Protecting What's Mine(39)

Dammit.

She imagined a tumbleweed rolling through her vagina.

She’d already weighed the options and judged that cooling off her sex life for a while was essential to her New Mack Plan. Now all she could think of was Linc. And his mouth. And those tattoos on his chest and biceps. And how she could see that V on his torso when his shorts rode low.

“How about you, Dr. Mack?” Russell asked.

She opened her mouth, ready with the usual “Not much” and then realized she had done something.

“I met Ellen at Remo’s for dinner and drinks.” She felt it was a good idea to leave out the fact that she’d slow danced with and then kissed the fire chief. There was probably a line of sharing too much too soon.

Russell raised his eyebrows in approval. “How nice. I happened to run into Ellen this morning at the YMCA pool.”

Surprised by the fierce surge of delight, Mack forced herself to take a slow sip of her tea. “Good for her,” she said. It was stupid to be excited that a patient had taken her advice for one day. The odds were Ellen would be microwaving potato skins and yelling at her husband by seven p.m. But, God, it still felt good. It still felt like a win.

“Dr. Mack, I thought you’d like to sit in on an appointment or two with me today so you can get to know some of our patients a little better,” Russell suggested.

“I’d like that,” she said, surprised even more by the fact that she meant it.





Russell’s bedside manner differed from Trish Dunnigan’s. He was smooth, urbane. His conversation made patients feel like they were attending a fancy cocktail party. He wasn’t their friend, but he was their confidant.

Mack perused patient histories and listened while he talked to Mr. Lewis about retirement, amusement park road trips with the grandkids, and, inevitably, cholesterol and fitness.

“I’m busy. I’ve got a lot going on,” Mr. Lewis insisted. He was a round, cheerful guy with tattoos down both forearms and a quick, infectious laugh.

She noted that he’d been treated for depression a few years ago. She also noted that Russell’s exam included a subtle patter of questions that seemed innocent but were designed to tease apart the current mental state. There was no, “Any side effects from your depression meds?”

But there were questions about his wife—she’d recently decided they needed more quality time, and he had to choose between ballroom dance or cooking classes—and about his sleep, how he was feeling about being out of the workforce after a forty-year career.

He was a jokester. He’d send Mack a wink at the end of every punch line, like she was the audience.

They joked back and forth, with Mr. Lewis teasing Russell about his less-than-stellar racquetball performance at a local tournament.

“At least I’m trying to get my ass out there,” Russell said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the exam room cabinet. “When’s the last time you even hit the links?”

“Been about six weeks. My elbow’s been bugging me,” the patient confessed, rubbing a hand over his right elbow.

“Excuses, excuses. Let’s have a look,” Russell said, scooting forward on the stool. He examined the joint and ran Mr. Lewis through a few motions. “This has all the hallmarks of good old-fashioned tennis elbow.”

“Tennis?” The patient gave a derisive snort. “I’m a golfer! You sure this guy has a medical degree?” he asked Mack.

“Golfer’s elbow then.”

“I just figured it was sore.”

“For six weeks? Come on, man,” Russell snorted. “Look. You just retired. I want these to be the best years of your life. We’re getting old, man. Things are going to start aching. We’re going to make weird noises getting out of chairs. But if something starts hurting, don’t stop using it. Come see me or Dr. O’Neil.”

“I hate to make a fuss,” he complained, again rubbing a big palm over his elbow.

“Taking care of yourself isn’t making a fuss,” Mack said. “It’s smart. And you seem like a smart guy.”

“Well, I didn’t go to no medical school,” he cackled. “But I did okay.”





In the breakroom, Russell expertly dug into a colorful sushi roll with his chopsticks. Both of which he’d packed. “So, let’s debrief.”

They’d seen three patients together that morning. He’d taken the lead on two of them. She’d fumbled through getting-to-know-you ice breakers during a case of bronchitis with a side of high cholesterol that wasn’t being taken seriously.

Mack speared a piece of crisp lettuce with her fork. “You have a history. Even possibly friends.”

He nodded, waited.

“You balance the repertoire with authority. But you’re respectful about digging into personal details. ‘How’s your wife? You’ve been married how many years now?’” she repeated. “You were testing out his mental state with innocent questions while still giving him an opening to bring up any topics he needed to discuss.”

“A fair assessment,” he announced, wiping his mouth on a linen napkin that he’d produced from his lunch bag. “Now, your turn.”

She winced.

“You can intubate a patient in mid-air, but ask you to discuss the weather or TV and you freeze up,” he told her.