Doctor In The House

CHAPTER 7

Ivan was vaguely aware of the indistinct squeal behind him and then the sound of eager footsteps growing fainter.

He assumed it was the little-resident-that-could’s way of showing her enthusiasm as well as her joy before she ran off to change into her scrubs and prepare for the operating room. Crossing the perimeter of the operating room, as much to show his presence as to get to the area where the sinks were, Ivan carefully took in every square inch.

Casting an aura of disquiet as he went.

As it should be. Complacent people were lax. Lax led to mistakes.

He wondered if he’d just made a mistake, being too soft. Telling DelMonico to scrub in.

It wasn’t as if he would allow her to touch one of the instruments. His only intention was to let her just breathe the same air as his surgical staff. He and only he would tackle Mark Spader’s brain tumor.

Brain tumor.

Alone by the sinks, Ivan took in a long breath and then released it. Like a magnet set on a table with metal fillings, the surgery before him drew away all thoughts of the resident and how he hated being harnessed with petty responsibilities that took away from the focus of his purpose here at Blair.

To mend as many patients as he could. To try, in some small, futile measure, to make it up to Scott for what he’d done. As if that were possible.

A dry, humorless laugh echoed within the small area as he shed his lab coat. He was already dressed in his surgical livery. Prepared, always prepared.

Except for that one night.

Against his will, thoughts came back to him. Scott Kiplinger was the reason he was here. Scott was the reason for everything, most of all why he had become a neurosurgeon. Because if there had been a neurosurgeon on duty that night, if one had been called to the ER in time instead of hours later, Scott might still be among the living. Walking, talking and being the best friend he’d ever had.

The best friend he’d killed as surely as if he had aimed that gun and pulled the trigger himself.

But he hadn’t physically pulled the trigger. Scott’s despair had pulled it that awful, beautiful afternoon in the meadow. That fateful afternoon when he had finally persuaded Scott to leave the confines of his house, where all the curtains were always drawn, shutting out life. Shutting in the darkness.

Scott had lived that way, never leaving his house, for almost two years. Ever since the accident.

The accident, Ivan thought darkly, remembering every vivid detail, that had been all his fault. If he hadn’t been speeding, if he hadn’t taken that curve so fast, if there hadn’t been ice on the ground, if Scott hadn’t been in the car.

If, if, if, IF.

Ivan sighed, scrubbing his damp hand over his face. Wiping it dry as he uttered a curse through clenched teeth, he then washed his hands a second time.

If.

Battling with the word didn’t change anything. Didn’t make him stay home instead of going out for a ride. Didn’t make him sober instead of buzzed on three beers.

Neither did it change how very naive he’d been, thinking he’d scored a coup, getting Scott to leave his house. At the outset, it had seemed like the perfect plan, driving Scott to the meadow where he had loved to hike and run. Scott, the all-around athlete, getting in touch with his past. It had seemed so right at the time.

He’d thought, believed, that the sight of something familiar, something once so beloved, would finally, magically, bring Scott around. Would suddenly rally him to grasp on to the fragments of life that he still had and make him want to build on them.

Make him want to be among the living again instead of among the wheelchair-bound wounded.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Ivan upbraided himself for the thousandth time.

He’d had no idea that the pouch Scott had brought with him, the one attached to his wheelchair arm, didn’t contain the water bottle he’d said it did but the weapon he’d used to finally terminate all his pain.

Ivan closed his eyes as the hot water dissolved the heavy film of soap from his hands.

He could see it all so clearly. His sitting on the grass, to the left of Scott’s wheelchair, foolishly talking about what strides physical therapy had taken in the last couple of years and how he would do anything, anything, to help Scott start living again. He’d talked about Scott’s mother, about how he had to get on with his life, if only for her.

It was a topic he’d all but worn a hole in, but this time, this time, because Scott didn’t argue with him, he had thought he was getting through to Scott. This time, he’d been hopeful that he could begin making amends.

And then all hope vanished forever.

Because while he went on talking, making plans, gluing together a future, Scott had quietly taken the gun out of the pouch, placed it to his temple and ended the discussion.

Permanently.

The sound of the gun being discharged was deafening. The horror of having his best friend’s blood rain down on him never left him.

