CHAPTER TWO

Mason

"There's my favourite piece of eye candy!" A white-haired elderly woman greets me as I enter the small exam room carrying her file. She's petite, though not frail, and always enjoys flirting with me. If I'm being honest, the days I get to see Mrs. Rose are always the highlight of my week.

"This is why you're my favourite patient, Alma. Don't tell the others." I caution her with a wink. Her blue eyes glimmer as she smiles, and all the creases in her face lift upward with it. I love treating my elderly clients. Some of them don't have any family around and their visit to the clinic is the most socialization they get. I make sure they enjoy it as much as I do. Though I admit, the friendly banter and personal conversation I like to carry with my patients is difficult to keep up with how pressed for time I am during my appointments.

"I better watch how much I flirt with you. I wouldn't want to go scaring away any eligible bachelorettes," she jokes.

"You're the most important woman in my life these days, Alma," I quip, landing a playful tap on her shoulder.

"Well, I hope not! There must be a special lady you look forward to going home to."

"It's funny that you think I go home," I say in a jovial tone as I flip through Alma's chart. But this time, I'm not joking. I've been sleeping in my office on a foldable cot since it became clear that if I wasn't available to handle emergencies, people could get hurt. Not to mention the fact there's rarely an opportunity for me to go back to my apartment for any length of time. I spend most of my time after work holed up in my office, finishing my charting and making sure referrals are in. If I want to maintain the level of care that the people of Heartwood expect since my father was in charge, I need to be here.

"How are you managing since your fall three weeks ago?" I ask, eager to change the subject. I'm referring to an incident that involved Mrs. Rose being knocked over by someone's dog on the street. It had escaped from the backyard, and Alma ended up with a broken arm and more than a few bruises, the faint hint of yellow and purple still obvious around her eye.

"Oh, I manage just fine …" Her voice trails off as if what she said is not entirely truthful. I squint at her until she gives in and admits to what I am fearing. "It's hard for me to get around the house these days, and even harder to get out to do my grocery shopping." She points at the sling supporting her small and shaky arm. "I'm so tired since I fell, and it's even more exhausting doing everything with one hand."

"Is there anyone who can come and help you around the house?" I study the old woman's face, a deep line of concern forming between my brows.

"No, since Lonny died four years ago, I've been on my own. And now my kids have all left Heartwood. They wanted bigger and better things for themselves in the city, I guess." I hate the thought of Alma all alone in her house with no one to visit her. The image causes a deep ache in my chest. "My neighbour picks me up some eggs or milk on her way home if she can, but with her three young kids she's busy, and I don't want to burden her. Once all this has healed, I'll be back to my old spry and capable self in no time."

"Okay, well, I'll ask around and get you some help. In the meantime, we can take that sling off and give you your arm back." Alma shoots me an appreciative smile.

"You're doing a phenomenal job since you took over for your father," she offers. I shrug. "The whole town agrees. They notice how hard you work for them."

A lump forms in my throat as Alma speaks the words that I have been wanting to hear but can't make myself believe. I've barely kept my head above water for the last year. I never planned on coming back and taking over the clinic. In fact, I never planned on coming back to Heartwood at all. Once I finished my residency and fellowship in Ontario, I had hoped to stay there to work as an emergency physician at Toronto General. I wanted the accolades of working in a high-volume trauma centre. I wanted the adrenaline and the pay that came with working in a large centre.

Until my father reached out to me and shared the news of his Parkinson's diagnosis. I came back to help with the clinic. The situation was supposed to be temporary until we found a replacement to take over his practice, but his condition became worse by the day. His motor functioning rapidly declined, leaving me to pick up most of the slack. And by most of the slack, I was picking up all of it.

My younger brothers have been no help and wouldn't be able to help anyway, as none of them had wanted to follow in our father's footsteps like I did. Grady had always wanted to start his own business and now owns the bar in town. Hudson's dream is to make captain at the fire hall, and Jett. Jett is still a boy at heart, excelling in his ski lessons and now competing at a professional level. As the oldest of the four, I shoulder the brunt of the responsibility in the family.

By the time my father passed earlier this year, I had effectively taken over all the patient load, so it made sense to stay. The town of Heartwood relied heavily on the small outpost clinic, and I was determined to preserve my father's legacy. They also trusted me, being a Landry and all, more than they would have trusted a new doctor who was an outsider to the community.

