Page 3 of Alphas Like Us
Right now, in this moment…I’m not a hundred-percent sure yet, and I’d rather speak to my father face-to-face than say those permanent words over thephone.
I tuck my helmet beneath my arm. “Let me call you back when I get to myapartment—”
“Farrow,” he says quickly, concern tensing hisvoice.
I push into the break room and snatch a piece of pizza on my way out. Using my shoulder to prop my phone against my ear, I tell my father, “I’ll call youback—”
“Wait.” He stops me from hangingup.
“Hold on,” I say and wait to speak again until I’m outside, sun beating down on the pavement. Sirens blare as an ambulance speeds towards the emergency entrance, and a couple women in teal scrubs smoke on a woodenbench.
I put the phone on speaker to free my hands. “Okay.” I bite into my pizza, the first thing I’ve eaten in over twelve hours. The food sits like lead in my emptystomach.
“Listen to me, Farrow. I’ve been where youare.”
No shit.I check traffic before I cross the street to the parkinglot.
“I know being a med intern is hard,” my father continues. “You work long, excruciating hours, and you leave a shift exhausted. But whatever you saw and did today, don’t bring it home with you. Don’t let it tortureyou.”
He assumes that I’m emotionally unavailable to handle his call. I may’ve had a fifteen-year-old girl code seven times in the past five hours, but I’ve never let any of that affect myjob.
The problem: if I plan to quit medicine someday soon, then I shouldn’t be setting myself up to be a conciergedoctor.
It’s thatsimple.
I approach my black Yamaha motorcycle in the parking lot. “I’m not that spent,” I tell my father. “I’m just not exactly excited to take house calls and check a little kid’s flusymptoms.”
“The call isn’t about one of the little kids, and it’s not anillness.”
My brows arch, and I find myself frozen in place.Not anillness.
I can’t ignore this call. No part of me wants to sit on the sidelines when I have the ability to help. But it’s making walking away from medicine that muchharder.
I kick up the Yamaha’s stand. “Who’s hurt?” I ask for details, subtly agreeing to what my fatherwants.
He knows it too. “We’ll talk more when you’re at your apartment. Call me back.” He hangs up first, but only after he dangled a giant carrot in myface.
I pocket my phone and put on my helmet, flipping down thevisor.
And like a stupid ass, I hunger towards thetemptation.
* * *
When I graduated medical school,I decided to save on rent and room with other doctors from Philadelphia General. I live a little north of Center City in an old gothic school that was converted into lofts. I don’t really give a shit about the “original chalkboards” or the dark walnut paneling or a cityview.
Basically, it’s cheap with three roommates and close to the hospital. Good enough forme.
Inside my apartment, I set my motorcycle helmet on the kitchen counter next to a Post-it note and then dial my father’snumber.
The note is for me, the same one I see every other day. I barely skim the scribbledwords:
Farrow, tell your friend that he needs toleave.
~ Cory
Leaning on the cupboards, I bite off the cap to a pen and then push my phone to my ear with my other hand. I fill up the Post-it with two largeletters.
No.
