Page 7 of The Devil You Know
“What seems to be the problem today?” I say. I’m trying to keep the irritation out of my voice and remain compassionate. Mr. Katz is a really nice man. He’s just lonely and a little neurotic. It’s not his fault.
“My left hip is acting up,” he tells me, his graying eyebrows furrowed together.
“When does it hurt?” I ask. “When you’re walking?”
Mr. Katz shakes his head. “No, not really.”
“Does it hurt just sitting there? Like, right now?”
“No.”
“When you’re exercising?”
That’s a trick question. I know he doesn’t exercise. Because it causes a sharp pain in his right temple. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about that in October.
Sure enough, Mr. Katz shakes his head. “No.”
“Does it hurt at night? In bed?”
“No.”
Okay, I give up. “Mr. Katz, whendoesit hurt?
He thinks for a minute. “It hurts when I do this…” He stands up, spreads his legs apart, and lifts his left hip while simultaneously fully externally rotating it. I half expect him to start singing, “I’m a little teapot, short and stout!”
It’s genuinely very hard not to start laughing. “Well, how often do you have to do that?”
“I guess not too often,” he admits.
“Okay,” I say, “so maybe just try not to do that anymore?”
At first, I’m certain he’s going to argue with me. But maybe he senses that I’ve barely slept in the last twenty-four hours and takes pity.
“Listen, Dr. McGill,” he says quietly. “I just need to know…”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Yes…”
Mr. Katz squeezes his sweaty hands together. “Do you think that it could be… you know,cancer?”
“It’s not cancer,” I tell him. “I promise you. It’s definitely not cancer.”
For the first time since he came in today, Mr. Katz smiles at me. He’s happy. Well, at least until next time.
Chapter 3
I run through my morning roster of patients in a slight haze. By ten o’clock, my lips become practically glued to my cup of coffee, and I only remove them briefly to talk to my patients and to breathe. Even so, by the time I’ve got a break for lunchtime, I’m utterly drained. I want to curl up in the corner of the examining room and take a nap.
God, I hope whatever they’re selling in the cafeteria is edible.
“Dr. McGill!” I hear the booming voice from outside the examining room. I recognize the voice instantly—it’s my boss, Dr. Bernard Kirschstein. He’s got only two voice volumes: yelling so that everyone within a block radius can hear or else not talking at all. “Do you have a moment to speak with me?”
It’s my boss.Of courseI have a moment.
“What’s going on, Dr. Kirschstein?” I ask.
For the most part, I call every single physician at the VA that I have an acquaintance with by their first name. Dr. Kirschstein is the one exception.Nobodycalls Dr.Kirschstein by his first name. Not because he’s pompous or anything like that—mostly because he’sold. It would be like callingGodby his first name. He’s been working at the VA before anyone I’ve met can remember. Lisa and I once tried to look up in the computer when he started working here, and the best we could figure out is that he’s at least seventy-five. But he could be ninety for all we know. It wouldn’t surprise me.
“Well, Dr. McGill,” he says. That’s the other thing—he never calls me “Jane.” It may be a sign of respect, but I’m not sure. Sometimes I worry he’s forgotten my first name. “As you might recall, you have volunteered to take part in the organization of our weekly Veteran’s Administration Hospital Grand Rounds.”
