She busied herself with unscrewing the cap on her water bottle. It was mint green, just like the glasses in her apartment. It didn't seem like she was going to answer, then, "Yeah, Stremmel. I noticed."
We sat there a moment, no one saying a damn word while it seemed like I could hear my blood vessels dilating in my head. Then, I settled back into my corner of the sofa and watched her as she fixated on that water bottle. "Can you just tell me what happened? It's stupid that I'm asking and I realize I shouldn't care, but I want to know. I want to understand."
She ran her index finger around the base of the metal bottle. "Nothing happened."
"Everything happened," I whispered. "You know it, Sara. You know it. I just need to know what I did wrong. I have to know."
"You didn't do anything wrong." She gave a single shake of her head. "You did nothing wrong."
"Then—why?"
Milana leaned in, clasped her hands between her knees. I'd kind of forgotten about her. Sara continued tracing the bottom of her bottle. Yeah, I could definitely hear my blood. Those vessels were going to fuck me over tonight. Not awesome.
"I just need some time," Sara said. "I know that's not what you want to hear but"—she waved a hand at the coffee table—"we work differently, Sebastian. You don't need anything but yourself. I need all of these things and I am still a mess." She twirled a finger toward her hair, her glasses, and the t-shirt with a set of checkboxes that read Eat, Sleep, Operate, Repeat. "Let me work the way I know how. Okay?"
I gave her a jerky nod. "Yeah. Fine."
After another unbearable silence, Milana said, "Our hour is up, my friends. I want to thank you for the time you've spent in this space with me, as well as the time you put in outside our weekly visits. I know neither of you chose to be here though I want to applaud the honesty with which you engaged week after week. I know this work is challenging. I know it climbs into our discomforts and shines a spotlight on them. And I know you've both developed new skills and perspectives as a result of those spotlights. I have no concern about signing off on the completion of your sessions and expressing my satisfaction with your progress. That said"—she glanced at the clock, gave us a wink—"the next time I see you two, I hope it's not on the sofa."
With the passing of each of the seventeen hours since leaving Milana's office at the end of our last conflict resolution session—yes, I was counting—I grew an increasing appreciation for the fact Sara and I hadn't crossed paths. We'd walked out of that office, turned in opposite directions, and hadn't said a damn word to each other. Definitely hadn't let herself into my apartment and rubbed my head all night. But that appreciation grew alongside my dread because we would cross paths and I knew it was going to fuck me up.
I'd prepared myself to run into her in a stairwell or back in our building, but at the same time, I wasn't ready for that. I was also dying from the inside out with wanting to set eyes (and hands) on her, but I wasn't ready. It was an unpleasant way to exist. More unpleasant than my usual.
It was midmorning when I found myself waiting for a team to turn over an OR. Nothing about this was unusual, not until the Chief of Surgery breezed out of that OR, Boston Red Sox scrub cap in hand, and did a double take when he noticed me. This really wasn't the day for anyone to notice me.
"Stremmel! Just the man I've been looking for," he boomed. "We need to get some time on the calendar to formalize your transition into the emergency surgery chief role next year."
"Because we're done with the conflict counseling?"
"The what? Oh, no, that's nothing. It's barely a formality," he said. "The hoops we have to jump through these days."
I made a pointed glance at my watch.
"While I have you here," he continued, oblivious to my glaring disinterest in this conversation, "I need your thoughts on Dr. Shapiro."
"My fucking what?"
He held his hands out, shrugged. If he found my reaction disproportionate, it didn't show. "I've heard through personal channels that she has a lucrative offer in California. She's here to stay as long as we can keep her, though I want your opinion of her work. You have to know of her father's reputation—"
"I'm going to stop you right there. He doesn't work here, and as far as I know, he's not interested in moving his practice here, so any conversation about him or his reputation relative to a surgeon on staff is a waste of my time."
"Is it a waste? I don't know. That's why I'm seeking your opinion on Dr. Shapiro. On paper, she's great, but that doesn't mean I should send high-profile cases to her or prioritize her work for grants. What's your take, Stremmel? Is she any good?"
"It's pretty stupid to ask me that," I said. This was the currency that came with being the guy. "She's obviously talented. Anyone can see that. She knows her shit. Her work is clean and thorough. Her residents are some of the best trained of any specialty in the facility. Acevedo and Hartshorn attend her skills lab sessions on a regular basis and I know they're not the only attendings who do that. A few require it for their residents. How does that look on paper? She has no problem taking on loudmouths, bullies, and assholes when patient outcomes are on the line, and frankly, we need a lot more of that seeing as we can't stop populating our ranks with loudmouths, bullies, and assholes. Of course, this question is a load of bullshit because I don't know the first thing about the plastics practice, but I do know Dr. Shapiro is far too accomplished to work in a place where her father's reputation precedes any conversation of her qualifications. Don't let anyone hear you saying that shit again. The world doesn't work that way today and it hasn't in a long time. You're gonna age your ass right out of here if you keep that up." I glanced at my watch again. "Excuse me."
By my estimation, I had at least seven minutes until my OR was ready and that was plenty of time to run up and down the stairs until I lost the desire to punch a wall. It seemed like a great plan.
All I had to do was execute on it every day for the rest of my life.
Chapter 34
Sara
I didn't have aha moments. Not often.
I came around to ideas the way people waded into a chilly pool—just a toe, then a foot, a doubtful dip up to the knees, inching toward thighs though not really wanting to do that, then—finally—making the eventual concession to waist deep, all while standing stiffly with arms held above the surface, teeth gritted with the conviction that getting wet was just a terrible idea.
Some people probably cannonballed their way into those cold pools, and that was fantastic for them. So fantastic. Aha people represent.
I never wanted to get wet. I definitely held my arms above the water long past the point of acclimation. Even when I was in it, I needed extra time to adjust. There was nothing more vulnerable than throwing your entire self into a body of water, and vulnerability was fucking scary. Aha moments were fucking scary. They required trusting your mind enough to let it lead the way, and my mind—well, it was fair to say my mind didn't have a good track record of leading me toward the healthiest paths.