On Rotation(76)

Still, our summer fling had been good for something—my presentation looked slick and professional. Even Tabs admitted that it looked like something a consultant would whip up, not a stodgy medical student like me.

Just as the clock hit eleven, Dr. Reed stumbled into the room . . . accompanied by Dr. Wallace.

I froze in place, watching as my mentor rounded the table and took a seat next to Dr. Reed. She gave me a small smile and bobbed her head in greeting. I hadn’t met with her in person since before my internal medicine rotation, and I’d most certainly not kept her abreast of this project. Had Dr. Reed looped her in?

“Afternoon, Trish,” one of the judges said to Dr. Wallace. “Long time no see. What brings you to the east wing?”

“My mentee is presenting today,” she said, nodding toward me. I fiddled with my remote, flooded with warmth.

“We ready to get started?” Dr. Reed asked the room.

“We were just waiting on you,” one of the other doctors said, grinning. He clicked open a pen, then gave me an encouraging smile. “Whenever you’re ready, Angela.”

I cleared my throat. Three months of clerkships had gotten me accustomed to having the undivided attention of frighteningly intelligent audiences, but this time thousands of dollars were on the line. But my judges were relaxed, and Dr. Reed was throwing me a thumbs-up, so I stood, cleared my throat, and began.

“That Black patients in America are more likely to experience significant delays in care is well established in the current literature—”

*

“You did great,” Dr. Reed said when it was all over.

I nodded, still buzzing with nerves. After I finished my proposal, I’d been drilled with questions about our research design, and though I answered them as best I could, every time one of the Beenhouwer representatives lifted a hand to ask me another, my heart took off at a gallop. Still, I’d made it through with most of my dignity intact.

Dr. Wallace tapped Dr. Reed on the shoulder, and he quickly stepped aside to let her join our conversation.

“That was very well done, Angela,” she said. “These guys hardly ever see medical students doing the presentations themselves. If you can show that you can secure internal funding so early in your career, it’ll look very attractive on your CV.” Then her expression softened. “But never mind about that. Even if you don’t get funded, you’ve done an excellent job, and during a busy year, no less.”

“I’m not sure how you’re doing it, honestly. This was an ambitious undertaking,” Dr. Reed added. Then, to Dr. Wallace: “Angie’s very reliable, you know. Keeps me on my toes.”

“I’m aware.” Then, she squeezed my arm. “I’m heading over to clinic. Email me the final verdict, Angela?”

“Of course,” I said, stunned. It still felt strange to see her here in the faraway conference room and not behind her messy antique desk. For a woman of such presence, she was shockingly small, barely five foot two. As I watched her leave the room, I thought about how lucky I was. Despite her packed schedule, Dr. Wallace saw me as her protégé. She believed in me. I hadn’t been angry with her in some time, but the last vestiges of my bitterness fizzled away once she’d crossed the threshold of the room.

Dr. Reed gave me an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

“We should be hearing back soon,” he said, pleased. “Do you have to get back to the wards?”

“Yes,” I said. No rest for the wicked, and especially not for third-year medical students.

“Well,” Dr. Reed said, “take it easy tonight. Don’t study. I know you don’t like to take breaks, but you should.”

“I’ll try,” I said, touched.

But the truth was that I couldn’t “take it easy.” Nia needed to be home with Shae, and Michelle was switching to Neuro ICU in the morning and would have to be up early. I would have to spend the night alone, and now, with one less task on my checklist, I had a lot more vacant brain space for me to fill with nonsense about a boy.

I walked back and found the workroom empty; James and his intern had headed down to the hospital to restock on caffeine. I sat down at my computer, leaning back in my stiff office chair until it creaked in protest. My phone felt heavy in my white coat pocket. My vision of this moment had involved calling Ricky right about now. He would have fretted over whether the theme he’d given me had worked on the outdated hospital computers,* asked how the judges had received my ideas. I could imagine his praise—“I knew you could do it, Angie, you’re a badass”—and the beaming pride I’d feel afterward. We’d made loose plans to celebrate, decided on where we would pick up takeout. We were going to watch a terrible movie that we both knew would end up serving as a cover for us to hook up on the couch, and it was going to be a wonderful night.

Or at least it would have been, for a woman he could call his girlfriend. For me, who existed somewhere in between, it would only be another confusing memory to fuel an imminent, calamitous heartbreak.

Not a single text, I reminded myself, then ground my teeth and got to work finishing my notes and updating my sign-outs. Not a call. Not a messenger pigeon, or a bat signal, or anything showing that he ever actually gave a shit about you.

I finished off my notes and updated my sign-outs, then sent James a text asking if he had any other tasks I had to complete. Then I opened up a browser, googling Chicago Museum Hours. There was no reason for me to wallow, not when I still had myself. This is me becoming an adult, I thought. Learning to enjoy my own company. Taking myself out for my own damn dates.