Page 3 of Look on the Bright Side

During her surgical rotation, she’d gotten some, unfortunately. The godlike Santini had agreed to do rounds with them, the lowly residents! It was terrifying and thrilling. “Santini! Educating us! Can you believe it?” Also: “Stay on your toes. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t make an ass of yourself. He eats people like us for a bedtime snack.”

Lark had been the snack. During rounds that unhappy day, he’d barked out, “What diagnosis should be considered for anal fissures that are not at six or twelve o’clock?” No reason. Just whimsy. Just a sort of gotcha pop quiz.

At the words anal fissures, one of her classmates snickered. Unfortunately, he’d been standing right next to Lark, who went red with terror as Dr.Santini turned toward them. His eyes settled on her, and she swallowed.

“You think this is funny?” he snarled. “You think someone’s pain is funny, Dr….” He looked at her jacket. “Smith?”

“No, sir,” she said in a near whisper. She didn’t do well with angry people, but neither was she about to rat on Tomas. “Not at all.”

“Answer the question, then.”

By then, she’d forgotten the question. To be fair, she’d been awake for thirty-two hours straight, and also fear tended to make her mind go blank. “Can you repeat it, please?” Her voice shook. Her fellow residents oozed away from her, including Tomas. No one made eye contact.

“No! Do you think I have time to repeat it? Someone else, answer.”

“Crohn’s disease,” said Lacey, a Nigerian student with a photographic memory. She cut Lark an apologetic look.

“Crohn’s disease, Dr.Smith! Anal fissures anywhere but twelve and six o’clock indicate Crohn’s or another underlying disease. Dr.Smith, do us a favor and name at least three other diseases that could indicate anal fissures at anywhere but twelve and six o’clock!”

He sure liked saying anal fissures. “Ulcerative colitis and childbirth?” she said meekly.

He glared. “Two more, and try to speak like a doctor and not a scared sixth grader.”

“Colon cancer and…um…HIV.”

He turned and strode off to the next patient, the five residents following like a swarm of fearful bees. Blessedly, that had been the only time he’d spoken to her, since she was a peasant who didn’t want to become a surgeon.

Why he would want her to call him now, she had no idea. She dialed the number, which went right to voice mail. “Dr.Santini. Leave a message.”

“Um, hi. This is Lark Smith. Dr.Smith? Um…you asked me to call you, I think. So here I am. Okay. Well. Make it a great day!”

Shit. She should’ve planned what to say.

Maybe he was calling because he’d heard Charlie Engels had died. Two years ago, he’d done a Whipple procedure on Charlie Engels, in fact, which had certainly extended Charlie’s life. It was one of the most complicated surgeries there was, removing the head of the pancreas, the bile duct, the gallbladder and part of the small intestine, then reconnecting everything. Postoperative complications were common. But Dr.Santini, despite having the personality of a feral boar, had done a beautiful job, and Charlie healed without incident.

But calling her because he thought she’d be sad? That didn’t seem like him.

A second later, her phone buzzed with a text.

Meet me at 6:30 at the Naked Oyster on Main Street.

She frowned. I think you have the wrong person, she typed.

I don’t. Be on time. Obviously, I’ll pay.

Gathering her nerve, she typed, Can I ask why you want to see me?

No answer. No three dots, either. God didn’t have to answer a lowly resident.

It was quarter to six now. Wellfleet, where she lived, was forty-five minutes away, so going home to change wasn’t an option. Today, she wore the typical, sensible-professional garb of a hospital resident—a knee-length black skirt, white oxford and Naturalizer flats Addie described as “shoes that would make a nun weep with boredom.” But Addie didn’t have to spend twelve hours a day or more on her feet. Hospital policy had her wear her hair up, keep her earrings small and cover the one tattoo she had. In other words, she looked like she was about to knock on someone’s door to talk about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

She’d never been to the Naked Oyster before. She googled it, saw it was very swanky. And expensive, so she was glad Dr.Santini had already cleared up who was paying. Her stomach growled, reminding her that the last food she’d had was an energy bar at five forty-five this morning. The Naked Oyster it was.

Lark drove carefully. The aging Honda hybrid she’d had since college had 267,493 miles on it, and didn’t take well to potholes or sudden stops. She should buy a new car, but she loved it. It had been through a lot with her. She did need to get new wipers, though, because the windshield smeared with rain. Perfect weather for a nap and a long, hard think. She wished she was home right now, or at least headed home, so she could get into her cozy bed, maybe snag Connery, the Cairn terrier she and her landlady shared.

When she arrived she saw the restaurant was a tiny place right next to the London Brewing Company, a place she had been with her hospital friends. She found a parking place two blocks away, checked the car floor for an umbrella (nope), and then grabbed her purse and ran through the rain.

“Whoo! Rainy out there,” she said to the maître d’, who smiled. “It’s been such a wet spring.”

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