Now it’s time to focus on my love life again. At 28, I feel like I’m right in my prime. Mostly by accident, I’m in good shape despite having no time to workout. In residency, I couldn’t stomach much of the hospital food. Coupled with frenetic sprints around the hospital and daily bike commutes, I maintained the illusion that I paid a modicum of attention to my physical fitness. Another bright spot for me is that men regularly mistake my exhausted ramblings and honest deprecation as humor and personality.
In conclusion, if dudes can look past the lime green cast and my impressive list of shortcomings (more added every day!), they’ll see that I am one stone cold fox.
“I have an idea, but I know you won’t like it,” Madeleine says as she drives me home.
I shrug and look out the passenger window. “You’re probably right. Don’t tell me.”
“There’s this Hamilton Singles event next week—”
“Yep, that sounds like a fun journey to take all by yourself.”
“Well…I’ve signed us both up for it.”
“What a hilarious joke, Madeleine,” I deadpan. “Maybe we should take you to an open mic night instead.”
“It’s next Wednesday and it starts at 7:00 PM.”
“I’m so glad you feel comfortable enough to share these details with me, but they are irrelevant considering I won’t be attending.”
She pulls to a stop right in between her childhood home and mine. Madeleine doesn’t live there anymore; she rents a small house just off Main Street, meaning our old walkie-talkies are out of range (I convinced her to try). As such, I’m the only one dipping into the past, staying in my childhood bedroom with my too-small bed trying to pretend that in the 11 years I’ve been away, I’ve actually grown up.
Madeleine insists I will be going with her next Wednesday and I put up a good fight. Truthfully, I already know I’ll go because I hate to disappoint her, but I can’t shake a scary thought that overwhelms me as I walk up the driveway.
By 28, I really should have things figured out. I should have built a well-rounded life for myself, but in actuality, I have been stuck in the same loop for nearly three decades. The backdrop has changed and supporting characters have flitted in and out, but the script has stayed the same: I am Daisy Bell, rival to Lucas Thatcher, and the weight of carrying around that hatred has started to wear on me. Deep down, I’m starting to forget what exactly it is I hate about Lucas. Right now, I can disguise it with logic. I want to own my own practice and I’m not good at sharing, therefore I want to run Lucas out of town. But, if it were that simple, I wouldn’t have spent the last 11 years mentally throwing darts at his face. We were a country apart from one another, and I still gave him free room and board in my mind.
That leads me to believe this is a sickness I can’t cure. At this point, my loathing for him has become a bodily function. Eat, drink, hate. When Lucas pops into my head, my stomach clenches and my heart pounds. I try to whack-a-mole thoughts of him out and my brain keeps putting in quarters. I even tried DIY therapy once: I put a rubber band on my wrist like a smoker trying to kick a pack-a-day habit, and every time Lucas popped into my head, I snapped the rubber band. By the end of the day, my swollen wrist was rubbed raw.
If the brakes have been cut and my hatred for him is in the driver’s seat, my only hope is that this job with Dr. McCormick will cure me. I will complete all three phases of my diabolical plan and convince Dr. McCormick to name me his sole successor. Once that happens, I have every reason to believe my hatred for Lucas will be exorcised in one fell swoop.
Done. Finito. I will be free to write a new script. I will be Daisy Bell, gracious winner, beautiful taker-of-the-high-road. I won’t rub his face in it or gloat. I will just forget about him.
Dear God, please let me forget about him.
Chapter Eight
Lucas and I were once grouped as partners for a book report on The Catcher in the Rye. We both read the book and agreed to meet at the library (neutral territory) to work on our presentation. That ended up being the last thing we agreed on.
“Holden Caulfield is a spoiled hypocrite, and the only reason he’s so bitter is because he’s finally being called out on it,” Lucas argued.
“He’s just a kid!” I insisted. “All kids are immature to some degree, but that doesn’t make his criticism of the adult world any less true. The adult world sucks.”
“Oh, so it’s everyone else’s fault he’s been expelled from every school he’s attended?”
After an hour of debate, the giant poster board was cleaved down the middle. When it came time to present as a group, we considered divvying up the five-minute allotment, but neither of us wanted to give up the honor of going first. Instead, we both just talked over each other the whole time.
Seeing patients with him feels like a lot like that project.
“Could be an ear infection,” I ponder.
“What about her loss of appetite?” Lucas argues.
“That’s a symptom.”
“I think it’s best if we rule out separate intestinal issues as well.”
“I don’t think we need to run additional, expensive tests—”
“Um…excuse me?” Ms. Keller, our patient’s mother, tries to get our attention, but we ignore her so we can continue our fight.
We justify the unprofessionalism because by all objective measures, patients are getting more time and double the expertise. In reality, it’s overkill, and the subjective measures catch up to us quickly.