Do Not Disturb(74)

“Dr. Davis? Is that you?”

At the sound of the voice from behind me, the good warm feeling from the whiskey instantly vanishes. I was right. Somebody was looking at me. I wish I could have been wrong just this one time. All I wanted was a little quiet tonight.

For a solid two seconds, I consider not turning around. Pretending I’m not really Dr. Nora Davis. That I’m some other lady in green scrubs who just happens to look like Dr. Davis.

But at least he didn’t call me Nora Nierling. Nobody has called me that in a very, very long time. And I intend to keep it that way.

The man standing behind me is in his fifties, and short and stocky. This man is most definitely a patient. I can’t recall his name, but I remember everything else about him. He came to the hospital with a fever and abdominal pain. He was diagnosed with cholecystitis—an infected gallbladder. We attempted to remove it laparoscopically with cameras, but halfway through, I had to convert it to an open surgery. That’s how I know if he were to lift his shirt over his protruding gut, there would be a diagonal scar running along his right upper abdomen. Well-healed by now, I’m sure.

“Dr. Davis!” The man beams at me, showing off a row of yellow, slightly rotted teeth. “I was looking over here and I wasn’t sure but… It is you. Oh man, I wouldn’t have expected to find you in a place like this.”

What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? At least he hasn’t commented on my Old Fashioned.

“Yes, well,” I murmur.

I wish he would tell me his name. I feel at a distinct disadvantage. I have an excellent memory for many things—I could sketch out every blood vessel supplying the gut with my eyes closed—but people’s names are not one of them. I reach into the depths of my brain, but I’m coming up blank.

“Hey, buddy!” the man calls out to the bartender. “Dr. Davis’s drink is on me! This lady here saved my life!”

“That’s okay,” I murmur. But it’s too late. This nameless patient is already making himself comfortable in the barstool next to mine, even though I feel like the lack of makeup and the scrubs that are just one size away from being a potato sack don’t invite company.

“She gave me this!” he announces, as he pulls up the hem of his shirt. His abdomen is covered in matted dark hair, but you can still see the faint scar from where I cut into him. Just like I remember. “Good job, right?”

I smile thinly.

“You’re a real hero, Dr. Davis,” he says. “I mean, I was so sick—”

And then he starts proudly recounting the story for anyone in earshot. About how I saved his life. I would say that fact is debatable. Yes, I’m the one who removed his infected gallbladder. But one could argue that he might’ve done just as well with IV antibiotics and a drain placed by interventional radiology. I didn’t necessarily save his life.

But this man is not to be dissuaded. And I did perform the surgery successfully, and he recovered completely and looks quite healthy, save for his dentition.

“Quite impressive,” the bartender remarks as the mystery patient finishes the extended account of my exploits. An amused smile is playing on his lips. “You’re quite the hero, Doc.”

“Yes, well.” I down the last dregs of my Old Fashioned. “It’s my job.”

I rise unsteadily on my barstool. If someone were watching me, they might wonder if I was too drunk to drive. But the reason I’m shaky has nothing to do with alcohol.

Twenty-six years today. Sometimes it feels like it was yesterday.

“I’m going to head out.” I smile politely at my former patient. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Oh.” The man’s face falls, like he hoped I would stay here another hour to talk about his infected gallbladder. “You’re really leaving?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But…” He looks over at my empty glass and drums his stubby fingers on the counter. “I thought I could buy you another drink. Maybe some dinner. You know, as a thank you.”

And now another little tidbit about this man comes back to me. When he thanked me at his follow-up visit, he rested his hand on my knee. Gave it a squeeze before I shifted away. You did a great job, Dr. Davis. Of course, I still can’t remember his damn name.

“Unnecessary,” I say. “Your insurance company already paid me.”

He scratches at his neck, at a little red patch that’s sore from shaving. He attempts to resurrect his smile. “Come on, Dr. Davis… Nora. A pretty woman like you shouldn’t be at a bar all alone.”

The polite smile has left my lips. “I’m fine, thank you very much.”

“Come on.” He winks at me. I notice now that one of his rotting incisors is dark brown, nearly black. “It’ll be fun. You deserve a nice evening.”

“Yes, I do.” I sling my purse over my shoulder. “And that’s why I’m going home.”

“I think you should reconsider.” He tries to reach for my arm, but I shrug him away. “I can show you a great time, Nora.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

All of the affection vanishes from his face. His eyes narrow at me. “Oh, I get it. You’re too good to spend five minutes having a conversation at a bar with one of your patients.”