The feeling of hopeless futility imprinted its indelible mark on him that afternoon and changed him. The young, wild, carefree youth he’d been died along with Scott that day. The numbed man who eventually rose out of those ashes dedicated himself exclusively to becoming a neurosurgeon. It was the only thing that made sense to him. Becoming a neurosurgeon so that Scott’s death wasn’t entirely meaningless, that he hadn’t died without changing anything.

And now, twenty-five years later, all that mattered was the same thing that mattered twenty-five years ago: saving lives. Reconstructing broken shells so that they could continue in Scott’s name, even though none of them were ever aware of it.

Because no one else knew about Scott, except for Scott’s mother. Telling her about Scott’s suicide had been the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. Standing in the same room with the woman’s overwhelming grief had been worse than hell.

“It’s your fault, you know,” she’d shouted at him, her eyes redrimmed. “You’re the reason he’s dead. He should have never hung around with you.”

He’d tried to apologize, but Scott’s mother had just started screaming. Screaming like a woman whose heart had been ripped out of her breast. There wasn’t anything he could say.

He shut down that day, purging every drop of emotion from himself. Barring its return as he focused on what he needed to do. What he swore at Scott’s grave site to do.

But every successful operation he performed didn’t bring a feeling of triumph that lived beyond one moment. Most of all, none of the successes tendered, in some small form, a feeling of absolution.

It truly was as if everything had shut down inside of him the day Scott died. Because Scott had been his only friend in a world that, for him, had been largely dysfunctional due to abusive, self-destructive parents, and when Scott had given in to despair and killed himself, the light simply went out of everything, leaving him standing in perpetual darkness.

A darkness he had, since that day, resisted leaving, despite the efforts of various people who came and went in his life.

He made no attachments to anyone. Instead, he coexisted, which was far easier. To become involved, even in the slightest way, was risking far too much and the only risks Ivan was willing to take, the only ones he actually ever took, were in the operating room. There he performed daring surgeries that other neurosurgeons would never even contemplate.

He did them because neurosurgery was the terrain that the gods traversed whenever they took their constitutionals. And it was the terrain that he, Ivan, habitually crossed with long, confident steps. And no one ever knew about the insecurity that still resided inside.

Finished, his clean hands raised in the air, ready to have gloves drawn over them, Ivan pushed the swinging door that separated him from the operating room with his shoulder. The little-resident-that-could was already there, Ivan noted. He recognized her eager eyes above the blue surgical mask she, like the others in the chilled room, had donned.

Maybe she could keep up, after all. And then again, maybe she couldn’t. Either way, that wasn’t any of his concern. There was only one thing he cared about and it was lying, prepped and draped, on his operating table.

“All right, people,” Ivan announced to the staff that closed in around him. “Time to make a miracle.”

CHAPTER 8

“Oh my God, that was incredible,” Bailey cried.

It was difficult to keep from shouting out the words as she walked from the operating room to the back area where the sinks were. Trying to steady her racing pulse, she took in a deep, measured breath. It didn’t help. Everything inside her had kicked into high gear. It was the closest to high she had ever felt.

Bailey looked at the man she had been assigned to with genuine awe. “You were incredible.”

Ivan spared her a glance that could only be described as “disinterested.” The other members of the staff walked by, oblivious to the scene, trying to put distance between themselves and Ivan the Terrible.

“Yes, I know.”

The sound of his voice, utterly devoid of any sort of emotion, penetrated the wild rush she was experiencing. Bailey could only stare at the neurosurgeon incredulously. He’d performed nothing short of a miracle. “How can you be so calm?”

One shoulder moved in a vague shrug. “Low blood sugar.”

“I’m serious.” She tugged her mask down lower until she could undo the ties at the back of her neck. “Don’t you feel a rush, a surge?” She searched his face for a hint of what she was describing. “Isn’t your heart just pounding?”

The disinterested glance only deepened. Flattery, even sincere flattery, which he presumed this was, was neither accepted nor rejected. It was allowed to float free through time and space, like an untethered balloon until it faded away. “I performed surgery, DelMonico. I didn’t make love to the man.”

The words threw her completely off. Bailey looked at the man whose fingers had performed nothing short of magic in the room behind her. Mild surprise gave way to amusement. “I didn’t know you made love.”

He threw his gloves away and removed the bland surgical cap he’d worn during the six-hour operation. Other surgeons, once they had endured and surmounted all the various trials and obstacles to get there, selected a cap in colors that had some sort of significance to them. Ivan’s was the same color as it had always been. Blue. He didn’t believe in donning peacock finery. He believed in surgery.