"I appreciate you saying that, Alma. I'm afraid my father's shoes are proving to be difficult to fill," I say while my fingers fumble with the knot in Alma's sling.

"Nonsense, you're doing just fine," Alma reassures me, but I'm not so sure. I feel like I've been failing the clinic, especially after a patient died under my care a few months ago.

I finish assessing Alma's arm, checking her range of motion without the sling, and follow her back out to the waiting room, sending her off with a wave.

"Come and visit anytime, Alma. I mean it, don't wait until the pain is so bad you're having a hard time walking around the house." I place a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder. Alma nods her thanks and slowly makes her way out the clinic doors to a taxi waiting for her in the small parking lot in front of the clinic. I look around at the weeds pushing up through the cracks in the pavement.

She's my tenth patient of the afternoon and far from my last. Walk-in hours started after lunch, and these days, the waiting room overflows with people well before noon.

Today is no different, I note, sneaking back behind the reception area to pour myself a cup of coffee at the machine behind the desk. Winnie, the clinic's receptionist since before I could walk, always has a fresh pot brewed. I'll end up drinking it cold, as usual.

I glance around the waiting room. A group of children are playing with the toys strewn around the carpet in the corner. A mother is soothing her crying baby. A man is asleep, snoring away in one of the old leather seats by the window.

The clinic has seen better days, but I haven't had time to redecorate since taking it over from my father two years ago. The same leather-padded chairs are arranged in neat rows. A few old oak tables are scattered between them, with pamphlets laid out in neat piles. My patients never seem to mind that the clinic is outdated, although with the rate my patient load is growing, it may soon be time to expand the cramped seating area.

I pick the next chart out of the rack behind the reception desk and overhear Winnie engaged in a conversation Mr. Donovan, one of my regular patients.

"I'm so sorry, Reggie. There isn't time to get you in today." Winnie sounds exasperated. The increase in patient volumes has been affecting her too. I can see it in every new line that forms on her face, the dark circles that shadow her eyes.

I watch as the man's face falls. Reggie Donovan had known my father when they were young. Losing Jack Landry meant more to him than losing his doctor. No matter how hard I try, I can't shake the sensation that I'm letting everyone down, including myself.

"You can come by again tomorrow when the walk-in hours start, or I'm sure I can find you an appointment time later in the week." Winnie has been trying her hardest to make sure everyone gets seen, but there's only so much she can do within the clinic hours.

"Tomorrow isn't going to work. I would have to arrange transportation into Heartwood, and today was the only day that my son could drive me." The disappointment on Reggie's face is too much for me to take.

"Reggie! So good to see you," I interject in the conversation, extending a hand to him. "I have some time tomorrow morning in between house calls. How about I stop by the house and check you out?"

"Mason—" Winnie says, a warning glare casting over her face. Reggie's house isn't a quick stop in town; it's at least a thirty-minute drive into the valley. Which explains his transportation issues since Reggie has long since given up using a vehicle. He now relies on his family and friends in town when he needs them.

"It's not a problem. Tomorrow. Be there or be square, Reg." I raise my coffee mug towards him as I turn and stride back toward my office to prepare for my next patient.

As the last sliver of sunlight dips below the tree line, I flop into the shabby office chair in the back room of the clinic and stare at the pile of files stacked on my desk. I wipe a hand down my face, pull the first chart off the never-ending pile, and flip it open. The day of patients has wiped me out; I already stayed late to see each patient who came for walk-in hours and it will be close to midnight by the time I finish my charts. The work has to be done. Charts will continue to pile up, and I will continue to fall more and more behind. The place is less like a clinic these days and more like an emergency department, open twenty-four hours. If the responsibility of keeping it running didn't solely fall on me, I might find enjoyment in working here.I pull out the bottle of scotch that I keep stashed in the bottom drawer and pour myself a dram.

A noise in the hallway pulls my eyes away from the paperwork in front of me.

"Winnie?" I say, swivelling the chair around and tipping it back to look at her. "It's almost seven. I didn't realize you were still here." She's leaning on the door frame, arms crossed.

"I could say the same about you." A silence stretches out between us. Winnie is gearing up for one of her motherly lectures. There's a fight in her eyes. Even at thirty-two years old and a Doctor of Medicine later, she still wants to tell me how to live my life.

"Out with it," I grumble, cutting to the chase. I take an extra-long gulp of scotch hoping the burn in my throat will ease the cool sting of whatever is coming next. That she's getting ready to point out yet another way I'm failing.

