Monday Mornings: A Novel (22 page)
“What are they saying?” he whispered to Monique.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” she said, giving his knee another pat. Sanford’s gut tightened another notch.
“Mom and Dad,” Monique said, looking first at her mother and then her father. The assembled family members quieted. “You may have noticed he is not Vietnamese. But like us, he does come from another country…Alabama.” Confused looks. “That’s a joke. I know your heart was set on a nice Vietnamese boy,” Monique continued, looking first at one parent, then the other. “Sanford is a doctor, though. Aren’t you, honey? And what can I say? The heart sometimes has a mind of its own.” Monique paused and then laughed. “That makes no sense! Anyway, I’ve been teaching him some Vietnamese. Introduce yourself, Sanford.”
Sanford cleared his throat. His face, usually pale from the long hours in the hospital, was paler than normal.
“
Chào. Tôi tên là Sanford Williams
,” Sanford said. Hi, my name is Sanford Williams. He spoke this simple phrase with all the earnestness he could muster—as though he had these few words alone to convey his intentions toward Monique.
A couple of the younger cousins laughed.
“Pretty good, huh?” Monique said.
“Now tell them what you call me.”
“
Bạn gái
.” Girlfriend.
There were a few nods of approbation and appreciative smiles. Sanford looked around the room. Maybe the tide was turning.
“Now tell them what I call you?”
Sanford looked around the room, alarmed.
“Here?”
“Tell them my nickname for you.”
“But that wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“They like hearing you speak Vietnamese. It’s cute.” Monique turned from her fiancée to her relatives. “Don’t you, Tran family?” Monique didn’t wait for a response. She turned back to Sanford. “Go on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure.”
“’Cause it just doesn’t seem right.”
She pinched Sanford’s cheek. He flushed.
“We just love hearing the white boy speaking our language.”
“Okay.” Sanford shrugged. “If you say so.” He cleared his throat. “
Bu yunghu con ngua
.” Monique’s eyes widened in distress. Color rose on her cheeks. An aunt gasped. Children gaped. The assembled Trans recoiled as though a tear gas canister had dropped in their midst. Sanford looked around, alarmed.
Monique’s father stood and grasped Sanford behind the arm, on his triceps, and pulled him from the couch.
“Time to go,” he said. They were the first words he’d uttered since they arrived.
Monique and Sanford hustled from the small, tidy house, across the porch and down the stairs to Sanford’s car.
“Are you crazy?” Monique asked.
“You said.”
“I didn’t mean
that
nickname.”
“But—”
“You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to be smart.”
“I said I didn’t think it was a good idea.”
Sanford used his key remote to unlock the Honda. The Trans had assembled on the porch and were glowering at Sanford. The young doctor looked nervously at the porch as Monique got in the car. All that was missing were the pitchforks and torches. He walked around the car and got behind the wheel.
“I didn’t mean
Bu yunghu con ngua
,” Monique said.
“But—” Sanford sputtered again. He started the car, not looking back. He pulled away the way he might flee a forest fire or a bank robbery. A block from the house, Monique started up again.
“Dumb ass. What sort of person says ‘hung like a horse’ in front of his fiancée’s parents?” Monique smiled and then she started laughing. “Is that the way y’all do it in Alabama?”
Sanford tried to smile along, but the trauma seemed to have paralyzed his zygomatic major.
“Well, what did you mean when you said nickname?”
“
Gấu trắng
. White bear.”
“But you never call me that.”
“I do, too.”
They drove another block or two in silence.
“Dumb ass!” Monique said, laughing again and punching Sanford in the shoulder. This time Sanford laughed. “That’s your nickname from now on. Dumb ass.”
D
r. Ty Wilson waved to Allison McDaniel when she entered Angelo’s restaurant, a small breakfast dive known for its blueberry French waffles and raisin toast. Over the phone Allison had said she needed diversions on Sunday mornings because she didn’t watch her sister’s children that day. Still, as he waited for her, Wilson had wondered what he was doing. All rational thought argued against this meeting. He was sure Harding Hooten, the hospital attorney, and everyone else at the hospital would argue against it. Yet somehow, he felt compelled. Was he punishing himself? Or was this something else? A quest for his own personal redemption?
