The Devil You Know Page 4

  Fine. I’ll apologize to Dr. Reilly. I’m sure he’s going to chew me out anyway.

  Dr. Kirschstein opens the door to the auditorium. I start to follow him, but then something hits me:

  Dr. Reilly.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Eight years ago, I was breaking up with Dr. Ryan Reilly so that I’d be free to date Ben. Ryan was… well, it’s hard to come up with a good adjective to describe him. He was handsome as hell—that goes without saying. He could be incredibly sweet and charming, but in the hospital, he was the biggest asshole you’d ever come across. He was always nice to me though.

  For the most part, it wasn’t that serious between the two of us, but sometimes it felt very serious. We both used to date other people from time to time, but somehow, we kept ending up together. It always felt so good and right with him. He was, deep down, a good guy and also an incredibly gifted surgeon. But Ryan had absolutely no desire for a relationship that would lead to marriage and a family. Well, he did want those things, but he couldn’t have those things. For reasons that only a few people were aware of.

  When Ben came along, I ended things with Ryan for good. But of all the men I ever dated, he’s the only one I ever still think about.

  As I follow Dr. Kirschstein through the door to the auditorium, I get this sick feeling in my stomach. It couldn’t be the same Dr. Reilly. Reilly is a relatively common last name—there must be tons of surgeons with that name. What are the chances it’s the same guy? Also, Ryan would never work at the VA in a million years. I bet Dr. Reilly is some balding, middle-aged guy with a pot belly.

  Except I happen to know that my Dr. Reilly did a fellowship in vascular surgery.

  As I step into the auditorium, my worst fears are confirmed. There he is at the podium at the front of the room, wearing his usual green scrubs—Dr. Ryan Reilly. The only man who seriously occupied my thoughts through my three years of internal medicine residency.

  And he looks great. Really, really great. Ryan must be in his mid-forties by now, but he’s every bit as good looking as he was when he was a surgery resident. Maybe it’s just because I’m older too, but he seems even sexier now than he was back then. Every strand of gray in his golden hair, every fine line on his face just makes him all the more handsome.

  It’s so unfair that men can get so much sexier as they get older, whereas women just get older. I’ve gotten at least a dozen strands of gray in my red hair since Leah was born, and trust me, they don’t make me look more distinguished. They just make me look old.

  And that’s when it occurs to me:

  Ryan is going to see me for the first time in eight years.

  Oh crap.

  Suddenly I regret every piece of beauty advice I never took from Lisa. Maybe I can find her real quick and get a five-minute makeover. Right now, I’m wearing some black pants paired with a gray sweater. And it’s not one of those sweaters that “hugs my curves” or some bullshit like that. It’s a fuzzy sweater. It’s warm and ugly.

  I’ve got about five seconds before Ryan looks up and sees me. Maybe I can say I’m sick.

  Of course, then it’s too late. Ryan’s blue eyes lift from the computer on the podium and he sees me across the small auditorium. A (sexy) smile spreads across his lips. I can see the lack of surprise on his face, and it’s clear he orchestrated this whole damn thing. I knew I should have changed my name when I got married.

  “Dr. McGill,” Ryan says as I slowly make my way toward the front of the room. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  Dr. Kirschstein’s eyes widen, although it’s hard to tell because they’re mostly obscured by his eyebrows. “Oh! I had no idea that the two of you are already acquainted!”

  I say, “We used to work together,” just as Ryan says, “We used to date.” But Ryan is louder.

  “I met my wife in medical school!” Dr. Kirschstein booms. “And I don’t have to tell you that it was a very fortuitous experience.”

  “It might have been,” Ryan says, “except Jane here dumped me.”

  I glare at him. “That’s not exactly true.”

  “It is,” he insists. “You told me you were seeing some other guy. He had some short name. What was it? Kip? Pip? Skip?”

  “Ben,” I mutter.

  “Right! Ben.” Ryan grins at me full-on. God, he is every bit as sexy as he was back then. “How did things work out with ol’ Ben?” He glances down at the wedding band on the fourth finger of my left hand. “Pretty well, I see.”

