Hotshot Doc(101)

Daisy is you,

I heard you came back,

and I did too.





Chapter Two





Lucas Thatcher and I have been in competition with each other since day one. Yes, the actual day one, the day on which we were born, all of 58 minutes apart.

I crawled first. He spoke first. I walked first and he potty-trained first.

And so it went.

Our parents dressed us up in matching outfits and planned joint birthday parties. I’ve seen the photo albums, filled with two little infants: one a quiet angel, the other, a brash hellion. My favorite photo, one I liked to use as evidence, depicts us sitting side by side at a Halloween festival when we were almost a year old. They’d plopped us down on haystacks hoping for a sweet photo, but Lucas had turned on me, tearing off my small yellow bow with his uncoordinated infant fingers and throwing it on the ground. They’d snapped the photo just as I’d retaliated with the few teeth I wielded at the time.

Obviously infants aren’t born with innate hatred pumping out of their tiny hearts, but I use our births as a starting point because nobody can pinpoint an exact date when our competition began. My mom swears we turned on one another when Lucas was chosen to be the preschool line leader. I tend to disagree—after all, you can’t place all the blame on Mrs. Hallow, even if choosing Lucas over me was the biggest mistake of her entire career.

In light of the sheer longevity of our rivalry, people always want to know what terrible event had transpired to precipitate it all. The truth is, we’ve always been this way. I am the Annie Oakley to his Frank Butler and I firmly believe that anything he can do, I can do better.

A rivalry like ours sustains itself by constantly evolving. In elementary and middle school, the tactics were juvenile: vandalized finger paintings in art class, stolen soccer balls on the playground, sabotaged shoelaces in the school play.

These crude encounters inevitably produced a certain amount of collateral damage. Letters were sent home about school property and behavioral correction. I endured my first and only detention because of Lucas. We even lost friends—the ones who weren’t willing to become lieutenants in our little war—but most importantly, we started to forfeit the respect of our teachers. As we grew older, we recognized the significance of these authority figures and the grades they doled out. The report cards sent home on thick white cardstock suddenly became our objective means of comparison, our apples to apples. Every six weeks those marks told us who was better, who was winning.

Now there are no more teachers, but there is Dr. McCormick, and I catch a lucky break when I run into him at Hamilton Brew the morning after the party.

I was planning on dropping by his house later, but this is better, casual. He sits in the corner near a window with the Sunday paper and a large coffee. I make note of the two empty sugar packets beside his cup.

He had seemed old to me in high school, but I now realize he’s only got a year or two over my mother. His brown hair is salty and he’s taken to growing out a white mustache. In all, I’d say he’s a suave version of ol’ Saint Nick.

“Dr. McCormick,” I say with a winning smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Daisy!”

He’s genuinely happy to see me, which I’m glad for. We shoot the breeze for a few minutes as only people from small towns can. There’s rambling talk of a new housing development and a Wal-Mart.

“Next thing you’ll know, we’ll have a Whole Foods,” he says with a shake of his head.

Without asking for permission, I sit down across from him and get down to business.

“I heard Lucas is back in town. Weird, right? I mean, what are the odds?”

My gaze is on the latte, but my attention is on him. He shifts awkwardly in his chair and reaches for his coffee. It’s still steaming—too hot to drink—which means he’s stalling.

“I thought I’d have another day of peace before you two found out.”

My heart drops.

“So it’s true? He’s working with us?”

“Starting tomorrow, just like you.”

I inwardly crumble, remember he’s watching me, and force a smile.

“Can I ask why? Surely only one of us can take over the practice when you retire, right?”

He rubs his chin thoughtfully and I can’t help but feel like I’ve overstepped my bounds. Still, he doesn’t sidestep my question.

“To be honest, it wasn’t something I planned, it just happened. I let it slip to a few people at church one Sunday that I was considering retirement, and wouldn’t you know it, I had two emails and two voicemails waiting for me Monday morning.”

“Me and Lucas?”

“Bingo. I guess that’s what I get for opening my mouth.”

I want to ask him who emailed him first, but I bite my tongue as he continues.

“I was proud that you two had both gone into family medicine, but shocked that you both wanted to return to little ol’ Hamilton after all these years.”

Lucas and I both had high enough scores for the more difficult specialties. Plastic surgery, dermatology—the few with flexible hours and big bucks. Family medicine spots aren’t typically in high demand, or anyone’s first choice.

“But as an old doctor is likely to do, I turned this problem on its head and looked at the silver lining. As you can see, Hamilton isn’t as little as it used to be. Do you know I’ve had to skip lunch every day for the past five years just to meet the demand?”