Page 5 of Free to Fall

“Care to repeat that after I have you written up, Chief?”

He crosses his arms impatiently. “Quit the crap.” Before I can blast him—head of the hospital or not—his voice softens in a way that’s more of a blow than his harsh criticism ever could be. “You’ve got a gift few have, Laura. It could have been used to make a larger difference than treating MIs, stabilizing GSWs, and treating the indigents you churn and burn.”

I don’t know what to feel—shock over the compliment or infuriation at his complete audacity that the gifts we’ve both been bequeathed should be limited to those with the financial means to pay for them. I begin, “It’s my passion ...”

He doesn’t let me finish my sentence because he cuts me off. “I’ve heard it all before, Lockwood. I’m telling you, long term, I’m concerned you’ll determine you’re too talented to be wasting your gifts in the ER.”

You know nothing about us. Not the real us. The thought flits through my mind, along with several insults that could get me fired on the spot. After several deep exhales, where I tamp down my father’s gung-ho spirit and channel my mother’s inherently soothing nature, I lift my eyes to meet his. I’m not intimidated in the slightest by the scowl he’s aiming in my direction. Instead, I question him, “If your own kids were in the same predicament, would you say the same thing to them you’re insinuating to me?”

Both of Moser’s “kids” through his marriage are talented medical students. They were assigned to me as interns last year. Twins, they’re in the same program I graduated from at Yale. Mayer and Bella are coolheaded and dedicated and clearly not related to Dr. Bryan Moser by blood.

Moser preens for a few seconds at the mention of his wife’s beloved children—damn, I thought that might derail him—before returning his laser focus back to me. “Don’t try to change the subject, Doctor.”

“I’m not.” I feel a familiar contentment well up inside of me as I recall the long hours I spent contemplating the next step in my career—choosing a specialty. “It was about challenge, about giving back. Emergency medicine offers that.”

He glowers down at me before lifting a hand that used to get messy more frequently with people’s heads in a whole different way than it does now. A finger jabs in my face. “You were brought to this hospital as a med student ...”

I wait for the usual reminders about my family’s donations to several wings when he shocks the hell out of me. “Because you were the most promising student from Yale. You could have had any specialty you asked for. What made you throw it away? Did the pressure crack you?”

Infuriated he—and possibly the rest of the staff—thinks so little about me, I give him my most ferocious scowl, the kind that my family would recognize as a warning to back off. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then tell me what turns a woman from being ready to fly a billion-dollar fighter jet into piloting a crop duster.” My lips part to blast him, not caring about the fact he controls whether I complete my residency when he stuns me speechless. Moser lists off my accomplishments since I was an undergrad one by one. Citing journal articles I’ve co-authored, accolades I’ve received in different departments during my hospital rotations. As he does, images flash through my mind like a movie, reminding me how each rotation moved me one step closer to my dream. Psych, ENT, OB, Orthopedics, Neurology, Surgery.

I cross my arms over my chest by the time he’s finished. All he’s done is reassure me of one thing. I’m exactly where I’m meant to be—the ER. “Emergency medicine is the culmination of everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve fought for.”

“Really?” His voice is derisive.

“There’s an energy there I can’t duplicate anywhere else in the hospital.”

“Thank God,” he mutters.

I can’t help but chuckle at the snobbery in his voice. “It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make.”

“It’s not even close to the hardest decision you’ll ever make, even in this building. There are others that will make you look back and wonder why even this conversation seemed to matter.”

My head whips in his direction, stunned. To hear that from one of the most brilliant brain surgeons in the country is flabbergasting. “Then what’s your problem, Dr. Moser?”

The expression on his face is rueful. “Haven’t you figured it out, Lockwood?”

“Figured what out, sir?”

“I’m pissed you didn’t choose neurology. I wanted you to become my protégé.”

“No offense, Dr. Moser, but what you do makes me want to vomit.”

“You mean the patient who projectile vomited on you last week didn’t?”

I give a negligent shrug. “To each their own. You like poking your fingers around in people’s brains and making them sing and dance to your own tune.”

A wicked flash of humor leaps in his eyes for just a moment, reminding me of why he was, up until a few short years ago, considered the hospital’s Lothario. “Singing, Lockwood. No dancing. It would seriously fuck up my procedure if the patient shifted their halo. Maybe you should read my latest journal article on it, just to brush up on the knowledge?”

I lift my watch and tsk with faux regret. “Perhaps later, sir. Look at the time. I’m now officially late for my shift.”

Certain I’ve successfully escaped, I cringe when he calls out, “Lockwood?”

Pausing, I reply, “Yes?”

“You’re never going to become notorious being an ER doctor.”

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