Hotshot Doc(5)

“Uhh, I like The Eagles too,” he says, his voice wobbly.

Dr. Lopez throws me a conspiratorial wink. He really shouldn’t mess with them like that, but I know it’s too hard for him to resist.

It’s truly his only fault.

He’s a rare gem, and I fully realize how good I have it with this job. Surgeons are notoriously difficult to work for. They tend to have egos, attitudes, or god complexes—sometimes all three. Shiver. Dr. Lopez isn’t like that. His default mood is jovial. His scrub cap is adorned with smiling cartoon dogs. He takes a vested interest in his staff. He’s also old enough to be my grandfather, something he routinely tells me when I give him a hard time.

“I need the eight-millimeter spreader,” he says to me later, during the surgery.

I shake my head. “You always have me start with the eight on cases like this, but then you end up using the six, so I’m handing you the six. Let me know if you still want the eight.”

I catch the audible intake of breath from the device rep. No doubt he’s expecting Dr. Lopez to blow up at me for having the gall to question him. Any other surgeon might, but Dr. Lopez nods and takes the instrument.

I’m left with a big, cheesy smile hidden under my mask.

I’m good at my job.

I love my job.

I love my boss.

“Oh,” Dr. Lopez continues offhandedly, “would you mind coming to talk to me in my office this afternoon? After lunch?”





I have a good feeling about my meeting with Dr. Lopez. After I finish eating my sandwich, I dab, dab, dab my face with a napkin, swish around a little mouthwash, and then fire my finger guns straight at my reflection with a wink.

“This is it,” I say aloud, eyes aglow with possibilities. “Dr. Lopez is going to give you the raise you’ve been waiting for. He’s going to make it rain hundred-dollar bills, and Josie isn’t going to have to eat a tuna sandwich tonight. Nope. This calls for something fancy. STEAK. Okay, we aren’t that rich. Maybe some chicken that’s in the bargain bin because it’s one day shy of going bad.”

“Lady, are you almost done?”

Oh, right. I move aside and let the custodian push her mop past me. I want to ask how long she’s been standing there, but then she tells me the supermarket down the street is running a sale on beef. I should feel embarrassed, but who cares?! A RAISE is in my imminent future.

When I arrive outside Dr. Lopez’s door, I rap my knuckles across the thick oak in a cheerful cadence and then wait for his cue to enter.

“Come on in, Bailey!”

“How was your lunch?” I ask as I walk in, prepared to dabble in a little bit of small talk in the event that it will pad my raise just a teensy bit more. Hell, I’ll sit here and listen to him painstakingly describe his last round of golf if it means I don’t have to crack another can of shredded fish in this lifetime.

“Lunch was good.” He smiles at me from behind his desk and tells me to have a seat.

I have such a strong urge to flail with excitement that I have to stuff my hands under my butt. Dollar signs float in the dead space between the top of his head and the bottom of his fancy diplomas. He starts talking and I can barely pay attention as I start to rack up future purchases in my head.

I’m going to buy a new pair of tennis shoes. Josie is finally going to get a new winter coat. Maybe, maybe I can swing for a washer and dryer so I can stop carting our clothes to the laundromat.

“I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a surprise,” Dr. Lopez says, tugging me out of a vivid daydream in which I was smooching the front of a newly delivered washing machine.

“What? I’m sorry, I missed that last part.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t think you caught any of that, did you? Bailey, I’m retiring.”

Retiring.

I sound it out slowly in my mind. Reeeettttiiiirrriiinnnggg.

The word spins me around like a whirlpool, which makes sense because that was the brand of washer and dryer I was considering.

“Retiring? From what, golf?” I sound hopeful. It’s a possibility. He sometimes complains about his lower back after he plays too many rounds.

“No. No.” He stands and walks to his window so he can stare out at the sprawling metropolis below. I swear I hear his bones creak as he walks. He’s always been old, but since when is he old? “I’ve been due to retire for a few years now and I’ve put it off, but Laurie has had enough. She wants to spend more time with our grandchildren and travel while we still can. What’s the use of socking away all this savings if we aren’t even going to use it?” he jokes, reciting the argument he’s probably heard on repeat for the last few years.

“Can’t you delay it just a little longer?” I ask, pleading. “You’ve only been practicing for what, thirty years?”

“It’ll be forty next month.”

FORTY?! Jesus. Get the man a cane already.

I’m shaking my head and my hands aren’t under my butt anymore—they’re tugging at the collar of my scrubs, trying to give my airway an easier go of it.

This can’t happen. I just need him to stay long enough for me to grow my nest egg into a nest chicken. I need that down payment for a house, dammit—and if not that, at least enough for Josie and me to move into a slightly bigger, nicer hovel, one with a reliable dishwasher and a shower that doesn’t spurt brown poop water onto my head after a hard rain.