Page 5 of Near Miss

He offers me a smile, softer this time. “Thank you, again. I’ve been with her since I started my residency and she’s a good kid. She deserved it.”

I wrinkle my nose. He doesn’t realize what he’s said, that in this world, there’s a hierarchy and all sorts of rules and judgements that sometimes take the place of compassion. “They all do.”

“And thank you for giving my brother a break, even though you didn’t know it.”

“Like I said”—I turn and walk backwards for a moment, shrugging—“it doesn’t seem like the type of thing to get upset over. You can tell your brother there’s one person in this city who doesn’t care, if you think it’ll help him sleep at night.” Raising one hand, I offer him a small smile.

I do hope he tells him, and even though I don’t know him, I hope Beckett Davis sleeps better tonight.

The house I grew up in isn’t far from where my dad lives now. It’s only a few blocks away.

It was a house, not exactly what I’d call a home—an innocuous bungalow nestled on a side street in the Danforth, long before it fell victim to gentrification.

It looked nice from the outside, and sometimes, it was nice on the inside.

But not all the time.

August in Toronto can be sweltering. At some point, it’ll convince you it’s fall, and you’ll start getting excited to say goodbye to the way the heat quite literally radiates off the pavement and all the concrete.

But that’s not today. My scrubs stick to my skin the second I shut my car door behind me, even though we’re moving firmly into the twilight hours. I clamp down on the paper bag from the pharmacy between my teeth, trying to shove my keys, my phone, and my pager into my purse.

Overgrown hosta and flowers spill onto the cracked cement of the walkway leading up to my dad’s front door, their leaves turning inwards, tired from the humidity.

Someone needs to trim them and it’s not going to be me. Lawn maintenance is firmly in my sister’s department.

She’s better at that sort of thing. I stick to medication delivery and obsessively checking our father’s blood pressure.

In a bizarre twist of fate, or just a sign of the architectural times, my dad moved into a house that was practically a mirror image of the one I grew up in. I’ve never lived in this house—but it’s done a significantly better job at feeling like a home.

The porch creaks under my feet when I kick my shoes off beside the mat. They were the ones I wore at the hospital all day and god knows what they’re covered in.

Another wilted plant sits to my right, and my lip curls back at the sight. Maybe I should try to water it before I leave.

I knock, but I don’t wait for an answer before unlocking the door.

“Dad?” My voice comes out muffled. I drop my bag at the side of an end table adorned with another plant, which looks to be doing better than the ones outside, and a neatly stacked pile of mail.

“Greer? You’re early.”

I hear him as he rounds the corner from the living room.

He looks older than he should—shoulders curved inwards and skinnier than they used to be under a worn flannel. It’s too hot for that, but he’s cold more often than not. His brown hair was always thin, but now, it’s become nothing more than feathers dusting his scalp. Eyes just like mine protrude a bit too much from a too-prominent brow bone, but he still smiles at me.

In some people, all those things might be a sign of a life well lived—of too many nights staying up too late and singing too loudly and living too much.

But on him, they’re signs of how he lived and what that cost him.

“No, I’m late.” I shake my head, finally taking the paper bag from between my teeth. “You can’t leave your prescription refills to the last minute like that. What if I got stuck in surgery? Or Stella was away? Try to fill them at least a week in advance next time.”

He takes the bag, frustration, and maybe kindness and caring, etched in the lines of his face. “I could say the same thing to you.”

“I’m not the one on immunosuppressants for the rest of my life.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’ve tried several times toget my father and sister to understand the difference between a lifesaving, required, daily medication that keeps the part of his liver that didn’t belong to him from being eaten alive by his body and my occasional need for a sedative because my nervous system forged some connections a long time ago I can’t seem to shake.

He looks troubled, nostrils flaring, and he wrings his hands. His fingers are too thin. “I mean it. You’ve been feeling okay, right?”

“Dad, I just got here.” I press my fingers to my temples and squeeze my eyes shut. My eyes burn, and I can’t tell if it’s tears or they’re too dry because I’ve been awake for too long. “I’m exhausted. I was on call last night and I did three kidney transplants today. I’m waiting on a call for a patient that desperately, desperately needs a liver I can’t guarantee is ever going to come. Can we just—not?”

It probably seems rude, and if Stella was here—she’d elbow me in the rib cage and tell me it was before taking our father by the arm, leaning in conspiratorially, whispering to him about the latest drama on the set of any TV series they watch together.

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