"I'm getting worried about you, hun. You're burning the candle at both ends here. Sleeping in the clinic, working past the clinic hours. It's too much." I sense some hesitancy in Winnie's voice. It's not the first time she's brought this up, and during the last conversation that started similarly, I had responded in a less-than-gracious manner. In fact, this is the only thing Winnie and I ever fight about.

Winnie has been the receptionist at the clinic for decades. My father hired her when he opened the clinic; she's an old friend of my parents. With an extensive knowledge of the place, she knows every patient by name and is familiar with each of their family members. Having known me for just as long, she is family to me, too.

I was only ten years old when my mother died, and Winnie didn't hesitate to step in and be there for me. She took me to soccer practice when my father was busy at the clinic, held me when I had my heart broken for the first time, and took me shopping for my prom tux. She convinced me not to buy the white one with a hot pink shirt underneath and for that, I'm forever in her debt.

I grit my teeth against the harsh words I'm about to give her and think better of it. I can't hide the gruffness in my voice, letting Winnie know she needs to back off.

"There's no other choice, Winnie. The work has to get done, and I'm the only one who can do it." I hope that the finality in the statement means she'll drop the conversation, but I know Winnie better than that.

"Maybe it's time to hire some extra help around here." Oof . It's not the first time she's suggested it, but it still stings. People only hire extra help when they are incapable of handling things on their own, and that's not me.

"You know how I feel about this, Winnie. I made a promise to keep this clinic running the way Dad left it. I can't have other people coming in here and taking over. I need to do this myself."

"But the clinic isn't running, Mason." The hesitancy in Winnie's voice sounds more like desperation now. "Have you seen how long our waitlist is? Because I have. Do you realize how many people call here day in and day out asking for an appointment? I'm the one who has to break the news to them. That they'll be waiting months to get in. It's wearing me down. People are frustrated, I'm frustrated."

It's the first time I notice how tired Winnie looks. She still has her vivacious demeanour, her dark auburn pixie cut hair keeps her looking youthful, but new lines have formed around her eyes. I'm keenly aware of the reality that Winnie is reminding me of, and I feel it intensely. But I made a promise to my father to keep his legacy alive, to live up to his reputation. My father managed the clinic all by himself; I can't admit defeat or show signs of weakness.

It kills me though, to see Winnie like this, defeated and burnt out. I care about her; after all, she's like a mother to me. I hate seeing her this way, perhaps more than I hate the idea of this clinic changing, but I can handle this. I need to devise another solution, one that doesn't involve bringing someone new into the clinic.

It isn't stubbornness on my part; hiring someone new for the clinic would cause a commotion in the town. As much as Heartwood is growing and evolving as more people flock to the small town, there is still a vast majority of people who are resistant to change. I'm determined to maintain some of the charm of Heartwood. The clinic is a fixture that people rely on; they like having a doctor that they know, that they can trust.

"I'll consider it, Winnie. I can't promise anything, but I'll consider it." I hope Winnie doesn't detect the lie.

"That's what you said last time, Mason. And I'm tired of hearing the same empty promises over and over again." Her already petite frame becomes even shorter as her shoulders droop.

"It's not an empty promise, Winnie. I will consider it. But if my answer is still no, then you have to find a way to accept that." I'm about to turn back to my charts when Winnie drops a small stack of papers on my desk.

"While you're mulling it over, have a look through some of these resumes." She's tabbed some of them, the names highlighted to show the ones she considers the top contenders.

"What are these?" I know what they are. Winnie has gone over my head and looked for candidates for the clinic—candidates that I will ultimately refuse to hire. But I need her to say it.

"They're qualified and motivated people, Mason. Nurses who would jump at the chance to work in a clinic like yours." Winnie turns, walking back down the hall before leaving the clinic.

A nurse. Winnie wants me to hire a nurse. How is that going to help me, anyway? My eyes roamed over the resume that Winnie no doubt left on the top of the pile so I wouldn't miss it.

Ally Wells … Registered Nurse … Labour and delivery experience in a large urban hospital in Vancouver. Hasn't worked in over a year. Well, that rules her out.

I don't even bother looking through the rest. If this Ally Wells is the top contender, I don't care to know who came in second and third. I toss the pile of papers in the wastepaper basket and return to my charts.

I can handle this on my own. Every day is an uphill battle, with exhaustion weighing me down, but somehow, I still find a way to complete my tasks. I can do this until I come up with a better solution.