One tug separated the mask’s ties at the back of his neck and he threw the mask into a bin. “There are many things about me, DelMonico, that you don’t know.”

Interest sparked in those deep blue eyes of hers. “I’m willing to listen.”

“I’m not willing to talk.” He figured that was enough of a put-down. Instead, her mouth curved even more. Ivan flashed one of his more deflating looks. “Careful, DelMonico, or someone’s going to have to tie a rope around your ankle to keep you earth-bound. Why are you so exhilarated, anyway?” he asked, unable to understand her reaction. “You were just on the sidelines.”

Sidelines or not, she was right there, where everything was happening. “But I got to see—” she cried, then abruptly switched sentences, so pumped she was unable to finish one thought before leaping to another. “You had half his skull off—His brain was exposed!”

“They call it ‘brain surgery’ for a reason, DelMonico.” He shook his head, as if not knowing what to make of her, sincerely doubting that she was for real. “Maybe you should review your notes from Neurosurgery 101.”

It was her turn to shake her head, but unlike him, her smile was wide. “You’re not going to do it.”

Despite the fact that he wanted to change out of his scrubs, he paused a moment to ask, “Do what?”

“You’re not going to deflate me.” She was far too excited about what she had witnessed, far too enthused about the work that lay ahead of her, to become just like him. She’d never believed in aiming low.

Ivan clucked his tongue. “Pity. There goes my fun for the afternoon.”

Turning away from her, Ivan was surprised when he felt her hand on his forearm. He glanced over his shoulder and waited for an explanation for the detainment.

Self-consciously, she dropped her hand to her side. “How long?” she asked.

His patience was pretty well stretched to the limit with her. “How long what?”

She pressed her lips together. “How long before I can do something like that?” She nodded her head back toward the O.R.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He paused, pretending to think. And then his expression was dismissive as he raised his eyes to hers. “If you study very hard—maybe a century or two. Maybe longer.”

A slam like that might have sent her reeling—or spoiling for a fight. But she was beginning to read between the lines and get a handle on him. The insults were a smokescreen. No one was that nasty for no reason. “You don’t want me to like you, do you?”

His eyes narrowed, telling her how insignificant she was in the scheme of his life. “I really don’t care how you feel about anything, DelMonico.”

He believed that, she thought. But she didn’t. She’d been taught never to focus on the bad, only the good. And if an animal swiped at you, it was only because he was wounded. The challenge here was to discover what Ivan the Terrible’s wound was.

She folded her arms before her. “Well, you won’t get me to dislike you.”

Ordinarily, he would have turned and walked away without bothering to reply. But for once, curiosity got the better of him. “Not that, again, I care in the slightest, but why is that, DelMonico?”

The answer was simple. Because she wanted to be the best and in order to do that, she had to learn from the best. She had to learn from him. Everything was always better when conducted in an air of congeniality rather than hospitality.

“Because you did exactly what you said back there,” she told him. “You performed a miracle. That tumor looked like it was a miniaturized octopus with its tiny tentacles woven all in and out of gray matter, and yet you got it all.”

He’d leaned against the wall to listen to her and straightened now. “Very poetic, DelMonico. Maybe you should think about becoming a poet instead of wasting your time here.”

She wasn’t going to let him bait her. She felt too good, too psyched, to let him burst her balloons and make her plummet. “I’m not wasting my time.”

He leveled a penetrating gaze at her. “You’re sure of that?”

There wasn’t even a half second of hesitation on her part. “Yes.”

“Ballsy,” Ivan pronounced, more to himself than to her. “Maybe it won’t take you a century or two. DelMonico. Maybe it’ll just take three-quarters of one.”

She had just been given a decent compliment, Ivan the Terrible style. She viewed it as one giant step in the right direction. “I’m going to knock that figure down to something manageable,” she promised.

Ivan snorted. “You think that, DelMonico. You go right ahead and think that.”

The tone he used clearly declared that while she might want to delude herself, he knew the truth and the truth, the way he saw it, said that she would never be capable of performing the kinds of surgeries he tackled on a regular basis. He just didn’t see it being in her, no matter what she thought.

“I will,” Bailey called after him as he began to walk away. “Because I have a good teacher.” She raised her voice when he made no attempt to turn around and added, “You.”

“Ha!” was Ivan’s only response. He kept on walking until he disappeared through the opposite set of swinging doors.