Page 1 of Paging Dr. Hart
1
Present, Columbus, Ohio
Everyone’s staring at me when I get the first mysterious text message. Because of course that’s when it would happen. Not when I’m home alone or in my car or studying at the library.
Nope.
It has to be right then, when I’m about to start my presentation. The Mercy Hospital medical staff gathers in our auditorium every day at 8:00 a.m. for our morning educational conference. We take turns giving lectures about interesting cases, using them to teach the medical students and younger residents about disease processes and how to treat them.
Today it’s my turn—my very first time. I’m not nervous, though. I mean, sure, my mouth is the Sahara Desert and my heart has crawled up into my throat, but I’m fine.Totally fine. At least that’s what I tell myself as I gaze out into the sea of doctors. They look back with expressions that range from vague interest to frank boredom.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin. Heads swing my way, and conversation hushes. I’ve set my phone to silent. It sits on the podium, next to my laptop. I take a deep breath, about to continue my lecture, when the phone screen flashes and the phone vibrates so hard it skitters across the wooden surface. The noise startles me. I jolt and drop the microphone, which falls to the ground and lets out a squeal of feedback, like it’s crying about its rough treatment.
Shit.
Heat warms my cheeks. I let out a shaky, apologetic smile. The audience stares back, waiting for me to get on with the show. While I’m on my hands and knees, fetching the microphone, I wonder who the message could be from.Hardly anyone ever calls or texts me. The phone is still vibrating rhythmically when I stand. Acutely aware of the crowd, I peer at the tiny screen. The text is from an unfamiliar number, but the image is all-too-familiar. It’s a photo of the iconic Las Vegas sign. The one you see when you first drive into town, right before you reach the southern end of the neon-lit Strip.
“Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada,” it proclaims in bold, blood-red letters.
That’s…odd.
I grew up in Las Vegas, but everyone I knew there is long gone. I scroll down. There’s no message, no name. Nothing to explain who sent the picture or why. A chill shivers through me, the icy fingers of the past walking down my spine. I inhale a shaky breath and glance around, searching the shadows of the room, but find them empty. Nothing lurking. Still, foreboding settles low in my stomach, weighing me down.
With the audience watching, I can’t react, so I carefully school my features. I need to nail this lecture. Hopefully, if I do well, it’ll win me the Resident of the Month award. I’ve wanted that certificate, with its shiny gold seal, since I first started working here three years ago. It’s physical proof that I’ve transformed. More importantly, I need it for the $1,000 bonus that comes along with it. I’ll give this same presentation at a medical conference in a couple of months. It’s an honor to speak there, one not usually given to residents. The money will let me stay at the swanky hotel at Disney World, where the conference is being held, instead of a cheap motel 30 miles down the road.
Another glance at the text stirs dark memories, which I bury. With a sigh, I set the phone aside, refusing to think of it again. It’s time to focus. Luckily, or rather unluckily, I’m good at compartmentalizing.
I’ve hadlotsof practice.
“A 56-year-old male presents to the emergency department with blood in his urine,” I begin. Methodically clicking through my slides one-by-one, I outline how the patient was diagnosed with renal cancer. A CAT scan appears on the screen. With my pointer, I demonstrate how cancerous tendrils extend from the kidney and worm their way up into the biggest vein in the body, the inferior vena cava.
“For renal cancer,” I explain, “we use tumor staging to help define the extent of disease and prognosis. Because the tumor extends outside the kidney, this patient is stage T3c.” A click later shows photos from the surgery when the kidney was removed. Nearing the end of my talk, I discuss the patient’s treatment and what imaging we will use for follow-up. This man will get repeat CAT scans every six months to make sure he remains cancer-free.
I pause to catch my breath, since I’ve been talking nonstop, and survey the audience. Everyone’s still alert, and most are paying attention, which is all I can ask for. These early-morning presentations are often dry. Even I’ve had to fight to stay awake in this dark room when it was someone else up here lecturing.
“I’d like to open the floor to questions now,” I say. There are a few raised hands from the crowd, asking about the man’s long-term chance of reoccurrence and treatment options, which I answer easily. Relief floods through me. The finish line is in sight. There’ve been no technical difficulties. I haven’t stuttered or said anything embarrassing. I give myself a mental pat on the back and prepare to end the presentation.
That’s when a hand shoots up into the air.
It’s a man, about my age, with ruffled brown hair, dark straight brows, and a square jaw. He sits next to Dr. Washburn, my residency director and boss. There’s something mesmerizing about him. Something difficult to define but hard to look away from. It’s partly his eyes, which are stunning, an unusually light color, warm amber like a glass of whiskey when the sunlight filters through it.
I’ve never seen him before.
I’d remember a face like that.
I nod politely. “You have a question?”
The man’s voice is deep, carrying easily through the auditorium. “Yes. It’s about the tumor staging. You said it was stage T3c?”
“That’s correct.” I frown, wondering where he’s going with this.
“I think it’s actually T3b. T3c is when the cancer is in the inferior vena cava but goesabovethe diaphragm. T3b is when it staysbelowthe diaphragm. In those images you showed, the tumor was below.”
Flustered, my normally orderly mind reels.
“Um—give me a minute.” Time stretches out as I frantically search through the notebook where I wrote my research to prepare for this lecture.
Someone in the crowd coughs. Chairs squeak as people shift. The projector overhead whirs, its fan turning on. My breath comes in brief spurts. Hands shaking, I flip through the pages.
