Page 15 of Maybe
“Yes, I’m aware.” Isaac’s lips pursed. “But not all of it. He inherited plenty from Grandpa and made a lot from his own books and his media stuff too. When the twins hit twenty-five, we’ve already agreed to do something good with a chunk. But the first thing I’d like to do, and before then, is pass another slice of it over to you.”
“I’m a charity case now, am I?” I flashed back. Obviously, ingratitude was the only way to go when someone was literally offering you the answer to all your problems on a plate.
“Yes, Ez. Clearly, that’s how I think of you. Although I’m beginning to wonder whether there are worthier causes out there.”
Isaac sipped at his sparkling water like he actually enjoyed it, his eyes landing anywhere but on me. He appeared tired and washed out, as if he spent too many hours indoors.
“Are you going to become a cardiac surgeon too?”Fitz-Henrys don’t have dreams, boys. Dreaming wastes time. We have goals.
“Yes, I expect so.” He frowned, then added, “Of course.”
Isaac shifted uncomfortably, and I pounced, wanting to make him even more uncomfortable, because I was a dick like that. “You expect so, or everyone else expects so? ‘Cos—newsflash—the old man’s dead.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Just saying.”
Isaac crossed his arms. “I’m currently working in an emergency department as part of my background training before applying for a cardiac fellowship. After I’ve done that and developed the research section of my CV, I’ll apply for a formal training post. Then five years of that, an exit exam, maybe some time doing a senior fellowship abroad and then I’ll secure a consultant post in Dad’s old department.”
I got the impression he’d recited that little spiel before. It wasn’t the most enthusiastic summing of a person’s career aspirations. “And?” I prompted.
“And what?” He frowned. “Is this you pretending to care?”
There was no pretence whatsoever, not that I’d admit it. “Nope, just making conversation with my baby bro. Sounds great.”
Isaac gave me a long, hard stare, then shrugged. “I’ve got a long way to go, okay? The ED is a hard slog, but it’s goodexperience. All sorts of cardiac cases come through, too, as well as everything else.”
Considering he was planning on spending the rest of his life gloved up and wielding a scalpel on those cardiac cases, he didn’t sound especially fired up. I let it pass.
“Before that, I had six months working in geriatric medicine. I thought it would be dull, but actually it was very cool. You really felt you could make a difference, you know? A big proportion of our hospital’s catchment are elderly and deprived.”
“I bet that was an eyeopener.” Especially for a sheltered boy like him. I didn’t tag that on; I’d riled him enough.
He laughed, the most animated I’d seen him. “Just a bit. They present with more diverse problems than you think. I learned tonnes. It was… I really enjoyed it, much more than I thought I would, to be honest.”
“Really enjoyed it? I hope for your sake our darling papa is not listening from down there.” I pointed to the ground with my thumb. I really hoped Satan had Henry Fitz-Henry strung up by his bollocks. “What did he used to say?Those that can operate, do. Those that can’t end up working the medical wards.”
And to think I used to call that pompous arse Dad.
Isaac schooled his features back to serious. “Yes, well, it doesn’t matter how much I enjoyed it. As I said, working there was a means to an end, and I made the most of the experience. I’m sitting my first round of surgical exams in a few weeks. And then I’ll apply for the cardiac surgery research fellowship. It’s a prestigious thing to have on my CV and will definitely lead to publications in peer review journals. Which makes me well positioned to apply for the training post rotating through Dad’s old department.”
As he recited his perfectly mapped-out career,again,he still sounded like a zombie. Looked like one too. All that endlesswork dug stressy Sir Henry Fitz-Henry an early grave and turned pretty, bouncy Janice into a miserable alcoholic. Hadn’t Isaac learned anything from our father’s fucked-up priorities?
And why did I care?
Annoyance that Isaac accepted someone else’s expectations for him as his due didn’t stop me being proud. He’d always had a strong sense of social conscience; I bet he was a fantastic doctor, or he would become one, when he had more experience under his belt.
“Do you remember that friend Dad had?” I asked. “Jack someone-or-other, the one he went to med school with, who ended up as Clinical Director of Medicine down south somewhere? Dad used to slag him off all the time.”
“Yeah, Jack Gallagher. He left the big smoke for a life by the sea down near Portsmouth. Jack of all trades,” Fleetingly, Isaac smiled. “That’s what Dad used to call him, as if responsibility for the entirety of the medical wards was somehow less than becoming a surgeon.” His eyes flicked up to mine. “Dad had a bucket load of academic arrogance, didn’t he?”
“Just a bit.” Talking to Isaac reminded me how much I’d missed him. The hours we’d spent chewing the cud in his bedroom or mine, strumming guitars, keeping out of the way. How we’d effortlessly rubbed along, laughed at the same things. Having endured a hefty wedge of our lives in the same weird household, experiencing the same weird shit no one else understood, my brain must have been hardwired to connect with his. Pulling out my phone, I checked the time.
“Are you going to run off again?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I need to be somewhere.”
“Another job?”
