Confucius Jane (3 page)

“Oh, sure.” She looked down at her notebook. “You're a real genius.” She had only managed to fill half a page since lunch, and most of these lines weren't worth keeping anyway. What kind of poet had trouble coming up with pearls of pseudowisdom destined to be folded into cookies and ignored by most of the general populace? The best she could hope for on any given day was that someone would laugh after tacking on “in bed” to the end of one of her fortunes.

By the time the bell at the top of the nearby Roman Catholic church chimed five o'clock, Jane was going more than a little stir-crazy. She had forced herself to be reasonably productive, at least in terms of quantity. Whether she decided to keep anything she'd done today, though, was an entirely different question. Her writer's block had been exacerbated by the lengthening shadows of the approaching wintry dusk, which had blocked Sutton from Jane's view. For some reason, the knowledge that Sutton was simultaneously just across the street and just out of sight contributed to Jane's distraction. She couldn't bear to sit still anymore. Besides, the cacophony of the city beckoned, promising her the kind of satisfaction she would never find within these walls.

As the front door of the factory closed behind her, she zipped up her hoodie against the frozen air, glad to have escaped Aunt Jenny's badgering about not wearing enough clothing. Proper coats were too bulky. They gave her an odd sense of claustrophobia. Besides, she didn't plan to spend very much time above ground tonight.

Automatically, she turned toward Noodle Treasure. Just a glimpse, she told herself. Just one more glimpse of Sutton, and then she would go about her real work. But when she raised her head, Sutton was looking directly at her. Jane's breath stuttered. Sutton's eyes were light in color—cornflower blue, or maybe gray. Her lips were slightly parted, and as Jane watched, two spots of color bloomed on her cheeks. Helplessly, she felt herself pulled forward by the force of her attraction. What if she crossed the street? What if she walked through that door? What if she asked Sutton whether the seat next to hers was taken? What would happen then?

A cold breeze blew up suddenly to break the spell. What was she thinking? She hadn't made any sort of plan. If she went over there now, she would trip over her tongue in the worst possible way and humiliate herself—not only in front of her silly crush, but in front of Mei, Benny, Min, and who knew how many others. Sutton would never so much as look at her again, and everyone in Chinatown would know the details of her shame by morning.

No, she thought as she pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her ears. She wouldn't do it. She wouldn't cross Baxter today. This was one situation she couldn't play by ear. But maybe, now that Sutton finally knew she existed, she could work up the courage to approach her. Someday.

Jane shoved her hands in her pockets and forced herself to turn away. For now, the city called to her, wanting to tell her its secrets. And she wanted to listen.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WO

“T
HAT'LL DO IT.
Go ahead and sew him up.”

From the side of the operating table, Sutton St. James watched as her advisor, Dr. Buehler, strode toward the door, his movements crisp and purposeful despite the fresh layer of sweat that had broken out on his face and neck since a nurse had last patted him dry. The four-hour procedure wasn't all that lengthy by neurosurgery standards, but it had proven more difficult than anticipated. She shifted her weight, trying to subtly ease some of the soreness that was developing in her arches.

Tom Fisher, the most senior of the neurosurgery residents, turned to look at her. “Want to do the honors?”

“Absolutely.” Sutton hoped she sounded confident. She had stitched up patients before, but never after a surgery quite this complex. While watching Dr. Buehler cut away the tumor from the surrounding blood vessels, Sutton had felt her own heart pounding. But if he'd been experiencing a comparable level of stress, she hadn't been able to tell. His hands had remained steady and his focus never faltered. Now, as she switched places with Tom and asked the nurse to load the needle, Sutton exhaled slowly.

“What kind of suture are you going to use?” Tom asked.

“Running horizontal mattress.” Sutton had prepared her answer hours ago in anticipation of being offered this chance.

“Good. How are you feeling about it?”

“Feeling great.” There was no other possible answer. To hint at anything other than pure confidence would be to admit defeat before she had even begun. Surgeons had a saying:
God hates a coward.

