“If you change your mind, Abby, look me up. Don’t be shy—I’m certainly not.”
And then Tommy Sullivan turns around and strolls down the street, fading into the shadows . . . and walking out of my life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Abby
AUTUMN ARRIVES EARLY AND COMES quickly. Almost overnight the sweet scent of summer fades away, and I wake up to the crisp bite of cool air and blustery wind that swirls the leaves into funnels in the street. Puffy coats and boots and fuzzy hats come out, and the decorations in the children’s ward morph into the browns and yellows of the Autumn Pass holiday and even some occasional Christmas reds and greens.
It’s been three weeks since Tommy Sullivan stopped guarding me. It’s strange that I think of it that way—that I mentally mark time based on his presence or lack thereof—but I can’t make myself stop.
Tommy Sullivan was a distraction when he was here—but, strangely, he’s an even bigger distraction to me now that he’s not.
Sometimes I find myself picturing him in my mind. The curl of his smile, the rich rumble of his laugh, the shape of his large hands. Sometimes I lie in bed and picture him then too. I wonder if he’s settled into his flat—if he’s sleeping in that very big bed he mentioned—or perhaps he’s in that bed but not sleeping at all.
And sometimes, late at night, I indulge in the deliciously dirty thoughts of what it would have been like, the scintillating sensations of what it would’ve felt like . . . if I’d taken him up on his offer.
“Did you hear me, Abby?”
Right. So, those thoughts don’t come just at night.
“Yes, Dr. Whitewater. You were saying . . . about my performance review.”
Dr. Caledonia Whitewater is the Chief Surgical Administrator at Highgrove. She’s the head honcho, the big kahuna—all the bucks stop with her. If Dr. Dickmaster is a living, breathing god in these halls, she’s whatever entity is above that. She has the final word on which surgical residents are accepted into their specialty programs, who qualifies for fellowships, or other specialized training opportunities. She’s also the one who conducts the biannual performance reviews with every surgeon in the building.
Dr. Whitewater smiles at me from across her desk, glancing at the paperwork in front of her.
“As I was saying—your breadth of knowledge and grasp of procedures is outstanding.”
I smile in return—because this was exactly the evaluation I was expecting.
“Your surgical techniques are impeccable.”
I mentally pat my own back—because they are. Thank you, chicken’s feet.
“Your attendance, diligence, focus and manner are beyond reproach.”
There’s an American phrase Kevin is fond of: I love it when a plan comes together. But when years of discipline and hard work come together . . . that’s pretty grand too.
“However, there is one consistent thread of feedback that gives me a slight cause for concern.”
My head tilts. Like a dog who’s watching its master give a command—but can’t decipher what the bloody hell they’re going on about.
“Concern? Really?”
“Yes. While your ambition and assiduousness are to be commended, your supervising physicians worry you may be a bit too single-minded.”
“Single-minded?” I squint.
“Overly tenacious.”
“Overly tenacious?” My voice goes a pitch higher against my will.
“High-strung,” Dr. Whitewater declares firmly.
I digest the words, lifting my chin—trying to take the criticism in stride. Even though it feels like I’m dying inside.
“I see.”
Dr. Whitewater nods.
“Good.”
And then I opt for honesty. “No—that isn’t true—I don’t see. Isn’t single-minded tenacity a beneficial quality in a surgeon?”
Her expression softens.
“Abigail, you are very young and I’m aware you have a very illustrious name to live up to. I have every reason to believe that you have a long, bright career ahead of you. But the surgery suite is an extremely high-stress environment. Without a consistent way to relieve that stress, you could falter under the pressure. Break—burn out—we’ve all seen it happen before. In my experience the most successful surgeons find outside activities to relieve stress and incorporate them into their daily lives. Some take up yoga, or hiking, or photography—Dr. Dickmaster writes poetry.”
I choke on my own saliva. Because—dear God.
“Don’t look at this as a censure. But as someone who has been in this field a long time, I know finding a physical outlet to channel tension will make you a better surgeon.”
I stand up on stiff legs, the wheels in my mind already turning.
“Thank you for your advisement, Dr. Whitewater. I’ll certainly take it under consideration.”
* * *
“A physical outlet to channel my tension . . .”
I crunch down on a baby carrot as I relay my conversation with Dr. Whitewater.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
“. . . What do you think she meant by that?”
“She means you need to get laid,” Henrietta says not so helpfully.
We’re in the hospital cafeteria, on an unusually coordinated lunch break, because the surgical department is uncommonly slow. Henrietta sits across from me, between Kevin and my brother Luke, who’s come down from the Bumblebridge estate where he’s been staying to join us.