Page 106 of The Doctor's Truth

I find the corkscrew and take the bottle of red from the counter, uncorking it. Then I pluck a glass from the cabinet and pour her one. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and then takes the glass with a “thank you” before stepping out of the way so I can pick up where she left off.

I load dishes while she sips. “That boy is her whole world, you know.”

“I know. Otto is a great kid.”

“God forbid, if something were to happen to him…”

“Nothing will happen to Otto on my watch. I’ll make sure of it.”

She sighs, then says, “I’m just…saying. Worst-case scenario being what it is. Kenzi will…need someone.”

“I’m not leaving her side for a second. I promise.”

She examines me. “Someone raised you right. Which is strange, because I’ve met your father.”

I load the last of the dishes and wipe my hands. “Yeah, well, Kenzi and I have something in common.”

“Which is?”

“We both have pretty cool moms.”

She lets out a laugh at that. Then she taps the side of her glass. “I’m taking this into the bath with me. You be good to my daughter.”

“Good night, Missus P.”

She gives my arm a pat as she drifts past me and heads upstairs.

She’s a class act. It occurs to me, out of nowhere, that I’m more comfortable in Kenzi’s kitchen, with Kenzi’s family, than I am with my own.

I break my own rules and pour myself a half glass of wine.

“Can I get one of those?”

I glance up. Kenzi descends the stairs and collapses into one of the flimsy chairs around the kitchen table. She’s changed out of her hospital clothes and into equally cozy non-hospital clothes: gray sweatpants and an oversized blue sweater with snowflakes knitted into the collar. Her thick hair has gone frizzy, and her eyes are half-lidded. She looks exhausted. But—and, I swear, I’m not trying to fetishize this kind of soul-weary fatigue—there is something beautiful about her right now. She’s vulnerable. Too tired to keep up those ten thousand walls she usually has around her. She’s soft and tender, like a bruise, and I try to be gentle with her.

I pour her a glass and slide it across the table. She wraps her fingers around the stem and takes a small sip, but it’s mechanical. Her eyes stare into an empty chair across from her, so I fill the spot.

“How’re you holding up?” I ask.

“Not great,” she says. “I’m a bad mom. A bad friend. A bad…everything.”

“You’re not bad,” I reason.

Those green eyes narrow. “My son’s kidney is failing. Donovan is who-knows-where. And I’m…barely holding it together.”

Her voice is hollow, feigning apathy, but her eyes are brimming with tears.

I give her a moment, letting her roll around in her own misery. Sometimes, it helps to hold space for self-pity. Then, after some thought, I say, “I had this patient come in one time…he was a street performer, who dressed up and did these juggling acts. Well, his act went awry, and he had a chainsaw lodged between his shoulder and his clavicle. I extracted the blade, sewed him up, and recommend he stop juggling chainsaws. He said the chainsaws weren’t the problem. Chainsaws, knives, you name it, he can juggle it. The culprit was just a plain, normal hacky sack that he’d decided to throw into the mix just to give people a little perspective. It threw his whole game off, and the whole thing came tumbling down.”

Kenzi smiles, just a little, and tucks her chin into her palm. “So what’s the moral of the story, Guru Jason?”

“The moral of the story is…you’re juggling a lot. And I see it. Frankly…you’re doing the job of twenty people right now. Mother. Daughter. Nurse.” I reach across the table and lace my fingers in hers. I give her hand a squeeze. “I think it’s okay to cut yourself a little slack.”

She rubs her thumb over the back of my hand, and I see those tears well up again. She lets go of my hand to brush them away. “God, this must be terrible for you. Spending your off-duty time coaxing me out of my depression.”

“Kenzi. I want you to really hear this. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. I want to be here. I promise. Whatever you need. I’m here for you.”

She stares at me for a second, and then she crosses the table to stand beside me. Before I know it, she’s climbing in my lap, straddling me.

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