  I finger my gold ring self-consciously. “Yes…”

  “Well, congratulations, Jane.” His blue eyes meet mine. “I just wanted you to be happy.”

  The thing about Ryan is that he’s not being sarcastic. He did want me to be happy. And he knew he couldn’t give me what I wanted.

  I look over at Ryan’s left hand. No wedding ring. Just like he promised.

  Dr. Kirschstein is staring at me with his eyebangs furrowed. “Do you have things under control, Dr. McGill?”

  “Absolutely,” I lie.

  I’m not sure whether I want Dr. Kirschstein to stay or go, but once he’s gone, I wish he’d stayed. Especially when I stand next to Ryan to help him with the computer and I can smell his aftershave. It’s the same one he’s always used and I feel my knees trembling. God help me.

  “You know how to do this, don’t you?” he asks me. “I was told that Dr. McGill is the AV expert.”

  He was told incorrectly. “I can do it.”

  “They also told me you’ve been working here for over a year.”

  I turn away from the computer to glare at him. “You were asking questions about me?”

  He shrugs. “Why not? I was curious.”

  “Okay, fine.” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Since we’re asking questions, how come you came to work here? I thought you were snooty Park Avenue private practice all the way.”

  Ryan grins at me. “What? Are you saying the VA is an inferior place to work?”

  “No.” I feel my cheeks grow warm. “I’m just saying…”

  Damn, why does Ryan Reilly always get me so flustered? Yeah, he’s hot. But I’m married now. And Ben’s hot too.

  Okay, not as hot as Ryan. Still.

  “Their vascular guy retired,” he tells me. “They really needed someone to replace him. They offered me a very good deal. Trust me—I make a lot more money than you do, Jane. Probably by an order of magnitude.”

  I don’t doubt that. My salary is nothing to get excited about. I still can’t afford that sofa Ryan used to have in his bachelor pad.

  I watch Ryan open his email account to download his presentation, feeling slightly dizzy with déjà vu at the sight of those muscular forearms covered in golden hairs. He hasn’t changed his email address in the time since we dated. I know that because every single year on my birthday, Ryan sends me an email with the subject, “Happy Birthday,” but that is otherwise blank. He hasn’t missed one birthday in the last eight years.

  “So,” he says as I load his power point presentation onto the computer, “I heard one of your responsibilities here is to take the new hotshot surgeon out to lunch today.”

  “I can’t,” I mumble, not taking my eyes off the screen. If I look at him, I know I’ll blush. And I’m the sort of person who is really obvious about my blushes. I turn red like a tomato. Ryan either isn’t obvious when he blushes or he never, ever blushes.

  “I think you have to,” he tells me. “It’s your duty. If you don’t, I may have to speak with your commanding officer, Dr. Kirschstein. You could be court-marshaled for something like this.”

  “I can’t do it,” I say, grateful to have an excuse. “I have this thing I have to get to at my daughter’s preschool.”

  Ryan is quiet for a second. When I raise my eyes to look at him, there’s a sad expression on his face, although it quickly fades. “You’ve got a daughter?”

  I nod. “Her name is Leah.”

  Thank God for the change in conversation
topic. There’s nothing less sexy than talking about your preschooler. Maybe I should mention her incontinence to seal the deal.

  “Is she a redhead like you?” he asks.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” I make a face. “She even has my freckles. Poor thing.”

  “Your freckles are adorable,” Ryan says in a low voice, almost in my ear. “Remember when I used to count them?”

  I do. I remember dozing off in bed with Ryan as he gently touched each successive freckle on my arm, whispering, Twenty-one, twenty two… Until I hit him with the pillow and called him a dork.

  My chest aches. I’ve only been with Ryan for five minutes, and I’m already starting to remember how much I used to like him. But I can’t forget that there was a very good reason why things never worked out between us. The thing that we never, ever talk about. And I can’t help but say to him now, “You seem okay…”

  He gives me a sharp look. “I am okay, Jane.”

