Page 99 of Holiday Star
As long as you are there, that’s where I’ll go.
The sincerity in his gaze as he told me that. The determined set of his shoulders. “It’s hard to be sure, but I don’t think he’ll leave. Not if he can help it.”
She lets the warmth seep back into her face. “Well then,” her voice is molasses, sweet and slowly poured. “Sounds like you’ve got your answer.”
65
The executive committee meets in a bland conference room at the back of the hospital. The view out of the windows is of the physician parking lot, which is only half-full since evening has fallen. A lone doctor, her white coat gleaming in the lamp light, trudges from her car to the hospital entrance, preparing for a night shift.
I feel for her, having just finished a week of nights myself. Fatigue has left the sensation of sandpaper grit in my eyes. I can practically hear it scrape every time I blink.
I turn away from the window and walk through the conference room. There’s a chair pressed against the wall where I sit, tucking the tails of my white lab coat over my knees like a blanket.
Dr. Benson has seen me enter. A shadow of annoyance ripples over his features. He stands and makes his way over to me. “Dr. Wright,” he says stiffly. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to present my art therapy plan to the committee.”
An angry glower from him. “I already told you there’s no money for that.”
Refusing to back down, I tilt my chin up and say calmly, “I’m hoping the rest of the committee comes to a different conclusion. I’m sure with the combined intelligence in this room, we can come up with creative solutions to any budgetary restrictions.”
Dr. Benson splutters, “You’re wasting both your time and ours.”
Now he’s pissing me off. I stand to my full height, which still only reaches his chin, but whatever, and spit out, “It’s never a waste of time to improve the quality of life for our patients.”
He opens his mouth to respond but is cut off by the secretary calling on everyone to begin. There’s an angry stomp to his footfalls as he stalks back to his seat. I sit down, settling in until it’s my turn to present.
Surprisingly, the meeting is riveting. This week’s topic is renewal of physician privileges and censure of inappropriate behavior, which sounds boring as heck but turns out to be General Hospital–level drama.
I hear about a surgeon who is being penalized for angrily throwing a scalpel in the operating room. Then about a doctor who’s getting fired for slapping the ass of his female resident. And finally, about an administrator who got caught for petty embezzlement and is now being placed on leave.
Who knew these sessions are so full of juicy gossip?
Jenny would love it.
The thought sends a pang through me. Jenny and I have been talking daily just like usual, but I find myself editing what I tell her, especially when it comes to Caleb.
I know I have to let it go. She’s apologized many times, but I’m not quite ready to allow her full access to that part of my life yet. For my sake, but even more for Caleb’s. He’s only now regaining some credibility with his fans and the press. I don’t want to be the one who messes that up for him.
“Dr. Wright will give us a briefing about her art therapy proposal,” Dr. Patel announces, introducing me.
I take my place at the front of the room. Staring into all of those faces, the most powerful doctors and hospital administrators all gathered together, sets my heart racing. I exhale a shaky breath and replay what Caleb said to me after our Central Park date. When he talked about how I’m smart and brave and deserving. Those words fortify me, giving me the strength to speak.
“Thank you for the opportunity to present to you today.” My voice rings out loud and clear as I outline the plan I explained to Dr. Benson in his office weeks ago.
As I talk, I carefully gauge the reactions, reading the faces of the individuals who sit around the table. That old need to impress them, these authority figures, hits me with a vengeance. I want them to like me and my ideas. People-pleasing Gwen craves their approval.
Stop!I command myself.This art therapy is a great idea. Something that can help so many of your patients. These people should appreciate it for its own merits. If they don’t, then it’s their loss.
I make a solemn promise to myself.SomedayIwill be in a position of power.Iwill be the one making these choices. If the program doesn’t get accepted now, thenIwill make it a reality in the future.
A sense of control fills me where before there had only been nerves. My jaw firms, my shoulders straighten. With calm precision, I go through each detail in my plan, talking about it like it’s already a foregone conclusion that they will approve the program. In the audience, heads nod, and some of the friendlier members smile. Their nonverbal cues fuel my confidence.
There’s one face not smiling at me, though. Dr. Benson. He sits with his arms crossed like a shield over his chest, glaring at me angrily. It’s obvious now that Dr. Patel and I undercut him.
Well, screw him…and the patriarchy.
Once I’m done with my presentation, the doctors ask me a couple of simple questions. I refer to the handout that I’ve provided, citing the most recent data about the therapy’s effectiveness and discussing the federal grant money available to support the program.
