"What's up, Doc?"
I want to make a joke about Bugs Bunny, but I don't dare. Theresa is no-nonsense. To be honest, she scares me a little. But what she lacks in warmth, she makes up for in ability. Nothing shakes her. If I needed medical care, I'd request Theresa as my nurse any day.
My gaze shoots down the hall, then back to Theresa's cool expression. "I'm mentally preparing for Faith Cummings' appointment."
At the mention of Faith, warmth trickles into Theresa's chocolate-brown eyes. Theresa loves her work, but she especially loves Faith. After all the years Faith has been coming here, they've formed a friendship.
She leans forward, her floral printed scrub top crinkling against the edge of the desk. "Don't tell anybody, but, about ten minutes ago, I put homemade cinnamon rolls in the staff room." Her tone is hushed when she says the words homemade cinnamon rolls. My palms meet in front of my chest, pushing together as if in prayer while I try to contain my drool. "Thank you," I mouth. Theresa is an amazing nurse but an even better baker.
She sits back in her chair and focuses on whatever she was doing at the computer, as if I never stopped by.
I leave, my steps quickened by the smell and taste of sweet cinnamon even though I'm not there yet. Funny how taste and smell can be burned into your memory. There's a certain someone living in Manhattan whose fault it is that I can still smell cucumber melon scented lotion without needing to be anywhere near it. But I don't think about that. About her. Those thoughts aren't allowed anywhere near me, because if I let them in, they won't stop. Like an angry mob at the closed gates of a kingdom, they will pound at my walls until they break in. Focusing on the taste of cinnamon rolls is much, much safer for the well-being of my heart.
I'm the third person to help myself to the pastry. There are only twelve in total, and the remaining nine will be gone in minutes. Thank God Theresa likes me. If she hadn't, she wouldn't have said a word to me.
If I were Ace, for example, Theresa would've kept her mouth shut. She doesn't like my best friend. She thinks he's a player, and, to be fair, she’s right. It took getting his heart smashed just one time for Ace Drakos to become a self-titled bachelor for life. It's made for some drama around the hospital, but he makes it clear from the outset what he's about. Still, it doesn't seem to stop some of the women from giving him dirty looks. Or keeping delicious homemade pastries a secret from him.
I'm the nice guy, the good cop, the one you give secret pastries to.
As I finish my roll, I down the contents of a too-hot cup of coffee and leave the staff room with a sweet yet slightly burnt taste on my tongue.
Time to see Faith.
“How’s my favorite patient?” I beam as I step into the room. I say that to everyone, but she’s the only one I mean it with.
"Hey there." Faith smiles as she speaks. For someone so sick, Faith never stops appearing happy. Once, during her second battle, I'd complimented her upbeat attitude. She told me joy is a choice and she’d choose it any chance she got.
I think of her words frequently, but I haven't fully followed her advice. In my job, even if there is more good than bad, the losses are so heavy, they often outweigh the wins. Sometimes I regret my choice to go into oncology. It’s a constant balance beam of saving people and watching them die.
"Good morning, Faith." I return her smile and close the door behind me. "How are you feeling?"
"Good as new," she responds, cheerful.
To be honest, she does look peppier than the last time I saw her. Her eyes are twinkling. Her legs, dangling from the examination table, softly bump against it.
She's excited about something.
It makes me happy to know something has excited her. The current state of Faith's world is anything but happy. I find myself wondering what it could be, but try to keep a distance emotionally during our appointments.
"Let's get this exam underway." It will be quick. A cursory exam before chemo can begin in a few days. I check her lymph nodes and glance for the tenth time at her bloodwork. “Everything looks good to start chemo, Faith.”
She’s a veteran to what some of my patients call “the poison drip;” she simply nods her head, fearless.
I'm busy checking her blood pressure when she says, "I have a question for you. A hypothetical question."
With my feet firmly planted on the ground, I push back, and the stool I'm sitting on rolls a foot away. "What's up?" I ask, looking up at her.
Please don’t ask me what percentage chance I think she has to go into remission this time. I hated the question, and I couldn’t do it with her. It made me feel like I was playing God. Even a skilled doctor and mathematician can never get that question one hundred percent right. The fact that her cancer is back again for a third time is not good.
"If a person knew something that might make another person feel a certain way, should they tell them about that something?" Faith raises an eyebrow.
My insides tighten. It's ridiculous. We haven't talked about Autumn in a long time, and yet I know it's about her. Faith is being sneaky, which isn’t her normal demeanor. I swallow hard, readying myself to hear bad news. Autumn's getting married. Autumn's pregnant. Autumn anything. The ever-present pain stabs at my heart as I imagine what Faith is about to say. My memory kicks in, the angry mob bangs on the gate, and I see Autumn in my mind.
There she is, the girl who owns every piece of my younger self.
The girl who haunts my nights, my days, and every relationship I've tried to have since her.
The girl who massacred my heart and left me for dead.
I push past the turmoil inside and ask, "This something you refer to … will it make the person feel bad? Or good?"
Faith purses her lips and tucks her hair behind her ear. "Definitely bad. But also, maybe good?"
"Maybe good?" I ask, my eyebrows raised. Maybe it's not about Autumn after all. I can't imagine there's anything Faith would know about Autumn that would make me feel maybe good. "I suppose those are pretty decent odds. I'd want to know. Hypothetically speaking, of course." I wink at Faith, the vise-like grip on my stomach loosening.
"Autumn's home."
No tightening in my core now. Just a feeling like my bones have turned to jelly and they're undulating inside me like ribbons in the wind. Those two words send me over the edge.
"Owen?" Faith's forehead leans closer, urging me to speak.
My throat is dry but I find words. "For how long?"
Faith looks away. She shrugs. "I don't know. She's moved back for now. Someone took over her lease on her apartment in the city. I suppose it depends on how all this"—she gestures to the room around us—"goes."
Holy fucking shit. Autumn Cummings was back home. And not like in the past when she came back just for a weekend, in which case I could hole up inside to make sure I didn’t run into her. She was back. I realize that she’s come back to care for her mother, which means Faith must be thinking this is her last fight.
"It's going to work, Faith," I assure her, remembering that I’m the doctor here and need to comfort my patient. I don't know that, of course. I don't have a crystal ball, or a magic wand. All I have is an ardent desire for a favorable outcome.