accident.”
“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have happened if?—“
“Isaac, stop it,” she said sharply. “Please. I’ve had a very difficult few months, and now is not the time.”
It was never the time, but, too weak to call her out on it, I let it pass. Eagerness to smooth over the jagged edges of human interaction was a reflex, even if a sliver of myself chipped away every time I bit my tongue.
Her voice softened. As if reading my thoughts, she said, “Your trouble is you’ve always been too kind. I know you used to be fond of Ezra, but there’s no helping some people, as his display at the memorial service demonstrated. God knows your father used to try to knock some sense into him. But would he listen? No, always had those bloody headphones on, or turned that amp up so loud I’m surprised he’s not deaf. Honestly, Isaac, you’ve got a short memory if you can’t remember that time he…”
Closing my ears, I picked at my poached salmon.
“Should he get in touch again, I think you ought to run in the other direction, Isaac. People like that drag you down. For your own good, I don’t think you should encourage him. Have you spoken to Michael about the cardiac fellowship?”
“Not since the memorial service.” I said sullenly. I didn’t need another person outlining all of Ezra’s shortcomings.
A waiter appeared to remove our plates. Half of me wanted to refuse dessert, given that I hadn’t set foot anywhere a gym in months, but then I’d have left my mother eating on her own. Thus, ten minutes later, two lemon tarts arrived, laden with cream, along with my mother’s third vodka tonic. Despite my revision planned for later, I sipped my first small glass of chardonnay.
At least the conversation had switched from running down Ezra, thought the tart was ruined anyhow. Mother delivered news Mustard Michael had been speaking to the research team at the Brompton regarding slotting me into a fellowship post, blah, blah blah. I said all the appropriate things and nodded at the right intervals, but the only sensation this talk of my future gave me was indigestion.
“You could at least pretend to be pleased. Michael’s going to a lot of trouble to ensure you get that job.”
“Sorry. I… I am pleased—of course I’m pleased. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Sorry. I’m just…” I searched aroundfor an excuse, then decided to go with the truth. “I’m feeling a bit stressed. I didn’t sleep very well last night and last week at work was full on and I’m not actually sure if I’m ready to take that post?—“
As she cut me off, she waved for the waiter, indicating to her empty glass. “Michael says you’re doing very well in ED. I understand it's hard work—your father had all sorts of stories about that—but it’s part and parcel of the whole thing, isn’t it? Get what you can from it, and soon you’ll move on. That stress is in your head, you know.”
No shit. And there was me thinking the mental illness goblins lived in my big toe. I didn’t say that, of course.
“Yes,” I breathed, sagging. “I probably just need an early night.” I jerked my chin toward her drink. “Do you… do you need another one of those, or shall we order a couple of coffees?”
Okay, definitely the wrong thing to say. Instantly, her eyes teared up. “You’d begrudge me having a drink after the last few months I’ve been through? Don’t you dare upset me at this very difficult time in my life.”
I could have pointed out thisvery difficult timehad been going on for twenty years. And if we didn’t address her drinking now, then when? On the hepatology ward round when her face was bright yellow?
“No, sorry,” I said weakly. “Let’s both have one, and you can tell me about the cruise.”
Three months slipped by. Ezra didn’t get in touch, and I tried not to feel disappointed.
Why did I care so much? I’d managed ten years without him. Nothing bad had happened. Not much good either, but hey, that was down to me.
At least I took his advice. Not about buying a flash car—I left that to my younger brother, Ed. He was yet to crash it. And coke was a no-no; I’d seen too many patients turn up in ED on the edge of stroking out to be stupid enough to try. But the living part? Getting laid? I had a crack, in between shifts and the textbooks.
Starting with online dating.
If ever a dating app was designed to be deleted, then Hinge perfectly fitted that hole in the market. Honestly, it should be rebranded Unhinged, considering most of the men I encountered on there. But it was better than nothing. My dating history for the last six months had been me in bed alone with my phone, rotating every fifteen minutes from lying on my left side to my right, like a depressed doner kebab.
Maybe I should have stayed that way. The last guy I tried to date summed up the experience as akin to juggling an erection and a pounding migraine. A doctor—yay! But a doctor with exams and an incomprehensible work-life pattern, revolving around random nightshifts interspersed with weird twilight ones. Less yay.
Unsurprisingly, potential mates rarely made it past date number two, time slots for which could be brunch, an empty matinee theatre, or when I came off a twilight shift at two a.m, sweaty and disorientated. And if that didn’t deter them, then there was always how I made treadmills look like they were made of mashed potato. My antisocial work hours weren’t conducive to regular in-person sessions at the gym.
Gerald, a presumably desperate optometrist from Croydon, attempted a record date number three. Number one had been instant coffee in the hospital canteen, prior to my mid-afternoon shift. Held up fathoming the hospital carpark system, he’d arrived flustered and late. Then I had to abandon him after half a cup following an urgent call to say the minor injuries clinic wasswamped and could I start sooner. Date number two had been a cosy trip to the cinema, except he’d watched the first twenty minutes of the thriller alone, as a ruptured aneurysm pitched up five minutes before the end of my shift. Turned out those twenty minutes were germane to the plot.
