Chapter 3

I run through my morning roster of patients in a slight haze. By ten o’clock, my lips become practically glued to my cup of coffee, and I only remove them briefly to talk to my patients and to breathe. Even so, by the time I’ve got a break for lunchtime, I’m utterly drained. I want to curl up in the corner of the examining room and take a nap.

God, I hope whatever they’re selling in the cafeteria is edible.

“Dr. McGill!” I hear the booming voice from outside the examining room. I recognize the voice instantly—it’s my boss, Dr. Bernard Kirschstein. He’s got only two voice volumes: yelling so that everyone within a block radius can hear or else not talking at all. “Do you have a moment to speak with me?”

It’s my boss. Of course I have a moment.

“What’s going on, Dr. Kirschstein?” I ask.

For the most part, I call every single physician at the VA that I have an acquaintance with by their first name. Dr. Kirschstein is the one exception. Nobody calls Dr. Kirschstein by his first name. Not because he’s pompous or anything like that—mostly because he’s old . It would be like calling God by his first name. He’s been working at the VA before anyone I’ve met can remember. Lisa and I once tried to look up in the computer when he started working here, and the best we could figure out is that he’s at least seventy-five. But he could be ninety for all we know. It wouldn’t surprise me.

“Well, Dr. McGill,” he says. That’s the other thing—he never calls me “Jane.” It may be a sign of respect, but I’m not sure. Sometimes I worry he’s forgotten my first name. “As you might recall, you have volunteered to take part in the organization of our weekly Veteran’s Administration Hospital Grand Rounds.”

Yes, I “volunteered.” That’s one way to put it. “Right…”

Dr. Kirschstein tugs on the lapel of his white coat. Ninety percent of doctors at the VA don’t wear white coats on a daily basis, myself included, but I’ve never seen the man without one. “Tomorrow, we have a very special speaker at our grand rounds. He’s a vascular surgeon who just joined the staff.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter.

Surgeons—not my favorite. The last surgeon I’ve known well was the one I dated through most of residency, although I haven’t seen him since. That guy thrived on making his interns cry, and probably, I don’t know, tortured puppies in his spare time. He wasn’t exactly a nice guy.

I wonder what Ryan is up to these days…

“Yes, it is wonderful.” Dr. Kirschstein doesn’t appreciate sarcasm. Maybe it hadn’t been invented yet when he was born. “And we would be appreciative if you could show up fifteen minutes early to help him with any questions he has about the AV equipment.”

So I’ve got to set my alarm for fifteen minutes earlier, and confirm with Mila that Leah’s daycare will open promptly on time tomorrow. I file it all away on my endless mental checklist, between picking up more baby shampoo and buying a present for an upcoming toddler birthday party.

“Can’t the AV people do that?” I ask hopefully.

Dr. Kirschstein shakes his head. “This surgeon has specifically requested a physician to be available to help him.”

I don’t think this surgeon is going to be my new best friend.

“Let me remind you, Dr. McGill,” Dr. Kirschstein says, “that this man is a highly skilled and highly respected vascular surgeon.”

“Then what’s he doing working at the VA?”

Oops, did I say that out loud?

“Dr. McGill!” Dr. Kirschstein looks absolutely horrified by my comment. He’s probably the worst person I could have said that in front of. He’s actually a veteran himself, a fact that he’s reminded me of many, many times. I can’t seem to remember what war he fought in—The Great War, maybe? I don’t know. “Let me remind you that the Veteran’s Administration Hospital serves our greatest and most needy population in the entire—”

“Okay, okay,” I say quickly. I’ve probably heard this speech five million times. I think I’ve memorized it—it ends with the Pledge of Allegiance. “I’ll be there.”

It’s only fifteen minutes less sleep. I’ll live.

_____

“Jane.” Mila the Preschool Nazi is frowning at me with her arms folded across her chest. “We must speak.”

Mila runs the preschool that Leah has been attending for the past year. She’s speaks with a thick French accent, has a stout and matronly frame, and is at least a head shorter than I am (and I’m not tall). She looks like she is somebody’s grandmother. Ben and I are both absolutely terrified of this woman.

Mila has a lot of her own children, all of whom are now grown. She has about seven-thousand children. Or maybe just seven. In any case, there are a lot of them. I can’t imagine having seven children. I can barely manage one.

“Yes?” I say .

She gestures at Leah, who is playing happily with a set of blocks. Leah is absolutely inconsolable when I leave her every morning, clinging to my clothing and making me feel like a neglectful mother. Yet somehow when I pick her up, she usually refuses to leave. Sometimes I think her purpose in life is to infuriate me.

“Leah’s clothing,” Mila says. “She is wearing a nightdress to school today, Jane. No. This is not acceptable .”

I knew it! Damn you, Ben.

“Oh?” I say.

“What sort of school allows you to wear a nightgown?” Mila continues. “It is completely inappropriate, Jane!”

“I understand,” I say. “I mean, I wouldn’t have picked that out for her. But she just really loves that nightgown and she wanted to wear it.”

“ She wanted to wear it!” Mila snorts. “This is so ridiculous! Who is the boss, Jane?”

“You?” I venture.

Mila gives me a funny look. “No, Jane. You are the boss. She does not tell you what she wears. You tell her .”

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

I’m fairly sure that I’m not the boss. If it isn’t Mila, it’s probably Leah. Anyway, it’s definitely not me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “She won’t wear it again. ”

Mila seems to accept this. I retrieve Leah’s hated pink coat from her cubby and walk over to where she’s playing. She’s really having fun with her friends. It makes me sad that she doesn’t have any siblings at home. She’s always telling me about all her friends’ brothers and sisters, and saying wistfully that she wishes there were a baby in the house.

That isn’t exactly our choice though. Ben and I have been working on it for two years. So far, no luck. We’ve been tentatively discussing whether we want to see a specialist or resign ourselves to having only one child. After all, it’s not like our lives aren’t full enough with just Leah. Who isn’t even out of freaking diapers yet.

When I approach Leah, she’s started singing to herself: “Twinkle twinkle little Mommy, how I wonder what you Mommy.”

“Leah,” I say, “it’s time to go home.”

She looks up at me and smiles with a perfect row of baby teeth. They’re so white, even though I’ve been admittedly negligent about making her brush them every night. “Up above the world so Mommy, like a Mommy in the Mommy.”

Let it never be said that I’ve never had a song written about me.

“Leah,” I say more firmly. “We have to go home.” I add, “ Now .”

I am the boss. I am the boss .

“The itsy bitsy Mommy climbs up the water spout,” she continues, going back to the toy car she was playing with as if we have all the time in the world, “down came the rain and washed the Mommy out.”

I glance over at Mila, who is watching me and shaking her head.

I am the boss . I am the boss .

Oh, who am I kidding? I am so not the boss.