Page 112 of Look on the Bright Side

They were a merry bunch as they went into the London Brewing Company, which was next door to the Naked Oyster. That one was a bit too pricey for a bunch of residents, so beer it was. After this, Lark was driving to meet Lorenzo in Chatham, as he’d ordered when she’d requested an audience. She suspected her rapport with the staff at the Naked Oyster irritated him.

“How’s Satan?” Luis asked, reading her mind.

“Oh. Well…I’m not sure it’s going to last.” She felt herself blushing, still sorry for lying to these nice people.

“Time of death, happy hour,” Danny said, grinning.

“I can’t believe you’ve lasted this long, to be honest,” Lalita said.

“You Americans,” Mara said. “Let your parents find someone for you. Your Western fairy-tale Tinder bullshit is not working.” She held up her left hand, which sported a very sparkly diamond. “Aashish and I fell in love about three minutes after we met.”

“Show-off,” Miriam said, bumping her shoulder against Mara’s. “Can your parents find someone for me? Look at poor Lark here. Don’t make me walk that path, dating a wretched man in a desperate attempt to find someone.”

Lark felt a pang of loyalty for Lorenzo. “That’s not completely accurate. Dr.Sa—Lorenzo’s not as bad as he seems.”

“What a stirring and passionate defense,” Luis said.

“Okay,” she said, laughing. “It’s weird, I get that. But you know how it is, guys. A patient comes in with, I don’t know, gas, and we all sigh and think, ‘Is this really an emergency?’ But then you find out that they lost their mom and haven’t cried yet, and they’re just looking for someone to talk to, and that gas is really heartache.”

“Are you drunk already?” Danny asked.

“So Lorenzo Santini is to love as a gassy patient is to the ER,” Lalita said. “That tracks.”

“Well, he is a genius,” Howard said. “I once saw him save a patient who—listen up, this is a great story. A guy came in. He’d been working outside, tripped, fell, and stabbed himself in the chest with the screwdriver he was holding.”

“Phillips or flathead?” Danny asked.

“Excellent question. Phillips. I bet the flathead would’ve killed him. Anyway, he gets in his car, steers with one hand while pressing a roll of toilet paper against his chest with the other.”

“He drove?” Lalita asked.

“Yep. He lived in Yarmouth, figured he’d bleed out if he waited for the ambulance.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” Mara said.

“Exactly. So he drives himself here. Triage nurse can’t believe what she’s seeing—this yellow-handled screwdriver sticking out of his chest, a guy completely soaked in his own blood, trying to stanch the wound with Charmin. She pages Surgery, super stat, the patient collapses in front of her, we all run out, get him on a gurney and into the ER. He’s soggy with blood, I’m afraid to take out the screwdriver because he’ll bleed out for sure. He already is, right? I’m thinking there’s just too much damage to save him. We intubate, but by now we’re standing in a veritable lake of blood.”

Lark was transfixed. They all were, leaning forward, beers forgotten.

Howard continued, well aware of his storytelling prowess. “Blood pressure is almost nonexistent, pulse is fluttering, and I think, ‘Sorry, pal, you’ve lost at least half your blood because this is what happens when you stab yourself in the heart.’ ” He leaned back and took a sip of beer. “Enter Santini. Says one word. ‘Scalpel.’ We give the man a scalpel, and he does an anterior thoracotomy right then and there. Spreads the ribs, reaches in and grabs the patient’s beating heart. He’s holding the guy’s heart in his hand, and somehow puts pressure on it enough to slow the bleeding. And that’s how they wheeled him into surgery—Santini elbow deep inside the guy’s chest. Nine-hour operation, ten units of blood. And by the grace of the thumb-sucking, brown-eyed baby Jesus and Lorenzo Santini, the guy made a full recovery.”

“Wicked pissah,” Danny said.

“Wow,” Lalita said.

“So he’s an asshole, sure, but he gets to be an asshole,” Howard said. “Another round, my ducklings?”

“I’m actually meeting the legend himself,” Lark said, “so I have to go.”

“Good luck. Tell him we admire and fear him,” Mara said. “And if his people skills improved, he’d be the head of a worldwide cult in two days, tops.”

Lark paid for the round of drinks, waved to her friends and walked to her car, wishing she could stay a little longer. This was something she hadn’t had in Oncology. In her year of residency there, she’d never felt…celebratory. If a patient responded well to treatment, obviously that was fantastic. They had the bell to ring for the last session of chemo.

But there always lurked the fear that the cancer would come back. There was no high fiving, no muffled laughter. Yesterday, Howard had done a needle aspiration on a tonsillar abscess and had been so pleased with the amount of pus he’d gotten, he’d trotted up and down the ER, showing everyone his prize before discarding the tube. They’d reset a dislocated hip last week, and when the patient had come out of sedation, she’d said, “Oh, my God, I feel incredible!” and kissed Danny on the lips.

Obviously, there were the tragedies, too. But most times, they weren’t right there in front of her, day after day. Send them up or send them out, that was the motto. By and large, she finished each shift knowing she’d helped someone feel better, whether it was through medication or knowledge or, in a lot of cases, just by being kind. The golden retriever effect.

The sun was setting as she pulled into the Chatham house driveway next to Lorenzo’s “look at me” Maserati. The sky was a gentle lavender and pink here on the ocean side, and the air was soft. It sure was a beautiful home. She rang the bell.

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