Page 88 of Holiday Star
“Of course, he did.” Her eyes roll. “That man drives me crazy. Would he ever tell a male resident that his idea wascute?” She motions with her hands, putting air quotes around the word “cute.”
I shake my head slowly because she’s right. No one would say that kind of shit to a male resident.
With a disgruntled groan, she tips her chin back and closes her eyes, breathing deeply like she’s attempting to maintain control. After a beat of silence, her eyes snap open. “Walk with me,” she barks and spins to go into the cafeteria. I follow at her heels, as obedient as Pip was when we took her to doggie training classes.
We hurry through the line, picking out salads and sandwiches. “I’ve only got twenty minutes before my next case, so you’d better be quick,” she calls over her shoulder.
I launch into my art therapy presentation, talking fast as we pay for our food and find seats at a small, round table. A couple of surgery residents approach like they’re going to sit with us, but Dr. Patel gives a firm shake of her head and they scurry off.
By the time I’m done with my speech, we’re walking over to the trash can to dump our crumpled napkins into it and place the now-empty plastic trays on top.
Dr. Patel has been silent while I gave my spiel. The woman has a great poker face. I have no idea what she thinks about my proposition.
“You’ve found money for two out of the three spots?” she confirms, musing out loud.
“Yes, that’s right.”
Tapping a finger on her lips, she tilts her head to the side and regards me. “How do you know this therapy will work?”
“It will,” I assure her. “I’m certain because I’ve done it myself and found it immensely helpful.” My fingers find the buttons of my white lab coat. I fiddle with them, wondering how much to divulge. Showing weakness, especially in the form of mental health, is highly frowned on in medicine, but I decide to be honest. It’s time to break down those old stigmas. “My father died when I was a teenager. Art therapy helps me cope with my grief.”
My explanation must make sense, because Dr. Patel purses her lips, debating. “You have all this information written down somewhere?”
I promise to drop the binder off at her office later today.
“It might look good for our advertising.” Her gaze grows distant. “We could spin it as a way to show that we treat the whole mind-body connection. That sort of thing.”
I nod encouragingly, feeling hopeful.
“There’s a meeting of the executive committee in two weeks. I can take this to them and see what they say.” She pins me with a serious look. “No promises, but I’ll try.”
I beam, resisting the urge to bounce on my feet. “That’s wonderful. You won’t regret it.”
59
It’s two a.m., and I’m in the ER, suturing a nasty cut in a twenty-year-old’s shoulder. He’s passed out, drooling slightly. I wrinkle my nose from the alcohol stench that’s expelled every time he breathes. He smells like he went swimming in a vat of tequila.
“Tell me again how this happened?” I ask his friend, who sways drunkenly in a chair next to me.
“We were partying,” he slurs, answering my question.
“Yes,” I say dryly. “I can see that.”
“It was a costume party.”
“Yes, I can see that, too,” I say, eyeing his skin-tight Spiderman costume that leaves nothing to the imagination…and I mean nothing. The guy might not be the brightest light bulb, but at least his girlfriend, or boyfriend, is lucky in the bedroom.
“Anyway. We were having a gr-gr-great time,” he continues, hiccupping and stuttering his way through the tale. “Steve here was dressed up like Superman. He was su-su-super, hiccup, drunk and high.”
He swipes at his nose with the back of his hand and misses. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Steve decided he could f-f-ly, so he jumped out of a second-story window, hiccup, at our friend’s apartment.” He ends the story with a wide yawn, releasing his own blast of toxic alcohol breath.
My hand clutches the needle that I’ve just pushed through his friend’s skin. “That’s it!” I breathe out, an idea sparking in my mind and taking off like wildfire. “That’s what Caleb needs.” I’m so excited I don’t realize I’ve spoken out loud until the drunk friend says, “Huh? Who’s Caleb?”
I’m not even listening, because I’m a mastermind and I’ve come up with a plan.
The next day, when Caleb walks me home, I initiate phase one of my top-secret mission. I grab his hand and pull him stumbling into the lobby at the bottom of my apartment building.
It’s a small space, with just enough room for a row of mailboxes in the wall and an umbrella stand by the stairs. The door thumps closed behind us, muffling the sound of the crowd still buzzing like bees around him. Caleb’s the picture of surprise, his mouth a round O and eyes wide. He’s never been inside my building before. His head swivels, taking in each detail before settling back on me.