As Sutton gripped the forceps, her field of vision narrowed until all she saw was the incision. She had practiced her sutures a thousand times over the past few years, first on knot-tying boards and later on pigs' feet—much to the chagrin of her roommate, Theresa, who complained about how much space they took up in the freezer. But suturing was one of the fundamental skills of a surgeon, and Sutton knew only one way to become perfect at it. When she couldn't sleep at night, she practiced. When her mother was having a flare-up and needed a sympathetic ear, she practiced. When she couldn't stand to wrestle any longer with how to phrase a sentence in her dissertation, she practiced.

Now, she focused on making smooth and precise movements as she tied off the first stitch and embarked on the second. If she made them too tight, she risked cutting off oxygen to the healing tissue. If she didn't align them properly, she risked leaving the patient with a rough, jagged scar. But as she settled into the familiar rhythm, muscle memory melted her stress away. Her shoulders relaxed and her breathing settled, just as it did during her daily yoga exercises.

Beside her, Tom was bantering with the nurses and the anesthesiologist about some party they'd all attended over the weekend. Sutton regretted that she hadn't gone, but for the past few months, she had found it unbearable to associate socially with anyone from the hospital. They could only talk about one thing: residency applications. On the cusp of completing her M.D./Ph.D. with a focus in neuroscience, Sutton knew that the medical community expected her to be matched with a prestigious residency in neurosurgery. Some of her friends even talked as though it were a fait accompli, which is why she had taken pains to sequester herself since the start of the academic year. She didn't know how to tell them that she was no longer sure of what she wanted. To them, her waffling would feel like a betrayal. Surgeons had another saying:
better wrong than uncertain
.

After tying off the final suture, she raised her head and stepped back from the table to survey her handiwork. The row of perfectly parallel stitches marched across the pale skin like a miniature railroad track. It was a job well done, but her swell of pride was tempered by the knowledge that she had just performed the most basic aspect of the entire surgery. There was so much more to learn—if that was what she truly wanted.

“Good work today,” Tom said as they scrubbed out side by side. “Let me buy you a crappy meal at the caf.”

Sutton considered saying yes. Tom was one of the few people at the hospital who seemed to understand that having a father who was the former Surgeon General of the United States was not always a blessing. But before she could open her mouth, her pager went off.

“I'll have to take a rain check,” she said after reading the message. “Buehler wants me on rounds.”

Ignoring the ache in her feet, Sutton hurried to the locker room to grab her notebook and then jogged up two flights of stairs to the recovery ward. She found Buehler leaving the room of a patient on whom he had performed a lumbar decompressive laminectomy two days ago. Even when he caught sight of her, he never stopped moving.

“Sutton.” He greeted her brusquely. “Any questions for me on today's procedure?”

She had plenty, and he answered them in between patient visits. Despite the long day, his pace never flagged. “How is the revision of your middle chapters coming along?” he asked as they approached the last room on his list. “I'd like to get that article out the door by the end of the month.”

“I'm making headway,” Sutton said, careful not to betray her frustrations with the writing process. “I'll have a draft to you soon.”

“Good.” He rested his hand briefly on her shoulder. “I know you've mentally moved beyond your thesis at this point, but a solid piece like this will help you build credibility. Especially in light of the potential controversy ahead.”

Sutton struggled not to betray the anxiety his words inspired. Next month, the most prestigious stem-cell research journal in the world would include an article with her name on it. Her pride at the accomplishment had immediately been tempered by the knowledge that it would upset her parents. Her father would be doubly incensed—first, that his daughter had joined forces with the “morally bankrupt souls” who pursued such research; and second, that in doing so, she had irreparably shattered the notion that she was following in his footsteps. Keeping up appearances was vital to him, and for years, Sutton had effortlessly played the role of his faithful and obedient protégé. If he was angry enough at her departure from his core values, he could make her career path very difficult.