  I believe him. Ryan looks as great as he ever has.

  There’s absolutely no sign that he might be dying.

  Chapter 6

  At half past noon, things are going exactly to plan.

  I’m finishing up with my last clinic patient, and I’ve taken the rest of the day off. That means that I’ll have ample time to finish my notes, drive home, change clothes, and be at the preschool plenty early for Leah’s show. The VA can be frustrating at times, but at least it gives me the flexibility to be around for the special moments in my daughter’s life.

  I take an extra forty minutes to finish up my notes and clean up my examining room. I grab my giant coat that rivals Leah’s in puffiness (although not pinkness—it’s a shade of gray, like everything else I wear) and head to the waiting area to let Barbara know that I’m leaving.

  Barbara is just getting back from lunch and has the roster out for the afternoon clinic. I notice that there’s an elderly man in the waiting area, but she hasn’t checked off any of the boxes.

  I look at the patient with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “Barbara,” I say.

  She finishes what she’s doing on her phone, pats her mullet, then looks up at me. “Yes?”

  I gesture at the man sitting patiently in one of the seats. “Who’s that?”

  Barbara looks at the man. She looks down at the roster of patients for the afternoon, then back at the patient. She reaches under her desk for the recycle bin and pulls out the list of patients from the morning (which really should have been shredded). She runs her finger down the list to the name of a patient that I thought had no-showed. Louis Hirsch. “Oh,” she finally says, “I think he might have been one of your morning patients.”

  I stare at her. “Are you serious? How long has he been sitting out there?”

  She looks down at the list again. “Since ten in the morning.”

  “He’s been sitting there for three hours?”

  Barbara shrugs. “I guess so.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Why didn’t you tell me he was waiting?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  I want to throttle Barbara. How could she think I’d knowingly leave a patient sitting in the waiting room for three hours? And now, of course, I need to leave, and this poor man has been waiting patiently for me. What the hell am I supposed to do?

  I need to see him. I’ve got two hours until Leah’s show. I’ll just go straight there instead of making a stop at home. And maybe this guy will be quick.

  Except he’s clearly not going to be quick. I can tell that the second he grabs his walker when he stands up. He takes these tiny, shuffling steps when he walks, to the point where I just want to pick him up and carry him to the examining room. He’s here for a complaint of back pain, although it’s hard to believe that everything doesn’t hurt this man. His chart said he was eighty-three, but he looks a million years old.

  I finally get Mr. Hirsh into my examining room. I don’t bother to ask him to change into a gown, because if I do, I will surely be here the rest of my natural life.

  “So, Mr. Hirsch,” I say, “I hear your back is hurting you.”

  Mr. Hirsch cups his hand around his ear. “Eh?”

  And he’s deaf too, despite the fact that he’s got hearing aids in both ears. That explains why I thought he no-showed. Barbara probably called his name once and gave up when he didn’t answer.

  “Is your back hurting you?” I say louder.

  “What did you say?” he says.

  The problem with hard of hearing patients is that they have trouble hearing high-pitched voices—like, say, women’s voices. And when people raise their voice to yell, that raises the pitch of their voices. So by yelling, I’m actually making things worse. The strategy is to yell in a baritone.

  I lower my voice, channeling Barry White, “IS YOUR BACK HURTING YOU TODAY?”

  Finally, the patient nods. “Well, I’ve been constipated for the past six months or so…”

  Damn it.

  I shake my head. “You made an appointment for your back bothering you. Do you have back pain?”

  “Oh.” Mr. Hirsch nods. “Yes.”

  My throat is starting to hurt from the way I’m talking. “How bad is your back pain on a scale of one to ten?”

  He nods. “The constipation is pretty bad.”

  Damn it.

  “We’re supposed to be talking about your back pain,” I remind him. Although it’s not clear he’s understood a word I’ve said. “On a scale of one to ten, where ten is the worst pain ever, what is your BACK PAIN?”

