Page 4 of Free to Fall

Jon laughed when I drummed my nails against the table as I counted aloud how many times since the staff has asked me how I survived that incident without Moser canning me. “Not to mention where I buy my panties. Christ, Jon. If I wanted to command a commission from La Perla, I could probably get it.”

“TMI, little sister.”

I rolled my eyes at him in disgust. “You are such a damn hypocrite.”

“How’s that?”

“You have a problem with me talking about wearing lingerie, but no problem stripping a woman out of it?”

Jon lifted his glass of whisky to toast me. “It’s all about context, Gore. I don’t want to imagine my baby sister ...” He pales before taking a slug of his drink. “Nope. This conversation stops now.”

I laughed in his face before repeating my earlier comment. “Hypocrite.”

“Yep. Now, change of subject, what are we doing for the parents’ Christmas gift?”

Flexing my fingers as the titters of laughter continue, I hazard a glance at Moser’s again impassive expression. He and I came to a truce some time back. It might have to do with the fact that regardless of whatever has been dumped on me, I haven’t let it alter my course—which is to treat the patients that roll up to Greenwich Hospital’s ER. The fact I don’t give a damn about how awful a patient’s odds might be went further than anything in solidifying my position here.

There’s no halfway in my ER. Just like there’s no halfway in my dedication as a doctor.

Moser must have been told we’re receiving new funding for an MRI or something because he snorts with his version of laughter. As he moves away from my table, he taunts, “I give an hour tops, Dr. Lockwood. I mean, Christ. Even the paparazzi know what a mess you create in my house.”

I assume an innocent expression. “It could be worse.”

That causes him to stop in his tracks. “You think so? What could be worse, Gore.” He emphasizes my nickname.

Everyone within hearing distance is avidly waiting on my reply. I pause before offering, “I could be Dr. Bore. Wouldn’t that be so much duller for all of you?”

Like I hoped, everyone—even Moser—groans. “Get back to the ER, Lockwood. Someone there will appreciate your sense of humor. Though likely, they’ll have arrived DOA,” he snarks with the gallows humor I learned quickly you adopt or you won’t make it through your first year in med school. It wasn’t too long ago, after we spent a weekend disimpacting patients due to food poisoning, I contributed some flowery prose regarding the odoriferous materials on a clipboard of ass jokes some first-year resident from a decade ago left in the doctor’s lounge.

Now, it’s an homage, much like my nickname.

The camaraderie at Greenwich Hospital is like no other. When I’ve traveled to medical conferences, I’m taken aback by the elitism at other facilities. Here, we’re not titles; we’re a team. Moser walks away, shouting that all department heads had better have their financial reports to him by the end of shift. I shout back, “Can we delegate it?”

“Only if you want your budget cut!” he yells back to a round of applause from the few other heads still in the cafeteria.

None of us are above hard work. Nor are we above jumping in when it’s all–hands–on–deck. Just last week, a new first year shouted at me to get more 4x4s when we had a gusher rushed in with their family. The resident in charge of riding herd on their every maneuver simply rolled their eyes and mouthed, “Sorry.”

Still, I got the pads, donned my gown and mask, and called out, “What do we have here, people?” right before I chucked them in the direction of the flame-faced first year.

That isn’t to say every one of us doesn’t take our jobs seriously. It’s a necessity, but like I’ve learned, we need to decompress otherwise there’s too much of a chance of failing the people who need us the most because of the long hours and the never-ending pressure to not make mistakes.

Because a mistake here could be the fatalist of falls, it may lead to someone’s death.

Standing, I shove the remains of my dinner in my lunch sack before heading out one of the many entrances.

I suppose I should be more shocked than resigned when Moser traps me the second I exit the cafeteria. “Lockwood, a word.”

“Certainly, sir.” I give him the respect his title is due even though the way he studies me causes my stomach to churn. What did I do? Forget to call up for a neuro consult? It’s not the first time and I’m certain it won’t be the last.

After a lengthy perusal, he stuns me by declaring, “You’re a fucking waste in the ER.”

Despite Moser hovering on the periphery of stories told by my family since he saved the life of one of my aunts and was briefly engaged to another, it wasn’t until a few years ago, after he became chief, that I caught his specific notice. Mentally, I shudder recalling the first time we had a department head meeting he presided over and his cold eyes skewered through me like I was some parasite he was told he’d have to live with.

The head of ontology leaned over to whisper, “Don’t worry, Laura. Take it from me. Bryan hates being reminded of his mistakes.” She paused a half a heartbeat as he fried her with a similar glare, which she returned with a brilliant smile. This caused Moser to shift the papers in front of him before he aimed his glare at another target. She finished with, “Or the women who have said no to his half-ass offer of a date.”

Considering the doctor in question is married to one of the world’s most notorious rock stars, I had a hard time containing my laughter. Still, about two years ago, something changed Dr. Moser from being the patron saint of misogynistic pricks—a woman. Hospital gossip ran rampant. Our illustrious chief actually had a heart hidden beneath his bespoke suits. Still, his words infuriate me. I surge forward, barely able to restrain my fury. “Excuse me?”

“A damn travesty.”

---