CHAPTER SIX Benedict

T he waiting room was like a scene from a carny convention. I'd never seen so many old and strange people gathered in one space. If these were the people I'd be expected to treat in the coming year of hell, I was fucked. Pushing through the door to what I assumed was the back office with patient rooms, I stepped in, leaned against the wall, and caught my breath.

One of the exam rooms opened and an elderly woman in scrubs exited, a young girl, perhaps anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five, in tow. "Take that to Holman's drugs and get it filled. I'll call your grandmother later," the assumed nurse said. "And try keeping your knees together before you have another scare." The young woman appeared horrified when she noticed me before she left the back rooms.

"Hello," I said. The older woman crossed her arms and stared at me.

"Jesus!" she muttered. "I s'pose you're the new doctor?"

"I am," I began, about to introduce myself as I extended my hand.

"You fuckers get younger every year," she stated. "How long is your sentence, kid?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

She tossed a clipboard on one of the desks and headed for another exam room without responding. The door read #3, where another clipboard hung on a nail outside the room.

"I'll handle room three," she said. "Old Lady Howard is in room two, doc. How about you get to work?"

I turned to the door the young woman had just exited. "Did you write that patient a prescription?" I inquired, motioning to the reception area on the other side of the door.

"Sure did," she replied. "Birth control. Why?"

"Then I assume you're a physician as well?" She returned my stare, not answering my question. "A Nurse Practitioner?" I asked.

"Neither. I'm an RN with nearly forty-five years of on-the-job training. Sarah is humping one of the Gralvorson boys, so she needs birth control. No girl with any common sense should fuck one of them boys without birth control," she explained. "I'm doing her future a favor."

"And who approved the prescription? Did the examination?" I asked incredulously.

"You're lookin' at her."

"You signed a prescription?"

"Well, not technically," she began. "You did."

To begin with, the ancient old woman in front of me was crass. She was stunningly unprofessional as well, and clearly violating the law. She was barely five feet tall, and if she weighed ninety pounds, I'd be surprised. She wore her gray hair in a long braid that touched her waist, braided . Generic blue scrubs and a stethoscope around her neck finished the look.

"You will refrain from doing that in the future," I stated. "I will not allow my name to be forged on scripts. Understood?"

She laughed, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder, and entered the exam room without acknowledging my correction. I stood staring at the closed door in disbelief before it suddenly reopened. She pointed across the hall. "Like I said, Mrs. Howard is in room two. She does not have Alzheimer's. She'll tell you she does, but she doesn't," she said. "Look in her ears. Remind her to clean them regularly, and if she asks if that might be the cause of her memory loss, agree that it might."

She closed the door once again, leaving me gob smacked in the hallway. From what I'd witnessed so far, there would be new regulations enforced in this clinic. Starting with managing a nurse who acted like she was a physician. Perhaps she'd run roughshod over the previous doctor, but that would not be happening under my watch, even if it would be a short tenure.

I knocked on the exam room door and paused. After several seconds, I knocked again. Still no answer, so I carefully cracked the door open and peered into the room. An elderly woman stood near a cabinet and was loading wooden tongue depressors into pockets in her smock. She turned and grinned.

"I make crosses with these," she said, waving one at me. "Some I paint. Some I leave the original wood color, so they're more like the one Jesus hung from."

"I'm doctor Hawthorne," I said, closing the door behind me. "You must be Mrs. Howard."

She examined a sealed bag with a syringe inside before leaving it in the drawer. "I'm not sure I am," she said, turning and sitting on a chair in the corner. "I'm not even sure of the day of the week. Who are you?" she asked, rubbing her temples. "Where's Agnes?"

"And who is Agnes?" I asked, testing her memory.

"Agnes Brewster," she answered. "The longtime nurse."

"So you remember her?"

She studied me carefully, wondering if she'd been tricked or not. "Who?" she quickly amended.

"Have you been cleaning your ears regularly, Mrs. Howard?"

"Probably not, doc," she replied. "I think it's something far more serious this time. Maybe a brain tumor," she added. "I live under a power pole. My dead husband had shrunken testicles too."

"And when did your husband die?" I asked, beginning the exam without her knowing.

"August, two years ago. The day was a Sunday, I think. Because Wheel of Fortune wasn't on that night," she began. "Of course, summer is all reruns, so I probably saw it before. I fixed flank steak for my Walter. He loved flank steak."

"No vegetables?" I asked, reaching for and holding her wrist to take her pulse.

"Carrots. Boiled carrots, with some sugar and butter. My Walter loved sugared carrots."

"I'm sure you miss him."

"Some days," she agreed. "Truthfully, not some days, too."

I slipped a blood pressure cuff on her while she gave me a blow-by-blow account of how Walter snored a lot and was pretty much a complainer about the world. She, on the other hand, was an optimist, she declared. Telling me all about the good stock market and how much she admired President Biden's wife, Jill.

"Your blood pressure is very good, Mrs. Howard." So was her memory, but I kept that diagnosis internal for the moment. "How about the rest of your health? Are you feeling okay on most days?"

She looked at me quizzically. "Why would you ask me that, doc?"

"Well, you're here for some reason, aren't you?"

She fussed with her smock's neckline and looked around the room, her eyes welling up. "I always come here on Mondays."

I opened her chart and read her medical history. She did, in fact, come in weekly. "I see here that you started coming in once a week about two years ago," I said, setting the file down and wheeling my stool closer to her, resting a hand on hers. "Are you particularly worried about something, Mrs. Howard?"

"I'm losing my mind, aren't I?" she whispered. "It's getting harder to remember my Walter ever since he passed."

"What do you miss the most about Walter, ma'am? Tell me your favorite memory of him."

Mrs. Howard shared a cherished memory of her deceased husband, not leaving out a single detail, as she regaled me with his wit and conversational skills. He sounded like quite the man the way she told his story.

"I bet you miss his voice, don't you?" I asked, looking her directly in the eye. "He sounds like a wonderful man."

"Maybe I could go play bingo?" she half asked, half stated. "You think my Walter would be okay with that? You know, maybe if I went out and did stuff with other folks?"

"I'm betting that the man you described to me would want you to enjoy life. I say you go for it."

After wrapping up the exam, we went into the hallway, where Agnes was making notes in patient files. "See you next Monday, Estelle," Agnes said.

"Probably not, Agnes. I've got some living to do."

Mrs. Howard practically floated out of the back office, Agnes witnessing her exit before turning back to me. "What'd you say to her?"

"I listened," I replied. "Listening is this new thing they teach us young fuckers in medical school."