Under the Knife(42)

Oh God, does he have to keep bringing that up?

Rita leaned against the doorframe to steady herself.

Easy, lovely Rita. That was her father. His presence in her mind was almost as substantial as Finney’s, and she drew strength from it.

It’s his ball game for now, but let’s see how this plays out, lovely Rita. Remember: situational awareness. Situational awareness.

“We talked about the appendectomy,” Finney continued. “Do you remember what you told us?”

“Good morning, Dr. Wu.” One of the nurses, seated at the nurse’s station in the center, waved to her. “Your patient is in bed 8.”

Rita took a deep breath, plastered on her best, reassuring-surgeon smile, and peeled herself off the doorframe. There was a single number printed on a sign hanging over each cubicle. On lead feet, she headed toward the one marked “8.”

“You told us everything was going to be fine,” Finney said. “But it wasn’t.”

She gritted her teeth and kept walking.

“What are you going to tell this patient, Dr. Wu? Are you going to tell her everything is going to be just fine?”

Easy, lovely Rita.

“Look. Do you want me to operate on her, or not?” she muttered. “You’re distracting me.”

He didn’t answer. His ensuing quiet struck her as sullen. She tried to picture him. She remembered a tall, reserved man with a boyish face and light brown hair. He’d never met her eye when they spoke, choosing instead to stare over her shoulder, or at his wife.

The curtain to cubicle eight was open. Mrs. Sanchez was lying on a gurney, in a hospital gown, an IV dripping clear fluid into the back of her left hand. Her husband sat to her right, in a chair with orange-vinyl cushions next to the gurney, holding her hand. A nurse was bent over her other hand, taping the IV line into place. She finished and eyed the IV bag approvingly with its steady drip drip drip of clear fluid.

“Here she is,” she chirped, announcing Rita’s arrival.

In med school, Rita had learned the five f’s of a typical patient with gallstone disease: female, forty, fat, fair, and fertile. Except for the female part, Mrs. Sanchez was none of these. She was fifty-six, trim, Hispanic, and had, to Rita’s knowledge, only one daughter, who was in college up in LA. She’d been a handsome woman once, with cheekbones that leaned forward like the prows of two sleek sailing ships and big dark eyes. But the years had worn her face down, gravity pulling the skin downward, like a flower wilting. Despite rolling out of bed at God-knew-what-hour to make her 5:00 A.M. hospital checkin, she’d applied a modest amount of makeup, and her medium-length hair, dark with a few grey roots, was in a neat, age-appropriate style. She was lying underneath a blanket drawn up to her midsection, exuding quiet resignation.

The hand with the IV rested on top of the blanket; the other lay in the grip of Mr. Sanchez, who held it tightly, as if she might float away. Mr. Sanchez had a kind face and the bearing of a man who’d slouched into middle age without protest. His hair was snow grey, thick and wavy. He was wearing a collared blue golf shirt, tucked, and his belly drooped over his belt and settled over his starched tan slacks.

“Good morning,” Rita said, smiling.

“Good morning,” they each replied. Mr. Sanchez dropped his wife’s hand long enough to give Rita’s a polite squeeze. His was soaked with sweat.

“There you go, sweetie,” said the nurse. “We’re just going to slip this over that gorgeous head of yours.” She leaned in and gently guided a blue surgical cap onto Mrs. Sanchez’s head.

Mrs. Sanchez smiled uncertainly and touched the cap.

“I’m going to leave you with Dr. Wu now. You know, she’s one of our favorite doctors.”

Rita knew that wasn’t true—

(Spencer, Spencer is one of their favorites)

—but that at least most of the nurses liked her because she treated them with respect. The nurse winked at Rita and was gone.

Rita pulled the second chair up to the head of the gurney and sat. She placed her hand on Mrs. Sanchez’s shoulder.

“How are you feeling today?”

“I feel … good.” Mrs. Sanchez spoke with deliberation and a Mexican accent. She started to open her mouth again, and then shook her head and turned to her husband. An unspoken signal flashed between them.

“She feels okay,” he said, gazing at his wife and massaging her hand. His English, too, was accented, but less than hers. “The pain—aqui.” He pointed to his right-upper quadrant, just underneath the rib cage, the location of the gallbladder. “It’s still there. No better.” He shrugged. “No worse.”

“Well, after today, it’s going to get better. A lot better.” She stretched her smile as wide as it would go and pointed to her own abdomen. “No mas.” Rita’s Spanish was atrocious, but she wanted to show that she was at least trying.

Her husband nodded politely and, following his lead, so did Mrs. Sanchez. Rita joined in, and all three nodded together.

“So,” Rita said, and pursed her lips. “I’ve got something I need to tell you.”

Mrs. Sanchez looked at her husband, who stared intently at Rita.

“We’re all good to go this morning. But we have some—um, equipment issues.” Mr. Sanchez’s eyes widened, and Rita quickly added, “But everything’s okay! Just fine. We just want to … check everything over again.”