Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(32)
Chapter Nine
There was no frickin’ way that Emma Caine could do this to her. Trisha was about to storm into Emma’s room when her boss caught her at the check-in desk and dragged her into his office. Well, not dragged literally, but it felt that way.
Trisha and Entoff often disagreed about treatments and courses of action. It was one of her favorite things about her job. The fact that the two of them approached cases so differently was what made them such a formidable team.
But this was different. “You knew that Emma Caine is refusing treatment and you didn’t tell me?” she said, spreading her hands on his desk and staring him down as he sank into his chair.
“How did you find out? Never mind. Sit down for a moment.” He pointed to the hypermodern leather-clad chairs that always looked strangely unbalanced to her. His desk, no surprise, was spotless except for a veritable forest of frames with his children’s pictures.
Entoff was one of those older men who looked like a plastic surgeon’s model, with thick gray hair, perfect capped teeth, and a runner’s lanky build. But his personality was more reminiscent of Santa Claus’s elves. Every time Trisha disagreed with him, he became so excited and proud, she imagined him going “Ho ho ho” while clicking his heels. She couldn’t tell if that’s what was going on right now.
“There is no other feasible course of action, Dr. Entoff. You know that.” No matter how many ways they sliced that argument, they both knew that the only way to save Emma’s life was this surgery Trisha had proposed.
Instead of his usual cheeriness he gave her a sad smile. “There is such a thing as a patient’s rights, Dr. Raje. Not only is it our legal obligation but it’s also our moral duty to let patients decide what they want.”
That was the most asinine thing Trisha had ever heard. Moral duty, her ass! Patients weren’t doctors. They were entirely unequipped to make decisions about treatments. This was why she had spent ten years busting her balls, or ovaries, or whatever the gender-accurate phrase was, trying to equip herself to be able to make decisions about treatments on their behalf.
“Either way, it was wrong to meet with my patient without consulting me first.”
Not many people in this building could say something like that to their boss and get away with it, but she wasn’t many people when it came to her work and Entoff looked apologetic instead of insulted.
“I did text you. And I did try to calm Emma down and convinced her to wait to speak with you before making any decisions.”
Good. Trisha wasn’t coldhearted enough to think that Emma shouldn’t be having a panicked reaction. She just needed to be the one to talk her down from that ledge without putting counterproductive ideas in her head. “Thank you for that. I’ll take care of it,” she said, turning to leave.
“Trisha, remember there’s only so much we can do, okay?” She knew what he was going to say next even before he said it. “We’re not God.”
She tamped down on the urge to stick a finger into her mouth and gag. Why did people say that? No one knew for sure that God existed. You know who existed beyond any shadow of a doubt? Doctors, that’s who. And their job was to save lives.
As she walked down the corridor lined on both sides with paintings, she couldn’t help but think about Emma’s art. The girl was crazy gifted. The canvas Emma had given her had such power, every time Trisha was in its vicinity she found it hard to look away from the depth and impact of the strokes. Yesterday she had googled Emma and found a bunch of her pieces at various online galleries.
Her work had a stormy quality to it, like she wanted to shake things so hard she made them break apart. Most of it used some form of genitalia-based symbolism, which took some getting used to, but the fastidiously detailed complexity was what appealed to Trisha. Almost Dali-esque, but with hoo-haas and feminism.
Something about Emma’s brother’s face when he had talked about his sister’s art made her heart twist. But letting her heart twist was stupid.
If she started thinking about what it would feel like if any of the Animal Farm needed to have this same surgery, she wouldn’t be able to do what she needed to do. Which was slice the tumor out of Emma’s brain with steady hands.
My sister is not live tissue.
But DJ Caine was wrong. That’s precisely what Emma had to be to her, because Trisha knew exactly what to do with misbehaving live tissue.
When she entered Emma’s room, she was curled into a ball, her face pressed into her knees. Silent tremors shook her shoulders.
In all the times that Trisha had met her, she’d never seen Emma be anything but aggressively upbeat. Trisha saw illness test people often enough to recognize an indomitable spirit when she saw one. Another thing that had struck Trisha about Emma’s art was how intent she as an artist was on bending the universe to her will, while still acknowledging it for what it was. Those two abilities had a deeper connection than most people understood. If only Trisha could get Emma to see that connection when it came to her treatment.
The moment she realized Trisha was in the room, Emma straightened up, yanked a tissue from the box next to her, and blew her nose as though it were a cold she was struggling with, not tears.
“Why hullo there, Dr. Raje,” she said as though Trisha was the last person on earth she expected to see. “I’m sorry, didn’t they tell you? I changed doctors.”