Page 20 of Just One Look
Did he feel like a bastard? Yes, he did. Did he feel at a disadvantage? That, too. Probably the reason for the “bastard” part.
“Oh?” Nils asked. “Have you had the opportunity to observe her, then?”
“Yes,” Luka said. He didn’t add the part about the dog. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He restrained himself.
“Ah.” Nils said. “Then perhaps some background would help. Dr. Wolcott got her medical training and did her residency at Johns Hopkins, which is the top neurosurgical institution in the United States, and one of the best in the world. She was chief resident there in her fifth year, which you could think of as being captain of the Under 20s, and she’s board-certified in her specialty, which took an additional two years of training. She most recently spent two years as an attending physician at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta, another fine institution. We’re extremely fortunate that she decided to do a spot of world travel, which allowed us to acquire her as our highly qualified locum. I hope that eases your mind.” He told the woman, “Luka is a rugby player. A member of the Blues. His spine is important to him, which would explain his nerves. In both senses of the word.” He smiled. Dryly. Luka wondered if he ever broke into a jolly laugh. He’d bet the answer was “no.” The doctor went on, “He took a good hit on Friday, which I assume is how the injury occurred. And now, I have a procedure of my own to get to. Carry on.” He stepped out again before anybody could say anything, and the curtain rattled back into place.
“I don’t have nerves,” Luka said. “Ineverhave nerves. Excuse me? Nerves?” Also, the bloke felt like he had to put the “chief resident” bit into rugby terms, like he couldn’t understand it otherwise?
He was not enjoying this day.
The dog-loser—the surgeon, whose name he still didn’t know, because he’d forgotten—said, “Unfortunately, I have limited time for this discussion. I have back-to-back surgeries today, and I’ll need to juggle yours already to get that additional scan in, so if you’re declining the opportunity for those injections, please tell me now. You can check about rescheduling for another day.” She wasn’t looking flustered now. She was looking cool, competent, and possibly a little impatient.
“Right, then,” he said, after a minute. “As it seems that you know what you’re doing, go ahead and do it. I need it to happen today.”
Not his smoothest encounter ever. Not even close.
* * *
She did his injections.They were absolutely straightforward. He didn’t have the sedation, and he didn’t move, either, just lay there on his belly like thiswasno more nerve-wracking than a visit to the dentist. But when he told her afterwards, “That’s me playing on Saturday, then. Cheers,” like none of it had happened, and as if he’d rather not be in the gown at all, so he could just hop off the table and head out again to resume a busy day of … whatever a rugby player did, she …
She switched all the way out of “personal” mode, was what. She said, “You’re not playing rugby this weekend with a herniated disc. I may have relieved the pain and reduced the inflammation, but that doesn’t mean I’ve repaired the tear. ”
“Understood,” he said. “And I’ll be playing anyway. I’m missing training to have this done, and I reckon I’ll be coming off the bench on Saturday, but if I’m selected, too right I’m playing.”
She took a centering breath and said, “As your surgeon, I advise against it.”
What did she expect him to say? Something that showed his annoyance. Instead, he said, “The trainer and coach will have the last word, but I’ll play anytime I can. Every time I can. Sportsmen don’t get these injections so we don’t hurt. We’re used to hurting. We get them so we can play. You could look it up.”
She said, “Well, good luck with that,” and walked out of the room.
Spinal fusion coming up next. On somebody who would begrateful.And nervous. To which she would respond by being professional and reassuring in her detached competence. Her happy place.
She waited to think about any of it until she was home again, which was a disconcerting nine and a half hours after she’d left, meaning it had been light then, and it was light again now. Shemeantto think about it, but she couldn’t, because Webster rushed her at the door.
He didn’t jump on her. He justfriskedat her. All around her. Banging into her some and making her knees buckle, because the room was small and he wasn’t. A dog this big should not frisk. His tail was going at its usual ninety miles an hour in a complete circle, his tongue was hanging out, and he was panting like he hadn’t had a walk in weeks.
She gave him some pats. Of course she did. You couldn’tnotpat him, not when he was going crazy with delight at the very sight of you. She waded through his furry exuberance to the kitchen table, then held up the note and told him, “Busted. The dog walker said you went out with the pack and ran on the beach. You are not dying for exercise and love.”
In answer, he leaned against her hard, wagged his tail some more, and licked her arm.
“You got on my bed last night,” she told him. “After I told you to stay off it. Also, this place is covered in dog hair.”
He gazed at her soulfully and panted some more, as if he were saying,Can I help it if I love you and want to be close to you?
“All right,” she said, pulling off her sweater. “I don’t have an elliptical machine here, which means I need to get my half hour of cardio some other way, and vacuuming two extremely small rooms isn’t going to cut it. I’ve got a gym membership, though, transferred to me for the duration. Isn’t that lucky?”
Webster sat in front of her and stared at her face as if she were saying something absolutely mesmerizing. She felt stupid talking out loud to him, but he was enjoying it, so why not? She said, “I have to confess, though, that I don’t feel like going today. I don’t feel like I can handle one more new thing. I’ve got all this time to kill, though, so … do you want to go for a walk? Or maybe we should try running. New hobby, right? Newsolohobby, which I can do anytime and anywhere, which is perfect for my clearly preordained lifestyle. It seems I walk alone, baby. Well, except for you. If I take you, though, you’re not allowed to run away with me, because I have a feeling I’m not good at running.”
If the dog walker took him every day, hehadto know how to walk on a leash, right?
In answer, he leapt to his feet and turned in circles. She said, “OK. Hang on while I change,” and did it.
Running, as it turned out, was hard. Extremely hard. Also, no matter how many times she said, “Heel,” Webster interpreted that as, “Get out in front of me and pull!” It was uphill, though, and he was helping, so she decided not to worry about it.
Up to Ponsonby Road first, she’d decided, then down the hill and through Victoria Park to the Viaduct. She’d mapped out a route. Other than the coming-back-up, which she could do as slowly as she needed to, and which meant she couldalsopick up dinner and take it back home with her, it would be flat.
She could do flat. Shehadto be able to do flat. Humans had evolved to run.
Oh, my God, though. How could running be this hard? She possessed cardiovascular fitness. She did! Her resting heart rate was just fine. But while other people seemed to float along when they ran, pushing off the ground like it was made of fluffy clouds, she plodded, her feet hitting the pavement like a dinosaur’s. And not a nimble little dinosaur, the kind that bounded around and ate the others. A huge, sluggish dinosaur, the kind that got eaten.
She was an Apatosaurus, was what it was, her ponderous footsteps shaking the earth.
Also, once again, her lungs were on fire. She kept going anyway, because if it was hard, it was good for her, right? You could also call it her second day running, because of chasing Webster yesterday. Thefirstday was always hard, but this wasn’t the first day. It was thesecondday.
She was never going to make it.
