Page 112 of Wistful Whispers
“Clearly you’re not here for feedback on your last assist.” A few minutes later, he goes back to writing up a chart without glancing at me. His pen glides across the page.
I let the quiet linger a beat longer before answering, “No, sir.”
“So?” He sets the pen down, folds his hands. His eyes—cold and sharp—land on mine.
I straighten in my chair. “I wanted to speak to you directly. About everything.”
“Everything. Quite a narrow category.” He leans back, arms crossed.
“I recognize it’s been a complicated year.” I lean forward and clasp my hands. “For you. For the program. For me.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Complicated is one word for it.”
“I’m not here to debate Miranda Black. What happened to her was devastating. I made the choice I did because I believed it was the right thing to do.” I do not break eye contact.
His nostrils flare.
“What I realize is I should’ve come to you first,” I continue. “Out of respect. You were my boss. My mentor. I was caught up in my emotions and I could have handled things differently with you. Been honest and not blindsided you.”
“You think an apology makes this right?” Caldwell lets out a sharp exhale of disbelief as he leans back in his chair, shaking his head slowly. “You come skulking in here with a half-baked apology and expect me to pat your head like some wounded intern. It’s far too late, McGloughlin. We’ve barely spoken all year. You’ve dodged me, undermined me, and everyone around this hospital knows you tried to sink my career. Do you seriously want to pretend this is salvageable?”
“I’m not pretending anything,” I say quietly. Firmly.
“Sure.” He laughs again—hollow this time. “You thought I didn’t care. You really thought I walked into the OR and gambled with her life for my ego.”
I flinch. His words hit me hard.
He doesn’t wait for my answer.
“I’ve lost patients before. You don’t do this job—this specific job—for decades and walk away clean. Every one of them stays with you. But Miranda?” He shakes his head slowly, like he’s still stuck in the loop. “She was a child. Twelve. I’ve replayed her surgery in my mind every damn night. I’ve second-guessed every clamp, every suction, every decision.”
He continues, his eyes glinting with something raw. “Losing her took something from me and then my star pupil turned on me and thought the worst. Yet I still showed up. I kept going. I held this department together despite it all.”
The air feels tight between us. Like it can’t carry both of our truths at the same time.
Here’s mine: He’s not wrong.
Today, I came here thinking if I took some hits—apologized, played contrite—I might get what I needed. Maybe save my career. Get my name off the chopping block.
I certainly didn’t come in here to hang out with him. Not really.
My focus was so narrow, I never gave him the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t once ask how he was doing after she died. Never wondered how Miranda’s death carved into him. Instead, I just saw the mistakes. Assumed the power imbalance. Hated his arrogance, which could have been masking grief.
In this moment, I realize how flawed all of us truly are. How life isn’t always black and white. Why forgiveness and redemption matter.
I sit straight up. “I came to take responsibility.”
This stops him cold.
My hands rest in my lap, fingers laced so I don’t start shaking. “I was scared.” I struggle to keep my composure. “Not just of the fallout. After your deposition, it seemed clear where the blame was headed, and I panicked. It felt like I was going to lose everything I’ve worked for—my license, my future— and I was angry. I didn’t trust the system to protect me and I didn’t think you would either.”
His expression doesn’t change, his posture does—slightly, subtly. The tiniest shift of weight.
“So, no. I wasn’t ready to face you,” I say. “After a few weeks passed, I told myself I was too busy. Then, when the litigation was happening, decided you owed me an apology. In retrospect? I keep coming back to the notion I should have come to you instead of avoiding you.”
Tension is a taut wire between us. I don’t break eye contact. I want him to see this isn’t rehearsed. This is me. Raw. Tired. Honest.
“To answer your question, I don’t think this apology makes it right,” I add. “I think it matters. Because I mean it. Continuing to avoid you would be another mistake.”