The only person in whom she had confided was Buehler, who had encouraged her to apply to postgraduate fellowship opportunities in several foreign countries where stem-cell research was the most advanced. A research scientist as well as a surgeon, he was in a perfect position to understand her conflicting aspirations. He was also the only authority figure in her life who had never pushed her in one direction or another, instead offering her equal opportunities in both research and medical training. Pursuing the path of a surgeon had always been a foregone conclusion, and Sutton knew exactly where it led. Once, it had been all she'd wanted. But her research belonged to her in a way that was unique and exciting. As a scientist, she paved her own road, instead of having to stand in her father's shadow.

When Buehler gestured toward the last door on the right, she reined in her wandering thoughts. “Remind me of Mr. Bartlett's case,” he said, even though he didn't actually need any reminding. This was a test.

“Mr. Bartlett presented with a metastatic brain tumor in the deep left parietal lobe. He is three days' postoperative. I checked his chart this morning and he appears to be healing well, though he's apparently been badgering the nurses.”

Sutton delivered her summary as concisely as possible, though “badgering” might have been too gentle a term. While checking in at the nurses' station this morning, she had heard multiple stories of just how demanding a patient Mr. Bartlett was proving to be.

“Let's—” But before Buehler could finish his sentence, his pager chimed. He looked at the number and grunted. “Trauma wants a consult. You handle this and report back to one of the residents later.”

Without waiting for her reaction, he moved toward the nearest elevator. For one precarious instant, Sutton wanted to call him back and protest that she wasn't yet ready to see patients on her own. Over the past few months, he had increasingly demanded that she take the lead role on rounds, but she had always been able to count on his presence in the room. Now, a throng of all-too-familiar fears crowded to the fore of her mind: that she didn't belong here; that she was bound to make a mistake; that she had been fast-tracked because of her name and not her ability. But impostor syndrome had hounded her ever since her decision to apply to medical school, and she wasn't about to let it sideline her now. Closing her eyes, she summoned the image of the narrow closet door in her childhood bedroom and closed it firmly on every negative emotion. The familiar mental exercise loosened the grip of her anxiety enough to allow her to focus on her responsibilities.

When Sutton entered the patient's room, she was greeted by the sight of an elderly man propped up at a forty-five-degree angle in his hospital bed. A disheveled, white mane of hair fell almost to his shoulders, though the effect was spoiled somewhat by the bandage covering the right side of his head. White tufts of hair protruded from his ears and from a large mole on his chin.

“Hello, Mr. Bartlett,” Sutton said as she approached. “Do you remember me? I stopped by briefly to see you early this morning. I'm Dr. St. James.”

“Where's my surgeon?” he said in a raspy voice.

“Dr. Buehler was called away on an urgent case. He'll drop by to see you later.” As she spoke, Sutton flipped through the chart, scanning the most recent notes rapidly. Mr. Bartlett had paged the nurses' station once this morning and once this afternoon, complaining of vague symptoms. One nurse had noted that he was “difficult.”

Sutton looked up and met his rheumy eyes, automatically double-checking his pupil dilation. Difficult or not, he was her patient and deserved her undivided attention. “While I check your incision site, would you mind telling me how you've been feeling today?”

He scowled dramatically, bushy white eyebrows angling low over his deep-set eyes. “Isn't that thing supposed to tell you?”

“It's written in shorthand. I'd rather hear it from you, if you don't mind.”

As he indulged in a long-suffering sigh, Sutton moved toward his head and bent to inspect his wound. There was no sign of infection, and she jotted that on the chart.

“I've been feeling like crap,” Mr. Bartlett was saying. “Just … not right.”

Sutton moved back into his line of sight. “That's disconcerting, isn't it? Can you be more specific at all about that feeling? Do you have pain? Dizziness? An ache?”

His eyes shifted between the door and back. “A few times, back in college, I got—I smoked some marijuana.”

Sutton was careful to betray no reaction, even as she immediately began to catalogue and discard possibilities. “And you felt that kind of high today?”