Ty had experienced something like an out-of-body experience watching his fingers punch Allison McDaniel’s number on his cell phone. To his surprise, she had agreed to the meeting.
“Good morning, Ms. McDaniel.”
“Allison, please,” she said, sliding into the booth across from Ty.
A waitress walked up.
“Coffee?” he said to Allison.
“Sure.”
Ty was drinking decaffeinated tea. He had never developed his colleagues’ taste for coffee, the stronger the better. Even without caffeine, though, he’d felt jittery since he arrived, like a high school freshman before a date.
Some date
, Ty thought.
Allison took a sip of black coffee and looked up at Ty. “So, why’d you want to meet with me?” she asked as casually as possible.
“Honestly, I’m not quite sure.” He hesitated. “Can I ask, why did you agree to come?”
“You were the last person to see my son alive. You’re a connection to Quinn,” Allison replied. “Also, I’m curious. My son couldn’t have been the first person who ever died during surgery.” She paused. “Honestly, I’m not sure why a big-shot surgeon at Chelsea General needs to see me.” She pushed her hair behind her ears and looked down at her clothing. “I’m a mess.” With a sigh she took a sip of her coffee.
“You know, I probably shouldn’t tell you this but in the days after Quinn—after I lost my son, I would convince myself I was dreaming. That the whole thing was a dream, and I was simply asleep in the middle of it all. That I just needed to force myself to wake up. And I’d tell myself that there would surely be a sign in the next sixty seconds proving that to be the case. A horrible dream.”
As Allison spoke, her voice started getting thick with emotion.
“I’d start counting. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. And before I’d hit ten, a dog would bark. Or someone would honk their horn. Or I’d hear a car radio somewhere.”
Allison’s voice caught like a baseball card in the spoke of a boy’s bicycle, and she closed her eyes. A pair of silent tears traced parallel lines down her slightly freckled cheeks.
“I knew it wasn’t a dream, but for those few seconds, I was free.” Allison laughed but it was more a snort of self-derision than anything mirthful. She wiped her tears quickly with both hands. “Like I said, I’m a mess. I haven’t been sleeping. I lost my job. I lost the one bright light in my life.”
Allison took a deep breath. She looked closely at Ty. Stared at him. “What do you want from me, Dr. Wilson? Are you worried about a lawsuit?
“Allison, please. It’s not that,” Ty said.
“Okay…I mean, what could I possibly tell you that you don’t know already? So, I’m wondering if there is something else you want to tell me. Why am I here, Dr. Wilson?”
Ty had been thinking about that question since he’d sat down in the booth. When he spoke, he struggled to find the right words. “No one has affected me the way your son Quinn has. After he died, I’ve questioned every one of the decisions I made that night. And I’ve also questioned just about every decision I’ve made since.”
Allison sipped her coffee. She watched Ty the way you might watch a stray dog.
“I am sorry, Ty…But what do you want from me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Ty said. All of a sudden, calling Quinn McDaniel’s mother seemed like a terrible idea. “Maybe I just want to say I’m sorry.”
“I know you’re sorry. I never doubted that you were sorry.”
T
y couldn’t help but wonder whether the hospital attorney was at that moment squeezing his temples like Obi-Wan Kenobi, sensing a strong disturbance in the Force. Could he tell that a doctor somewhere was straying? Doctors at Chelsea General were not supposed to apologize to their patients, certainly not to the mother of a deceased child. Chelsea General’s attorneys did not want any tacit admission of guilt, regardless of how justified or well meaning it might be. In their view, it wasn’t only love that meant never having to say you’re sorry. Medicine, too. Apologizing simply was not done at Chelsea General, at least not anywhere outside Room 311, at six o’clock on a Monday morning.
Other hospitals had evolved their policies on the apology and now encouraged doctors under the right circumstances to come clean and express their regret over a bad outcome. They’d come to believe that saying sorry was not only the right thing to do, but actually lowered litigation costs. While other hospitals had joined what became known as the “Sorry Works” campaign, Chelsea General’s attorney—and the outside firm the hospital hired when it went to court—remained firmly planted in the field of thought that concluded only a judge’s order should prompt an apology. They viewed “Sorry Works” as some sort of New Age pabulum, an unwarranted dropping of the guard.
