Page 52 of Doctorshipped
My phone rings again. I assume it’s Jim, even though I know it’s not because he doesn’t ever call me.
“Hello?”
“Jayme! I’m glad I caught you.” Memaw’s unmistakable voice comes through my phone.
“What can I do for you, Memaw?”
“Welp, we’re having a paint night. Have you heard of them? You know, people who can’t even draw a stick figure get together to drink and paint?”
“I know what a paint night is,” I say with a soft chuckle.
“Welp, we’re having one. It’s a girls-only event. Mabel will be there. And Esther. And all your girlfriends. Well, if I have anything to say about it they all will. Anyway, I wanted to invite you and Fiona.”
I love how Memaw assumes my friends are a shoo-in for this gathering. For better or worse, people in our town keep track of one another’s schedules. Memaw probably knows the entire list of plans each of us has from now until the wedding, and that’s why she’s so confident she can get us all to come to this night out.
“It’s sweet of you to ask. But if you’re inviting Fiona, you’ll have to ask Grant.”
“Oh, I know that hunny. I was just calling you first. That way I can tell him you’re going, and I can assure him you’ll keep an eye out for her.”
“I’d be glad to. When is it?”
Memaw gives me the date and time and we hang up. Maybe I can enlist the women at paint night to be my followers on social media while we’re all drinking and painting.
That’s about ten followers down, and only nine-hundred and ninety to go.
18
GRANT
Fiona’s school week leveled out after that first day. I took action and called Mrs. Carmandy. We reviewed the special adjustments Fiona requires based on her dyslexia, and she assured me she’s on top of all of it, including the teasing from Noah.
All week Fiona kept saying things like, “Potaters gonna potate.” I can’t help but silently thank Jayme for her influence, even though Jayme is far too bubbly and optimistic for a woman her age. Her positivity blessed my daughter, and I’m at a loss as to how to express my gratitude.
So, I don’t.
I know. I know.
Fiona’s tucked in upstairs, the glow of the hall night light sends a warm amber hue down the steps. It’s that quiet hour when I should be relaxing, but I’m nowhere near settled. I head to my office to go over a chart. I shouldn’t work after hours, but this particular patient has me perplexed with his presenting symptoms. Seeing all the details laid out in front of me again may help me arrive at a more accurate diagnosis.
I’m about to slide my office door open when my phone rings. It’s Dad.
“Grant,” he says by way of greeting.
“Dad.”
“Are you busy?”
“You know I’m not.” I make my way to my desk and sit in my chair.
“I know no such thing. As a matter of fact, I picture you tucking Fiona in bed and going back to your study to look over patient files.”
His assessment hits too close to home. What’s wrong with using my free time to solve problems for the people I’m here to serve?
“Am I right?”
“Close enough,” I concede.
My dad’s heavy sigh feels like an F on a report card.
