Remission by Ofelia Martinez
Chapter 14
Warpath
Hector left town shortly after his mother arrived. They wanted to take a short trip, which left me with plenty of time to think about what his Mom had said. There was no doubt Marisela hoped for Hector and me to be something . . . more.
But I couldn’t bring myself to cross that line. Separated or not, I couldn’t push Hector to betray that golden band around his finger—especially if it still meant something to him.
I can’t say I wasn’t tempted. A door had been opened for us—Marisela made sure of it—but we couldn’t very well step through and forget about the real world.
A married man was still a married man, and I couldn’t be budged on that point. I decided then that I wouldn’t follow Marisela’s counsel. Maybe I’d see her again someday and explain why I continued to stay away.
My thoughts were more traitorous than my intent, however. I daydreamed about two signatures on divorce papers, a parting of ways, and a different sort of relationship between Hector and me. We would devise new research together, discuss patient cases before bed, offer treatment adjustment suggestions. It was a type of future I was willing to envision, unlike any I had ever considered with anyone else from my past.
When Hector finally returned, he went on a rampage. I briefly worried that his mother had told him what we had talked about, but I quickly dismissed the idea. He wasn’t only being an ass to me; he was treating everyone at the hospital the same.
No one at work had seen his wrath before. He had been nothing but a cool-headed boss, and he was well-liked in general. He never belittled anyone he was teaching, and he always looked at ways to improve the skills of all the residents under him.
Which is why everyone was taken aback when, after returning from vacation, he was a changed man.
“Are you an idiot?” Hector asked Dr. Dennis.
“Excuse me?” Dr. Dennis asked, his cheeks becoming rosy.
My jaw dropped. What the hell?
Hector shoved the tablet into the young doctor’s hands.
“Look at it very carefully.”
With shaky hands, Dr. Dennis did as instructed.
“Now, read the chart carefully,” Hector hissed. “What did you do wrong?”
Dr. Dennis shrugged. “I’m not sure what I should be looking for—”
“He doesn’t know what he should be looking for,” Hector said, this time mocking Dr. Dennis.
I glanced at the patient, who was luckily heavily medicated, and she didn’t stir at the loud voices in her room.
Dr. Keach had been standing next to me, and I clearly heard him snicker, though he tried to cover it up by clearing his throat. I felt horrible for Dr. Dennis who looked like he had shrunk several inches in height. I’m sure he heard Dr. Keach’s laugh as well.
“Either you’re an idiot, or you’re trying to kill her,” Hector said.
“No—I, uh,” Dr. Dennis started to say, but Hector shoved him to the side as he snatched the syringe from Dr. Dennis’s hands before he could administer it into the IV line.
“The dose you ordered is twice as much as the patient needs.”
Dr. Dennis reddened. “I was only following the dosing from the night physician.”
“And if the night physician ate shit, would you eat shit too?”
“Dr. Medina,” I snapped. “We are in a patient’s room. Why don’t we take this to a conference room or the lounge, perhaps?”
He turned to me with a storm brewing in his glare. The hairs at the back of my neck raised. Something was wrong. Something had happened when he went on that trip. Hector closed his eyes, nostrils flaring, and I knew he was counting to ten. He stormed out of the room.
Taking the resident’s tablet, I scanned the patient’s chart quickly and suggested the dosage Hector would have prescribed. I knew the way his mind worked that well. While the patient could do with half the ordered dose, what the night physician—and then Dr. Dennis—had ordered wasn’t outside protocol restrictions. Neither of them had done anything wrong. “Don’t worry, Dr. Dennis. I’m sure this isn’t about you,” I reassured him, and he nodded.
I ran out of the room, trying to catch up to Hector so I could find out what was going on before he abused any more residents and scared them away from the hospital for good. He entered the physician’s lounge, and I followed.
It was lunchtime, and the room was packed. I took a deep breath before approaching him by the refrigerator.