  Mr. Hirsch thinks for a minute. “Thirty percent.”

  I can’t even imagine what he thinks I just asked him.

  “Also,” he adds, “this constipation has really been bothering me.”

  I clench my teeth. I’m supposed to be addressing this man’s back pain. That’s what he scheduled the appointment for.

  Mr. Hirsch reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little bottle of pills. “I’m taking this medication here. It’s for constipation but it hasn’t been working that well.”

  Okay, apparently, we are talking about constipation today.

  _____

  By the time I finish up with Mr. Hirsch, sending my back pain patient on his way with a prescription for a laxative and instructions to eat more fiber, I just barely have time to make it to Leah’s preschool. As I expected, I can’t find parking in the small lot in front of the school, so I have to park in the lot of the adjacent supermarket and hoof it. Luckily, I have my puffy coat to keep me warm.

  As I walk over, I keep an eye out for Ben’s Prius. I don’t see it anywhere. He better get here soon.

  I’m grateful for the whoosh of warm air as I enter the basement that makes up Mila’s preschool. There isn’t an obvious place to leave my coat, so I just stuff it in Leah’s cubby. Mila has all the children lined up adorably in the back of the room. Leah notices me and looks like she’s about to rush over to give me a hug, but Mila keeps her in line with a sharp look and wag of her finger.

  Now that the kids are lined up, I can’t help but notice that Leah is the only one not wearing a dress. She wanted to wear a shirt this morning that has Anna and Elsa from Frozen framed in a heart, and we paired it with some warm pink pants. But now it occurs to me that she obviously was supposed to dress in something fancy for this concert. What is wrong with me? Why didn’t I put her in a dress?

  I’m the worst mother ever. This will probably be something she’ll be describing in therapy years from now. Everyone else was wearing a dress except me…

  Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now.

  I look around the room, straining my neck to see if Ben has arrived. So far, there’s no sign of him. He’s got two minutes till the concert is supposed to start and Mila isn’t going to wait.

  Damn it, Ben. Where are you?

  My phone buzzes with a text message from Ben: Just parked. Walking over.

  He’s got sixty seconds.

  I’m praying tha
t Mila starts late, but sure enough, at three o’clock on the dot, she stands up to address the parents. “Hello, everyone, and thank you so much for coming,” she says. “I am so glad you all could make it. The children will be singing a few holiday songs for you.”

  I glance one more time at the back. Still no Ben.

  Mila signals the children, who start singing. I’m pretty sure the song is “Frosty the Snowman,” but I only know because I’ve heard Leah singing it nonstop around the house. At the time, she seemed to be able to belt out the words perfectly, but now she’s standing there with the other kids, mumbling lyrics in a monotone in no particular order. If you told me they were singing “Stairway to Heaven,” I’d have no choice but to believe it because they’re completely unintelligible. The only thing I can make out is Leah mumbling, “Frosty Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy…”

  I consider getting out my phone to record this. I probably should. But considering Leah is basically just standing there chanting “Mommy” to herself, I’m not sure it’s worth it. Plus the video quality on my phone is terrible.

  After they finish “Frosty the Snowman,” they launch into “Winter Wonderland.” Leah isn’t singing at all at this point. She is, in fact, standing in front of the room, picking her nose. Yeah, I’m definitely not taking a video of this.

  The second song concludes with a huge burst of applause. And then… it’s over. How can it be over already? I took off half a day of work to watch my daughter pick her nose for six minutes?

  Of course, that’s when Ben bursts in to the daycare, his cheeks pink from the cold. He pulls off his black woolen hat and hurries over to me. “Hey, are they starting soon?”

  “It’s over.”

  He stares at me. “It’s over?”

  “I told you to get here early.” I know I’m not supposed to say “I told you so,” but damn it, I did tell him so. Doesn’t he ever get tired of being wrong all the time?

  He looks down at his watch and then back at me in astonishment. “I’m five minutes late.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s over.”

  “Well, great.” Ben lets out a sigh. “Did you get it on video?”