Page 28 of Paging Dr. Hart
Ethan steps onto the balcony. He’s put his shirt back on. With barely a glance my way, he takes the other chair. “Nightmares again?” he asks, staring at the cracked pavement of the parking lot below us.
I sigh. “Yes. Did I wake you?”
“You did, but it’s okay. I’m not a great sleeper either.” Ethan puts his feet up on the rusted metal railing and pushes, tilting his chair back until only itsback legs are on the balcony floor. The plastic groans as he flexes and relaxes his feet, rocking.
I wrap my arms even tighter around my legs. “Sorry.”
“Honestly, it’s fine. Want to talk about it?”
“No.” The last thing I need is to describe my dreams to Ethan. No matter how scared I am, I’ll never tell him.
There’s a beat of silence and then he stands up and leaves. After a minute, he’s back. Wordlessly, he drops a blanket over my legs. I tuck it in around me and crane my neck to see him next to me. He holds a beer bottle in one hand and has another tucked under his arm. There’s a pop as he twists off the cap. Ethan hands me the drink and then opens his own before sitting back down. I snuggle into the blanket, grateful for its warmth.
He takes several swigs in a row, then presses the glass bottle against his right knee with a quiet groan that sounds like he’s in pain.
“You okay?” I take a sip of my drink. It fizzes in my mouth before I swallow.
“Yeah. Old baseball injury. It’s going to rain tomorrow. I can always tell because it makes my knee ache.” He rubs the cold beer along the outside edge of his leg.
“You played baseball?” This is the first time I’ve heard him mention it, but I remember all the times I’ve seen him play catch with my ball of rubber bands.
“I wasobsessedwith baseball. Had a scholarship for it in college.” His voice deepens, becomes bitter. “Thought I was going to be in the major leagues until I busted my knee sliding into home. I collided with the catcher and tore a bunch of ligaments. It took two surgeries to fix it. That’s how I learned tai chi. It was part of my rehab.”
I peer through the darkness, trying to see his expression, but the shadows hide it. “That’s awful, Ethan. I’m sorry. I assumed you always wanted to be a doctor, since your parents are.”
Now his voice has the detached tone it had when he showed me the pictures of his dad and grandfather. “My parents wanted me to go into medicine. They made me take all the premed classes as a fallback in case baseball didn’t work out. I humored them. Took the classes and did okay. Never thought I’d actually use it.” His chuckle has a hollow sound. “Turns out they were right.My baseball career ended, and I went to medical school.” Another gulp from his bottle. “Want to know the crazy part?”
“What?” My heart aches for Ethan, for the dreams he lost.
“In the end, my parents were right. All those years resisting, trying to prove I was different from them.” He shakes his head. “Turns out I like being a doctor. It’s nice, knowing I can make a difference, that I make someone’s life better. Maybe it’s weird, but I feel most at home in the hospital.”
I think back to the story I heard earlier today from Dr. Santos. Of Ethan, desperate to leave Highview Hospital. “But notthishospital? It seems like you wanted to leave Cleveland?”
His gaze is heavy on me. “You’re right. I don’t want to be here.”
“Why?” I tuck the blanket tighter around my bare feet.
He peers up at the stars like he’s looking for inspiration, a way to piece his ideas into words. “Too much pressure. My dad and grandfather are legends. Both of them dedicated their whole lives to this hospital, spent more hours here than they did at home with us. My older brother did his internship and residency here. He’s a genius, getting his Ph.D. now, because apparently the M.D. wasn’t enough to satisfy him.” I can’t see Ethan roll his eyes, but it’s there in his words.
“I’m proud of them, but there isn’t anything left for me. Everything I do gets compared to them, and I hate that. Do you know how many times I heard I was ‘just like my father’ or ‘just like my brother’? Or, even worse, people saying how my brother was better or smarter than me?” He rips a hand through his hair, mussing it, and lets out an aggravated sigh. “I don’t want to be like them. I want to be like myself. I want to be a good doctor but still have a life outside of work.” The words rush out, one chasing after another.
I remember how pale Ethan was when Dr. Washburn told him we were coming to Cleveland. At the time, I thought it was because he didn’t want to be here with me, but now I see the real reason. It wasn’t about me at all. It was about him returning to this place so full of memories. A place where he feels trapped by other people’s expectations of who he should be.
His voice drops low, whispered like he’s telling me a secret. “I told you how I didn’t get into radiology on my first try.”
“I remember.” It’s dreadful, seeing how this one moment of failure pains him. It’s a bruise he can’t help poking. Sometimes things hurt so badly it almost feels good to relive them.
“Everyone here in the hospital knew about it. I don’t know who told them. Maybe my dad? He was still working back then. The thing is, no one was mean. They were nice, which made it even worse. All those pitying looks.” He pauses and shakes his head forlornly. “If I stay here, I’ll always be that little kid who followed my dad around.”
Ethan’s conflict surprises me. I had only thought of the positives that came from a family legacy. It hadn’t occurred to me that there are drawbacks too. I can certainly understand the urge to escape your past and run to someplace new.
For a fleeting second, I think of telling him about the mistakes I’ve made. Then he might feel less alone in his imperfections. But that’s a ridiculous thought. A treacherous one. The less he knows about my past, the better. Right now, he’s looking at me like someone he respects. How quickly that would change if he knew the truth.
Instead, I reach over and put my hand on his forearm. We both still, staring down with equal surprise to where our bodies connect. I give his arm a light squeeze. “It’s okay, Ethan. You can be whoever you want. You don’t have to let anyone else choose a path for you. Success doesn’t come from a place.” A picture of a concrete apartment in a sun-drenched desert plays through my mind. “Success comes from inside yourself.”
His voice is lighter when he speaks again. “That’s one thing I admire about you, Tiffy. Your confidence.”
“Me?” I touch my hand to my chest in disbelief. I’ve never thought of myself as confident.
