Page 81 of Finding Jack
“Yeah. I make perfect salads on Monday when I’m motivated to eat well.”
“Define ‘perfect salad.’ Does it have Cheeto croutons?”
“Mixed greens, protein, fruit, cheese, nuts, and probably a vinaigrette. Please don’t think less of my masculinity because I said vinaigrette.”
“Too late.” I heard the sound of a plastic wrapper crinkling.
“I put Cheetos on it for croutons.”
“All points restored. I’ll make a salad too.”
We chatted about work while I puttered in the kitchen. Well, about my work. He hadn’t said much about his. I wished he would. I wanted to know more. And then I remembered that I could ask him. “How did it go at work today?”
He sighed, and I braced for a diversion of topics. But he said, “Fine. I’m having to become an expert in diabetes though. The obesity epidemic is no joke.”
“Feeling bad about those Cheetos on your salad now?”
“I didn’t actually put any on my salad.”
“Duh. So clinic work is way different than your old gig?”
“Yeah. I do general practice now. The problem is that a lot of people need specialists, and I can’t convince them to drive the hour into Portland to see them. So they depend on me for a ‘good enough’ Band-aid fix. But these aren’t Band-aid problems.”
We talked for an hour that passed like five minutes, and I learned about the life of a country doctor. He did pretty much everything from acting as his own receptionist and nurse to being a nutritionist and psychiatrist for the range of issues that walked through the clinic doors.
“Sounds tiring,” I said.
He yawned even though it wasn’t quite ten yet. “Yeah. It is. And I need to get in early tomorrow. Got the sheriff to agree to come in on the condition that I meet him at six a.m. when he’s on his way home from his shift.”
“Why do you have to work the weird hours to accommodate him?”
“Because it’s the only way to get him in, and for HIPAA reasons I can’t explain why, but the dude really needs to see a doctor. Even if it’s just me.”
“What do you mean ‘just you’? When I was stalking you to dig up your deepest secrets before, you seemed like kind of a big deal.”
“In my field. I was good at that until I wasn’t. I’m only average at this general practice stuff, but I’m all they’ve got here, so imagine how obvious the problem is if even I can tell by looking. If that means showing up at 6 a.m. then that’s how it goes.”
“Good luck.” We hung up, and I grinned. It had been such an ordinary conversation, but I felt like I already understood Jack twice as well as I had before.
Tuesday ended up being a garbage day at work, and I came home in a distracted frame of mind that even my workout endorphins couldn’t settle. My brain kept buzzing, irritation with my team flaring up every few minutes. I needed an even bigger distraction, something that would keep me so focused I couldn’t worry about work.
I texted Jack. “Scrabble?’
He texted back. “It’s on. I’ll FaceTime you in five minutes.”
“Hi,” he said, when I answered. “You ready to lose?”
I snorted. “Nah. I’ve been training.”
“How do you train for Scrabble?”
“Been eating dictionary pages for breakfast. Prepare to lose.”
“You okay?” he asked as he pinged me with an invitation to a new game.
I accepted. “Fine. Work was lame.”
“What happened?”
