Page 25 of Dr. Intern

In Virginia, I was constantly surrounded by friends. I hated being alone and would spend practically every day with someone important to me. Recently, lots of them have called me to ask when I’m coming home. And I just reply—soon. I’ll be home soon.

But that’s a lie; I don’t have a home anymore.

Because home isn’t a place. It’s not a city, or a house, or a set of walls. It’s a person. And for me, home was anywhere that my mom was.

Home was my childhood house, surrounded by lush evergreen trees, and our laughter as we rolled down the grass surrounding the driveway. Home was the boat rides we took around the lake during endless summers, and the fire pits on the dock with roasting marshmallows. Home was the hand I held as I went through heartache last year, and the body I snuggled during movie marathons on the weekends.

And now, home is a memory.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to be surrounded by people. I want quiet. I want silence. I want to hold onto this feeling deep inside, because at least if I am still grieving, I’m keeping her memory alive.

“You need help carrying anything inside, young lady? This is quite the shopping haul you have here.”

I smile at my condo’s doorman as I pull my keys out of my black Longchamp purse. “No, sir. Thank you so much for the banana bread. I survive mostly on Lunchables and takeout, so this will get some fruit into my diet.”

His large belly shakes as he chuckles. “Don’t tell me that, now. I’ll start worrying about you.”

“Get in line,” I reply, waving at him as he turns to the elevator.

The doorman, Mr. Bill, and I have become best friends. He’s old enough to have retired twenty years ago, but it genuinely seems like he works because he loves his job rather than a need for money. Whenever I walk through the double doors from the parking garage, he greets me and offers to carry my bags even if I don’t need help. I don’t mind though, because somehow his presence is comforting. It’s like he’s an old friend who won’t judge me or pity me like everyone else.

Opening the lock to the condo, I gather my shopping bags in both hands, determined to make it inside in one trip. While I originally intended to go to the store for a pickup order from weeks ago, there was an insane sale at Dillards that was calling out to me. And who am I to deny the shopping gods?

Kicking the door closed with my foot, I balance a shoe box under my chin as I walk into the chilly condo.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Parker’s grating voice mutters from the living room. “Shopping again?”

The normal instinct for anyone caught doing something they promised they wouldn’t do, is to apologize and feel guilty. But my brother clearly came here to fight, so why not give him what he wants?

I drop the bags on the kitchen counter, bracing myself for the verbal battle about to ensue. “Do you have a problem, dear brother? Or have you decided to stop by out of the kindness of your heart?”

His precious surgeon hands clench and unclench, as if he’s trying to stop himself from reacting. “The kindness of my heart? Do you really want to go there?”

I shrug my shoulders in indifference, patiently waiting for him to erupt.

“You’re living in my condo for free, Claire,” he states, weariness evident on his face, as if he doesn’t want to fight with me. Parker’s dark brown hair, the same shade as mine, is disheveled like he came here straight from the hospital. And while most people would take pity on him and retreat, I just can’t.

I love poking him where it hurts.

“Oh wow, P. The condo that you bought in cash with your trust and didn’t have to work for?” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re such a philanthropist.”

Our late father’s invention revolutionized surgical procedures, setting our family up financially for life. It grates on me when Parker acts like he’s self-made. Yeah, he’s successful in his career, but he wouldn’t have nearly the same lifestyle on a surgeon’s salary.

Parker's jaw clenches and the thick vein in his forehead throbs with his rapidly escalating pulse. “This isn’t about me, Claire. This is about responsibility and accountability.” He looks over at the shopping bags on the chair. “Qualities that seem to elude you.”

“Did you have nothing better to do today than ambush me with your criticism?” I ask, walking into the kitchen to get a Diet Coke out of the fridge. “Because I would rather not listen to your constant disapproval of me. I get enough of it from my own head.”

Parker runs his fingers through his hair. “No,” he says, his expression softening. “I’m sorry. I know this past month has been hard on you.”

I crack open the can, watching him quietly.

He looks so much like our dad with his angular face and prominent jaw. I barely knew my father—he died when I was five but my mom always made a strong effort to keep him alive through stories and photos. Sometimes I wonder how much Parker remembers. Have his memories of Dad faded like the ones of Mom already are for me?

“I wish I could be here for you more,” he confesses.

“It’s fine,” I croak, feeling my chin start to quiver.

“No it’s not,” he insists, rising from the couch to take me into his arms.

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