She smirked at me and then said, “Yes. I love my name. It's a family name, rich in the history of the people I love. I would be pleased to have you use it.”
I nodded, feeling my defenses weakening. I consented. “Wyatt’s fine.”
“Well, Wyatt, I am sure that even if you are dyslexic, you have never been intellectually lacking. I have watched you since you’ve entered my office and your mind is working all the time, assessing me, the environment, this entire situation. So, I’m willing to bet that if you are dyslexic, then your perception of yourself as intellectually lacking may have stemmed from your initial struggles to keep up in school, but now, as a grown man, it’s a lot more complicated than that.”
“What does that mean?”
“Why do you think you're not smart, Wyatt? Do you often feel like you don’t understand things? Or get lost in conversations, unable to keep up with what someone is talking about?”
No. I always understood what was happening. I prided myself on being able to read people's moods and desires. Often when I was in a situation, I could see the outcomes or solution before others, and I was also able to manage situations to achieve the outcome I found most pleasing. People worked to keep up with me.
I shook my head no.
“Is your perception of yourself as dumb or slow based on your struggle to get good grades in school?”
Her question was rhetorical, or at least I thought it was. Because it was so obvious that my school grades were the defining factor in my self-perception.
She kept talking. “Just out of curiosity, do you need good grades to run a ranch with your family? That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
No. My heart pounded in my chest. Was it possible that I wasn’t a fucking dumbass? Was it possible that all this shame I felt about my intelligence was just that, shame? Did I let Caroline go just because I was afraid I wasn’t good enough?
“Can I be dyslexic and still be smart?” I asked quietly, having dropped my arms to my lap.
“You can be dyslexic or just a shitty student and be smart, Wyatt.” She shrugged. “Or you might be a bumbling idiot. I don’t really know you that well.” She grinned at her own joke.
I smiled, too, and suddenly, I found that I wanted to talk to her. Lying back on the couch, so that my head was on the armrest, I kicked up my feet. “This is how we do it, right? I lie down on the couch and talk.”
“It’s an option, yes.”
I tipped my hat so it covered my eyes, and lying there in the shade of the brim, I said, “I let the girl get away.”
“Did she get away or did you push?”
I turned my head to the left and peeked out from under my hat. “Oh, I pushed. Broke her fucking heart, mine too.” I choked on the words. I hated that I hurt Caroline. I hurt her.
“Bummer,” Harriet said, and the word coming out of her mouth made me laugh. She sort of reminded me of Dr. Ruth.
“You have a very youthful vocabulary, Harriet.”
“I treat a lot of teenagers. Why did you push?”
“She’s the smartest woman I know.”
“Sounds appealing.”
“Yes. Very.”
“Too smart for you?” she asked.
“Something like that. She’s got a job in Seattle.”
“Do you still love the smart girl?” she asked.
“Till I die,” I said, my voice hollow and ghostly, even to me.
“Do you feel like you can’t go with her to Seattle?”
I never even considered that. I struggled to picture myself anywhere but Conway. Honestly, it was hard for me to picture Caroline anywhere but Conway. Caroline liked Conway. Maybe I could have gone to Seattle. What do cowboys do in cities? Would I have really even cared if I got to be with Caroline? I was strong. I could do something physical anywhere.
“I think I could move if I had to. That wasn’t the issue.”
Harriet shifted tactics. “On the phone you told me you have brothers. Do you love your brothers, Wyatt?”
“Nothing like family,” I said. It was trite but for me it was true.
“If one of them dumped a girl and described their feelings about that girl as love ‘till death’ feelings, what would you tell them to do?”
Fuck, maybe I hated this woman because she was too good at this shit.
20
Caroline
Sitting in the boardroom in Seattle, I couldn’t stop focusing on the fact that my bra strap was cutting into my shoulder. I felt like it was on fire, cutting into my flesh in a way that felt stingy and red. I was sitting at the head of the table across from the hospital president. He was surrounded by the hiring committee, a collection of senior doctors and the hospital’s other important medical and human resource professionals. The interview had gone on for over an hour at that point, and I’d eloquently answered all kinds of questions about my medical experience and goals, but something just didn’t feel right.
Dr. Stewart, a female psychiatrist in her fifties, dropped the folder she was flipping through on the table and said, “I’m gonna be honest, this interview was always more a formality than anything else because everyone at this table knows how talented and qualified you are, Dr. Winchester, and of course your answers to each question that you’ve been asked underscore that you are as smart and devoted as these papers say you are ...”
She paused but it was clear her sentence had a proverbial “but.”
Her face was soft and kind when she said, “But …” There it was. “Do you want to work here, Dr. Winchester?”
I was honestly flabbergasted by her question. My jaw dropped and I blubbered a bit.
She continued. “I see that I’ve shocked you. I’m not meaning to offend. It’s just that the only time I saw you light up when you discussed your work was in regard to your most recent post, subbing for …” She flipped through the pages in front of her.
“Eggs,” I smiled.
She looked back at me. “Yes, Dr. Eggleston.”
Trying to quell her fears, I said, “I love Conway. It’s my hometown, and you know how small towns are, small. So when I treat patients there, they are all like family. It’s just different. In a big research hospital like this one, our patients really need us—but we don’t know them that well.”
Dr. Stewart said, “Hmm,” and then she added something very reminiscent of what Duke had said two days earlier. “Yes, but all patients really need us.”
“True, but any MD can treat runny noses.” The words felt like acid on my tongue. Could they? Did any MD know that Hazel was allergic to sulfa drugs, but always forgot to write it down in her medical intake forms? Or that Mrs. Turner, the high school bio teacher, had arthritis for years, but was in denial about it? Or that her husband was constantly trying to derive massage creams to help her pain that resulted in rashes from time to time. Or that Carolina’s uncle cut her umbilical cord in a loft barn?
“I guess that’s true.” Dr. Stewart shrugged.
I shook my head immediately. “No wait, I’m wrong. It’s not true at all.”
“No?” She quirked her head at me.