Page 3 of Paging Dr. Hart
Drink in hand, I stride into my department. Going to medical school makes you a doctor, but internship and residency are the training that make you a specific kind of doctor. I’m learning to be a radiologist. As I walk to my office, I daydream about how wonderful my graduation day will be. When, after 10 long years, I’ll finally be done with my medical education. Too bad that’s still two years away.
The Radiology Department is in the center of the hospital, close to the main lobby. Its interior location means all the offices are windowless, a deliberate choice since radiologists stare at computers all day, reading X-rays, CATs, ultrasounds, MRIs, and other imaging studies. Sunlight coming in through windows creates too much glare on our screens.
When I burst into my tiny office, it’s pitch black, just as I expect. What I don’t expect is the deep masculine voice that rises out of the darkness. “Hello?”
Startled, I swear and jump back a step, thrusting my coffee out in front of me like a shield. I must squeeze the cup too tight because the lid flies off and the latte splashes over my hand, soaking my sleeve and the front of my white shirt. The sodden fabric clings to my skin, cold and sticky. I curse as Ishake my dripping hand and aggressively flick on the light switch. The room floods with harsh fluorescent light, leaving the man before me blinking.
It’shim.
The guy from my lecture this morning. The one who ruined it.
What the hell.
“You! What are you doing here?” I ask at the same time he says, “I couldn’t find the light switch.” Our voices clash into each other, warring for dominance.
A powerful combination of shock, fear, and anger has short-circuited my brain. I know I’m being irrational, but I point my finger at him. “What is wrong with you?” I demand. “First, you ruined my lecture and now my favorite shirt.”
Stunned by my outburst, the man looks at me with wide, shocked eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t think before speaking up at your conference. I noticed something was off with the tumor staging. Once I figured it out, I thought I should tell you.”
His apology does nothing to cool my fire. “You could have kept quiet, butno, you had to point out my mistake before all those doctors.”
“What? No. I wasn’t trying to—”
Before he can finish, Dr. Washburn yells from his office across the hall. “Tiffany! My office, now, please.”
“Just…hang on.” I hold out my still-dripping coffee hand in the universal “stop” pose, like some deranged elementary school crossing guard. The stranger stands frozen, watching as I walk backward out of the room.
Dr. Washburn sits at his desk, dictating. He’s a short man with ginger hair, receding and going gray. Silently fuming, I wait for him to finish looking over the X-ray in front of him. When he’s done, I snap, “Who’s that guy in my office?”
Dr. Washburn raises an eyebrow at my tone.
Quickly, I plaster a more pleasant expression on my face and rephrase. “Sorry. I mean, did you need me? You called for me?”
Dr. Washburn has a perpetually runny nose, either from allergies or the world’s longest-lasting cold. Because of this, he always has a box of Kleenex on his desk. I grab a tissue and mop up my wet shirt.
“Yes, you’ll be interviewing a candidate for our residency today. I sent himto your office. He’s applying for the first-year radiology position. You know, Brandon’s spot.” There’s disgust in his voice. Brandon had moved to do sports medicine in Kansas, and Dr. Washburn was still salty about it, not understanding why anyone would want to leave our residency. As far as he’s concerned, radiology is the best specialty in medicine. “A doctor’s doctor,” he was fond of saying. “All the doctors in this hospital rely onourdiagnoses,” he would tell us radiology residents, puffing out his chest.
It takes a minute for his words to sink in.
Wait. Me? Interviewthatguy?
A headache has begun, a relentless throbbing behind my temples. I rub my forehead, hoping for some relief, as I desperately think of a way to get out of the situation. The last thing I want is to go back and face that man. Let some other resident do it.
Anyone but me.
“I have biopsy patients waiting for me. I don’t have time. I—”
“Tell that first-year resident, Melanie, to do the biopsies this morning,” he interrupts. “You interview the candidate and give him a tour of the hospital.”
My mouth opens and then snaps closed. From experience, I know there’s no point in arguing with Dr. Washburn when his mind’s set. “Fine. Anything specific you want me to ask?” One more half-hearted pat to my stained shirt, and I toss the shredded tissue into the trash can.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says airily, flapping his hand at me in dismissal.
Back out in the hallway, I peer into my office. The stranger sits in my chair, swiveling idly from side to side as he scrolls through his phone. He doesn’t see me. I turn on my heel and rush deeper into the department where the X-ray technicians and ultrasound machines are located, texting Melanie as I walk.
Tiffany: Hey, sorry. Washburn pulled me off biopsies. He wants you to do them. I have to interview that guy.
Melanie: No worries. What guy? The hot one?
