Page 21 of The Potter

Halle

When five o’clock finally rolls around, I’ve filed a bazillion charts and spent two hours on the phone with potential patients, just like myself, who are desperate to get on Astor’s calendar. I learned that Dr. Duke’s specialty is cosmetic surgery, aka, his favorite, boobs.

Dr. Astor is a craniomaxillofacial surgeon, who is most sought after by moms and their infants with cleft palates. Dr. Potter, I already know, is a burn surgeon, who is known to reconstruct and repair traumatic scars. All three brothers’ calendars stay booked, which keeps the office revolving with constant patients throughout the day. Some crying tears of joy and others tears of sadness.

I don’t know what disqualifies patients from surgery, but I would guess people like myself who had a bad experience with anesthesia or the fact some injuries just cannot be fixed. I don’t know which of those Dr. Potter claims is his problem with doing my surgery, but I truly hope he reconsiders. Soon.

“You need anything else?” I pop my head into Astor’s office.

He covers the mouthpiece of the phone in his other hand. “Nope. I’m good. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

He’s been worried that Vance hurt my feelings at the meeting. I didn’t tell him Vance hurt my feelings more in the bathroom than in the meeting. I simply reassured him that I was tougher than I looked. No matter what Dr. Potter throws at me, I can handle it because I’d do anything for a new beginning at this thing called life.

“Yep, I’ll be here bright and early,” I assure Astor.

He flashes me a wink. “Attagirl.”

I wave the crazy man off and disappear down the hall. After the horrible lunch meeting and bathroom-gate, I haven’t spotted Dr. Potter again. Which, if I’m being honest, is a relief. It wouldn’t feel right to be snarky to him now that I know something is really going on with him.

What could possibly be happening that would cause him not to perform surgeries? The article I read years ago made it out like Dr. Potter lived and breathed for the OR. Whatever it is, it seems to worry both of his brothers enough that they’re willing to do anything to snap him out of it.

I spot Serena at the nurses’ office and attempt to play nice since she hasn’t. “Have a good evening, Serena. See you tomorrow.”

Her eyes roll, and she turns around as if wishing me a good evening would cause her to explode. It very well might. Her pantsuit is tight enough that keeping in all that bitchiness is probably a massive strain on the buttons. It’s whatever, though. I learned a long time ago that if you put all your faith in people, you’ll only end up disappointed.

Yet, I did it with Dr. Potter.

But I don’t have to allow Serena to have that power over me. I don’t care what she thinks, nor do I need her to wish me a good evening. I will have a good evening on my own with my new job and new paycheck.

The remaining five grand I need for my surgery is finally within reach.

When I’m out of the building, I locate the bus stop just to the right of the parking garage for Potter’s Plastics. I would have loved to live close enough so I could save bus fare, but Clyde’s is at least six miles from Dr. Potter’s office. My hips would last less than a quarter of a mile before they gave out and caused me to cave to the pain.

“Hey,” I greet the man already waiting on the bus bench. “You mind if I sit next to you?”

He replies with a sweet smile. “Not at all, little lady.”

I figured, but just in case, I felt like it couldn’t hurt to break the ice, and my mama taught me to always be friendly. You never know if someone is a murderer. Being nice just might save you from being their next victim.

And it’s the right thing to do. There are too many assholes in this world already. It doesn’t need another one.

Sitting down, I situate my purse on my lap and lean back, letting my eyes drift shut just a little. With a long day and minimal sleep, I can already feel the exhaustion setting in. Who knew working at an office doing administrative stuff all day would wear someone out?

Well, that and I had a drink at lunch with my neighbor, too. I’m sure the small amount of alcohol is contributing to the tiredness. But Neighbor-Who-Doesn’t-Have-A-Name insisted we celebrate my new job by taking me to this little bistro down the road from the office. The inside was decorated in southern décor, these cute little Mason jars hanging from the ceiling with white tea candles inside, casting this warm glow over the quaint tables with big sitting chairs.

He made me try this burger with the egg on the patty, claiming it was the best burger Texas had to offer. Honestly, I gagged a little when I saw it, but my young neighbor assured me it tasted better than it looked. And he was right.

We ended up spending two hours at lunch at which point I panicked and ran with my shoes in my hand and begged for Astor’s forgiveness. Which wasn’t hard to get, considering all Astor did was laugh and wave away my concern. He didn’t even realize I had left.

Honestly, I think Astor could live without a secretary. For the most part, he seems organized and maintains personal relationships with most of his patients. They call his cell, and after speaking with them, he tells me what appointment time to put them down for.

It was clear he didn’t require my assistance, which makes me think that his easy demeanor regarding Vance is covering the true concern he really

feels. Whatever plagues Vance plagues his brothers, too.

But what if Vance never recovers? What if he never goes back to the operating room? What if he never agrees to my revision surgery?

My stomach rolls at the thought of all this being for nothing. It was my only thought, my only goal for years, and it could all come to a crashing halt.

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