The food arrived. Allison had waffles with strawberries. Ty was eating a spinach egg-white omelet. They took a few bites in silence. It started raining. “Lucky it isn’t snow,” Ty quipped, trying to break the awkward silence.
“What do you normally do on Sundays?” Allison asked.
Ty took this as an opportunity to ramble on about his love for his motorcycle, pickup basketball games, and his recent meditation classes. They both laughed at that. “I guess…on Sundays, we spend much of the day planning for Mondays, Monday Mornings,” he concluded. He knew she couldn’t possibly know the deeper meaning of that.
Allison smiled. “I have a question for you.”
“Sure.”
“If you didn’t operate, the tumor would have killed Quinn, wouldn’t it?” She looked pained as she asked it, and incredibly vulnerable.
“Yes,” Ty answered gently. “You probably would have had six or eight months with your son, but the tumor would have been fatal if we’d done nothing.”
That was the difference between surgery and internal medicine. If Ty had decided the brain tumor was inoperable, Quinn would have died of a brain tumor. With internal medicine, various diseases became compounded and collectively were responsible for the patient’s downfall. A patient died of heart disease and diabetes, perhaps worsened by obesity. Internists treated a disease, hoping to stop the progression. If they were lucky, they managed it, reduced the frequency or severity of the symptoms. Rarely did they cure anyone. Life was different for surgeons. They were making a bet each time they operated. They were wagering their skills against the symptoms, whether it was a tumor, a leaky heart valve, or a bum knee. If the operation was not successful, if the tumor spread or the heart failed or the knee continued to hurt, the surgeon had failed. No one said the patient died of heart disease or cancer. The patient died in surgery, or despite it. The dynamic was completely different.
“Look, I have lost people in my life, Allison. And…I have never forgiven…” He let the words trail off.
“Are you looking for forgiveness, Dr. Wilson?”
Ty just stared at his plate, unsure how to respond.
Ty and Allison finished their breakfast with few words beyond pleasantries about the food. On the way out the door, Ty thanked Allison for meeting him. She made a motion to hug him, but decided to put out her hand instead. “Thank you. The waffles were delicious.” Still holding his hand, she said, “I am not sure what
it
is, but I hope you find
it
.” As they parted ways, Ty was left with a sinking feeling of unfinished business. He watched her go and wanted to call her name. First, though, he knew he would need to figure out what he needed from this woman. “Allison,” he said, too softly for her to hear.
H
arding Hooten grabbed the keys out from the foyer table and headed for the door. The grandfather clock by the enormous wood door showed the time: twelve thirty.
“Back soon, Mar,” he said.
“You’re going back?” Martha asked, incredulous.
Hooten had come home for lunch, a salad, and taken a half-hour nap. He and Martha played a game of cribbage. When Hooten rose after taking a drubbing, the usual outcome, his wife had assumed he was going to grab a book or the newspaper and put his feet up on the sunporch. It was Sunday afternoon, and she assumed—hoped, anyway—her husband was taking the rest of the day off. There were doctors fresh from training who took Sunday afternoons off.
Hooten had turned sixty-seven the previous July, and Martha had been trying to get him to slow down for at least that long. She’d given up on trying to get him to retire. She had stopped asking after the husband of a friend, the gregarious CEO of a small company, had retired on his sixty-fifth birthday, languished at home for a month of utter boredom, and then dropped dead of a heart attack.
What Martha knew, but Hooten’s colleagues didn’t, was that the chief of surgery didn’t have to work at all. He had inherited one-quarter of an immense family fortune. His colleagues may have guessed that there was more to Hooten than met the eye—at least in terms of personal wealth—if they’d taken the time to examine the Audubon prints in his office and realized they were genuine, not reproductions. Of course, Hooten would probably have given any doctors lolling in his anteroom a tongue lashing for shirking their duties long before they studied the looping signature
J. J. Audubon
, the line across the
A
sweeping across his last name like the tail feather of a quetzal.
