“For goodness’ sake, Mother!”
“Just get me the medicines and get to the bottom of this.” Jane threw herself over the carpet pathetically, very intentionally wiping her snot over it.
For one brief moment I forgave myself.
Forgave myself for being so weak when it came to Sam Brennan, for going to the schools my parents chose for me, and for never quite standing up for myself. Not with my friends, not with my brothers, and not with my family.
It was obvious my role model at home wasn’t exactly Marie Curie. Secretly, I wondered what I would have been like if I were raised by anyone else. By someone strong. A woman like Sparrow, who was terrifyingly direct and always made her opinion known publicly about every matter.
I redirected my thoughts quickly when I felt anger flaring in my chest. There was no time for that.
Hurrying toward the closet, I jammed my feet into the scrubs I didn’t need, for a job that was a lie to please my parents.
For the first time, I wondered what it would feel like to live in my own place. An apartment where I could get precious sleeping time between shifts at work without drawing my mother baths and listening to her complain about my father. Where she wouldn’t threaten to cut herself to get back at me for not giving her enough attention.
“I need to get to work. Please get yourself in the shower and brush your hair. Maybe go on a walk or see friends. You need to start taking care of yourself, Mother. I won’t live here forever.” I began buttoning my pea coat over my scrubs.
“No one has asked you to!” She shot me a hostile look from the floor, pouting. “And go, why don’t you. Go when I need you. Just don’t come crying at my grave when you lose me.”
This old tune again.
Do this and this and that or else I will take my own life.
She needs help, mon cheri, and maybe you are not the place she should get it from.
“I’m calling your psychiatrist as soon as I get to work,” I announced to her. She never agreed to see him. Said he never prescribed her the drugs she wanted.
“You can be mean, you know?” She stared at my ceiling numbly, zoning out. “Just like your father.”
“I’m not mean.” I sighed, grabbing my backpack. “But I am tired.”
She said something else, but I didn’t hear her. I walked away before she could convince me to stay. To tend to her. To give myself up for her.
On my way to the clinic, I called one of our trusted housekeepers and asked her to keep an eye on Mother, knowing I was paying lip service for my conscience.
Sam was right. A twenty-seven-year-old woman had no business living with her parents if she could afford her own place.
It was time to spread my wings.
Even and especially because Jane Fitzpatrick kept them carefully clipped.
It was a quiet day at the clinic. Full of consultations, paperwork, and research. No major decisions were made, which was always good news.
I saw Mrs. Martinez again for a checkup and accepted a new patient, a sixty-eight-year-old man so fragile he had to be carried downstairs into the clinic in Dr. Doyle’s arms.
When it was time to close shop, Dr. Doyle—a tall, sixty-something man who bore an uncanny similarity to Pierce Brosnan—patted my shoulder.
“You know, Aisling, you’re a brilliant young doctor. You should find a residency and start next year. Tell your future employer you took a gap year to spend some time with your family or to do some traveling. This clinic is no place for someone as promising as you.”
“I like working here.” I closed Mrs. Martinez’s file after making vague notes. I couldn’t write anything too specific out of fear this place would be found. I tucked the document in the filing cabinet. “We’ve already been through this, Greg. You know why I’m doing this. This is my calling.”
“And I appreciate your life experience has brought you here. I can’t help but feel guilty, too…” he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest “…such medical talent shouldn’t be wasted in some underground, illegal clinic. You are a Harvard graduate, Fitzpatrick. Top of the crop.”
“How long have you felt this way?” I frowned at him, clearing up the table.
“Long enough,” he grumbled.
I swallowed uncomfortably. I hated change, and if I didn’t work here, that would be one heck of a change.
“Please don’t shackle yourself in unearned guilt. You are much too pragmatic for that.” I stood up, patting his cheek with a smile on my way to the bathroom before going home. From my periphery, Dr. Doyle glanced at his wristwatch. I closed the door behind me in the bathroom.
“We’ll talk about it some other time,” he determined.