“Who the hell took my lunch?” Hector roared and slammed the refrigerator shut. All eyes in the lounge turned to him. Shit. This wasn’t good.
“Dr. Medina,” I said. “Can we please talk in your office?”
“It’s not the time, Carolina,” he said. “I’m in no mood to talk.”
He’d said my first name at work, in front of my peers. My eyes closed for a moment as if I were trying to rewind the last few seconds. I felt the stares as all eyes turned to me.
“Dr. Medina, it’s urgent.” I pointed out of the room in a gesture for him to lead us outside.
He groaned, but then, as if suddenly becoming aware of all the eyes, he charged out of the room. On my way out, I noticed Dr. Keach. He had followed us and was lingering by the door. As I passed him, he said, “Lover’s quarrel?” loud enough for anyone near us to hear.
Fuck off,I thought. “He is having a personal problem,” I tried to explain.
“Oh, I’m sure it is personal,” he said suggestively.
“Dr. Keach, I don’t have the time or the crayons to explain to you what personal means.” I also spoke loudly enough for people to hear. I left him standing there, stunned, his mouth open.
Shit, I thought as I dashed to Hector’s office. Dr. Keach wouldn’t forget that public insult so easily—but that was a problem for another day.
I busted into Hector’s office, and I was fuming.
He stood facing the window, arms crossed, as he looked onto a view of an autumn Kansas City turning yellow and orange and golden below us.
“What the hell, Hector?”
“I’m sorry,” he hissed, but it didn’t sound sincere. He didn’t turn to face me, either.
“That little stunt you pulled,” I said, “was so unprofessional.”
“I know,” he said, this time resigned. He turned and sat at his desk. He buried his head in his hands with shame. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“What is happening?” I asked as I sat in front of him. He sat up and stared me in the eye.
“Carolina, I—I’m having a bad day.”
“I was able to deduce that, thank you, Doctor. But you can’t call me by my first name at work when you are angry. It looked like we were fighting, and you know the rumors will pick up—”
“Oh, fuck the rumors, Carolina.”
Don’t lose your temper. I schooled my face. “Dr. Medina, you are a well-established and well-respected physician. I am just starting out. I can’t just say fuck the rumors, as you have so eloquently put it.”
“I’m sorry. I know. I really meant it when I said it wasn’t a good time to talk; I knew I’d be an ass. I have a temper.”
“It’s good to know you have flaws.”
He smiled, but it was weak on his lips.
“Now, will you please tell me what’s happening?”
Hector threw a sizable yellow envelope my way. “Go ahead. Open it. I don’t mind.”
I pulled the stack of papers out and scanned through the first page.
I took a deep breath. Oh, no. “Divorce papers?”
Hector nodded.
“I’m really sorry,” I said.
“Yeah, me too. I had a great trip with my mom. I was looking forward to my first day home, ready to get back to work, but instead, my morning started with getting served divorce papers.” Hector laughed bitterly.
“I am so sorry,” I repeated, feeling stupid. But what else do you say to someone who is utterly devastated?
“Thank you . . . she’s been asking me for a divorce for a while now. I’ve always said no, hoping we could get back to where we were, but it never happened. I guess she got tired of waiting for me to get on board with the separation—went ahead and pulled the trigger on our marriage.”
“That sucks, Hector.” Part of me meant it; another smaller, meaner part of me didn’t.
“Yeah, it does.”
“But it doesn’t excuse the way you treated that resident.”
“I know.” He sighed.
“Nor the scene you made. Now, everyone thinks we are—”
“I’ll fix it. I promise.”
I wiped my clammy hands on my scrub pants. I shouldn’t ask, it was none of my business, and yet I had to know. “Are you going to sign?”
His lips pressed together, but then he shook his head. “No. Not without one last-ditch effort to save things.”
He was a good man, and he was doing the right thing. Why, then, did it feel like that one year Dad forgot my birthday?
“Well, I need you to do me a favor. Take the day off. Go home. Stop making an ass of yourself.”