Page 16 of Paging Dr. Hart
“Huh? Why would you be a janitor?” My rocking stills as I attempt to figure out this mystery.
“I went to medical school and did my training in Taiwan. My medicallicense doesn’t work in America. None of my degrees apply here, so I took a job where I was most comfortable. At the hospital, a janitor job was all they could give me.” He tells me this in a matter-of-fact way. Like it’s no big deal that years of hard work got thrown out the window because he crossed an ocean.
I’m furious on his behalf. “What!? Why would they do that to you? Couldn’t you do something? Take a test to prove that you’re a real doctor?”
“No.” His smile is gentle. “It doesn’t work that way. I would have to start my medical training all over again. I was too old by then.”
When he sees that I’m still upset, he adds, “It’s okay, Tiffany. Back home, I had a good career, working for many years. I like to think that I helped people, hopefully saved some lives. I’m grateful for it, but time moves on and things change. You can either change with them or resist and get stuck. I chose to let it all go. To become someone different. Not someone better or worse. Just different, and that’s okay.”
“Why did you move here, then?” Why would you leave all that money and prestige is what I want to ask, but my mom says it’s rude to talk about money. She taught me to ignore different levels of social class because all people and jobs are equally worthy.
That isn’t true, though. I’ve heard Brandi and her friends talking about the men who come to their club and what jobs they hold. Brandi and her cronies scoffed at some careers, but I heard the reverence in their voices when they talked about others. “Doctor, lawyer, judge, executive,” they whispered, and I saw the cartoon dollar signs pop up in their eyes.
“I moved for my daughter. I hoped she would have a better life here. She was in high school when we came over. I wanted her to go to an American college, then graduate school. Maybe she could become a doctor like me, if she wanted that.” Mr. Chen’s expression changes, a subtle shadow in his eyes.
I’ve never seen anyone visit Mr. Chen. His daughter must live far away. “Where does your daughter go to school now?”
Mr. Chen pauses, and I feel an ominous shift in the air. This isn’t new to me, the expectation of disaster. I always have a faint sense that something bad is coming. Now, that feeling is so strong that I know before he even says it.
“She died. Hit by a drunk driver during her second year in college. She got into a great school, UC Berkeley.” Mr. Chen’s proud of his daughter, even in death.
My imagination takes hold. I picture Mr. Chen’s daughter standing beside him, with beautiful midnight hair and soulful eyes. The image is so sad that I begin to cry. With joint-popping effort, Mr. Chen pries himself out of the chair, comes over, and puts an awkward arm around my shoulder.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t feel bad.” He pats my shoulder gently until my tears dissolve into occasional hiccups.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m okay.”
“Good. Maybe when your mother comes to pick you up tonight, we can skip the part about how I made you cry. Now help me back to the chair. I think my legs are about to collapse.” Mr. Chen grimaces.
After jumping up to help him, I flip through the anatomy book on the desk.
“Will you teach me?” I ask, looking up from a diagram of the brain.
“Teach you what, dear?”
I like that, being called dear. It makes me feel safe and cherished.Special.
Pointing at the anatomy book, I say, “Some of the stuff in this book. Some doctor stuff. The piano too?” I hope Mr. Chen won’t think I’m being silly or asking for too much.
“Yes, dear. I can teach you.”
13
Present, Columbus, Ohio
The third day of Ethan’s training, I had walked into my office to find two desks shoved together in the tight space. Pushed against each other like lovers. Distracted, I didn’t notice the new office chair by the doorway. My shin banged into it—hard. Pain flared and with it my temper. “What—what the—,” I had stammered, heart slamming furiously in my chest.
Before the expletive left my mouth, Ethan had cut me off, holding up a placating hand. “Washburn insisted. Said Brandon’s old office got turned into storage space.”
Oh, yeah. That’s right.
Hopping around on one foot, I held my throbbing leg until I lost balance and tilted dangerously to the side. Ethan had caught my elbow, steadying me. “It’ll be okay,” he had said softly, the quiet confidence in his eyes cooling my ire. “We’ll make it work.” Angry words had died in my throat, and I blinked at him, unsettled. I wasn’t used to being soothed.
Now, it’s a few weeks into Ethan’s training, and we sit, working side-by-side. My backpack is half-open on the floor between us. I bring it with me each day to store my extra pens, notepads, and textbooks. I grab an eraser from the bottom, and it tips over. Most of the backpack’s contents spill out. A frustrated huff escapes me, drawing Ethan’s attention. Crouching down, I shove the items back in.
Ethan comes over and kneels on the ground next to me. He places books and pens into the backpack. The paperback I’m reading has fallen out. He picks it up and turns it over in his hands, a delighted grin spreading acrosshis face. That’s when I notice his mouth quirks a little higher on the right side when he smiles. It’s this perfectly imperfect lopsided smile that’s so disarming.
I stare at it, mesmerized for a long second. Then I give myself a small shake.
