Page 14 of Doctorshipped
“Thank you.” I say. And I mean it.
Hazel has done a lot for us. I’m grateful. Even if she is a pain and likes to mock me for being reserved and less forthcoming with my friendliness. I help people for a living. No one ever proved that smiling or being overly-hospitable needed to be a part of how I serve the community. Personal warmth is nothing more than a cultural norm—a preference people have. Like putting mustard on eggs. Some people prefer that too. Doesn’t make it right.
I get caught up in reading files and forget to grab the resume. That’s a decision I will come to regret for months, and maybe even years to come. When I hear my daughter’s exuberant greeting of the tutor in the foyer, the skin on the back of my neck prickles with awareness. What is going on? I don’t like surprises. Something tells me I’m in for a doozy.
My wood paneled door slides open, and Fiona exclaims, “Daddy! Guess who’s here?”
Well, I don’t have to guess. Because standing behind Fiona is the last person on earth I ever imagined I’d see again in this lifetime.
Jayme.
Her brown eyes are wide with wonder or surprise, her every emotion splayed across her face with no guile or attempt to conceal her thoughts and feelings. I, on the other hand, have a very neutral look on my face. I can feel the impassive expression. I may be surprised. That doesn’t mean I’ll show it.
“Jayme. Come in. Fiona, give us a little privacy if you would. I need to ask Miss …”
“Culhane”
“ … Miss Culhane some questions. I’ll call you in when we’re ready.”
“Okay, Daddy. But, if you don’t hire her, I won’t work with any other tutor. It’s totally up to you, but she’s the one I want. Just so you know.”
“Last I checked, I’m still the parent around here. I appreciate your input. You may slide the door nearly shut and find a spot to occupy yourself where you won’t be eavesdropping.”
“Eavesdropping? Daddy. Would I ever?”
“You most definitely would, and I’m asking you not to. Thank you.”
Fiona smiles at me and winks. I chuckle and feel the smile she draws out. My cheeks rise and the corners of my eyes crinkle, it’s like a workout for my face every time she makes me happy enough to grin. Jayme stands staring at me with the most unusual look on her face. I tuck the smile away quickly, and wait for Fiona to slide the door mostly shut before inviting Jayme to sit.
“If you’ll excuse me, I left your resume in the printer.”
I stand and grab the two sheets of paper down and look them over as I take my seat again. Two sheets of a resume at age … How old could she be? Twenty-four? Twenty-five tops. I barely remember being that old. I’m not ancient at thirty-four, but I’ve lived a lot of life since my mid-twenties. Married, finished med school, did my residency. Joined in a practice, took over the practice. Lost my wife. Now, sold the practice and relocated here for the foreseeable future.
I wonder how much life Jayme has lived. Not that it’s my business. Why does she seem to ignite this need to know about her? Maybe it’s the circumstances under which we met. I’ve had her drool on my shirt, after all. And I held that black lacy bra …
I clear my throat and focus on the details typed on the page in my hand.
Jayme fidgets with a cuticle on her pointer finger. I observe her, but don’t show that I notice anything in particular. So, she’s nervous. I’d rather if she weren’t, but I’m not going to be the one to put her at ease, as much as I’d like her to calm down.
I consider smiling at her, but realize it’s not something that I do well. I already smiled at Fiona only moments ago. Hazel’s words ring through my head:Don’t scare her off. My smile might just do that. It’s not exactly a good smile, unless it comes of its own accord, and for that to happen, my daughter needs to be around.
Besides, Jayme’s a grown woman. She should be able to self-regulate her parasympathetic responses to stressful situations. Her cerebral cortex is fully formed. She’s got all the equipment she needs to calm herself.
“How young are you?”
“How old are you?” she asks in response.
I stifle a grin which probably ends up making me look even grumpier than I already come across. But I really can’t bring myself to care. I’m a good doctor. I have a neutral presentation with my patients. I’m not here to make friends, especially not with young tutors who are strictly here to help my daughter.
“I’m twenty-seven,” Jayme says with a slight jut of her chin. I don’t tell her I’m thirty-four, as I’m not the one trying to obtain employment.
My eyes rove across her again. Why am I looking? She’s here for Fiona. And I’m not interested in her or in anyone, really. I am in this town for two reasons—Fiona, and to provide my medical services to this community.
The way Jayme’s ridiculous T-shirt clings to her curves isn’t something that should grab my attention right now. What does that T-shirt say, anyway?I PromiseI’m in My Write Mind.Do I need a doctor-themed T-shirt? No. I don’t. Why do writers feel compelled to wear shirts announcing to the world what they do for a living?
Jayme clears her throat and my eyes raise from the words on her chest to her face. She’s blushing again and I realize what it appears I was just doing.
“I was, uh, reading your shirt.”
