“Oh! Are those for us?” Gina stands and claps her hands with glee.
“They aren’t for me.” The kid shrugs and then looks down at the note in his hand. “They’re a delivery from some guy named Lucas.”
“It’s Dr. Thatcher,” Gina corrects him with a scowl.
The kid shrugs; at seven bucks an hour, he clearly could not care less. He wants his tip, which Lucas hands him from over my shoulder. I didn’t notice his approach and now I find myself more than a little annoyed at him for thinking of such a brilliant idea. I smell donuts, and everyone likes donuts, especially me.
“Oh, and one more thing from a…” The kid checks his note again. “Daisy.”
I glare back at Lucas, but his face is a mask of obliviousness. What game is he playing?
“That’s so sweet, you two!” Casey says, going around the desk to take the two bags from the kid so he can scurry out of the office.
The entire office trails her back to the kitchen and we watch as she unloads the two bags. In one, there are four boxes of warm donuts, glazed and iced within the last few minutes. There is visible steam rising off them.
“Those are from me,” Lucas says with a small smile.
In the other bag, Casey unwraps a sickly fruit display and I feel everyone’s smiles fall.
“And that’s from Daisy,” Lucas chimes in. “Thoughtful, right?”
The vile, off-brand Edible Arrangement sports a collection of sad, droopy melons and the occasional mushy grape impaled on a wooden skewer. It is decomposing as we speak, the color of pale flesh.
“Oh, um, what a nice idea, Dr. Bell!” Casey says through a mouthful of chocolate sprinkles. She plucks an oversized toothpick out of the display and barely covers her marked repulsion.
I stand in the doorway as each staff member slides past the buffet, loading their plates up with donuts and skipping right past the soggy fruit Lucas has attributed to me.
“Oh, I already had a fruit serving this morning,” Gina explains, not meeting my eyes as she glides out of the kitchen.
“I’ll…uh, come back for some of yours later, Daisy,” Mariah promises weakly.
When it’s Becky’s turn, she audibly gags as she passes the fruit display, just barely stifling her throw-up. She doesn’t even offer an excuse before taking two donuts.
Lucas and I are alone in the kitchen and I’m shaking with rage. I’m not even upset with him—I’m upset with myself. I’ve underestimated him and I won’t let it happen again.
He steps around me, reaching for a small white paper bag I’d overlooked before. It’s a special delivery and he holds it right out to me.
“Bavarian cream.”
I want to smash it in his face and cloud his lenses.
“I’ve already had breakfast.”
My stomach grumbles in dissent, but he doesn’t mention it.
“Right. I’ll just leave it right here.” He holds eye contact as he drops the bag back on the counter. His eyes are light brown, the color of walnuts. It’s no coincidence I’ve never been able to stomach that particular nut.
My morning passes with awkward patient encounters and secret, spiteful bites into the Bavarian cream donut I was forced to accept. I take the last bite just as Lucas walks by my office, and he surveys me suspiciously.
“Granola bar,” I say as flecks of carbohydrates escape my lips.
“Nobody’s accusing you,” he says. “But if you’re not going to eat that donut I gave you, I’m sure Dr. M would like a bite. Can I have it back?”
“Oh, I had to toss it—it smelled like the cream had soured,” I mumble in between swallows.
Around lunchtime, Dr. McCormick calls us into his office. I assume it’s because he’s already made his decision and has decided to let Lucas go.
“Sit down, you little rock stars.” He waves to the worn leather chairs in front of his desk.
Lucas graciously holds out his arm to indicate I should sit first. I watch carefully as I sit, just on the off chance that he’s planning to yank the chair out from under me. I doubt he would stoop to such depths in front of Dr. McCormick, but after this morning’s little stunt, I take nothing for granted.
“As much as I appreciated the little banquet this morning, I don’t want you two to think you need to bring in treats every day to get on my good side.” He pats his stomach as if to say his health won’t hold up if our gamesmanship continues. “Although my truck is due for an oil change, if you really wanted to earn my favor,” he adds with a laugh.
Lucas rolls up his white coat sleeves as if he’s about to pop the hood of Dr. McCormick’s car himself. “Conventional or synthetic?”
Kiss-ass.
“I’ll tell you what I really want to see out of you two: warmth, and investment in your neighbors. You see, I pride myself on running a practice that engages with the community. Too often, doctors get so caught up in making money that they forget the reason they got into medicine in the first place, which is to help people. Tell me, do either of you remember the fourth line of the Hippocratic Oath?”
Lucas and I glare at each other nervously before shaking our heads.
“I wouldn’t expect you to, but it holds a special meaning for me, so I’ve got it hangin’ right here.” He points to a framed print on the wall behind him. “‘I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon’s knife or the chemist’s drug’,” he recites.