Chapter One
It’s Not About the Breast
In the hospital parking ramp, Lucy snuck a glance at a new mother placing her infant into an elaborate car seat. Her husband stood hovering at her shoulder, his hand gently touching her hip. The woman lingered, gazing at the tiny, beet-faced infant, love fairly oozing from her pores. Lucy waited until the new family drove away, watching the taillights recede all the way out of sight. That particular tableau of the American Dream could have been hers, should have been hers. It would have been hers, she knew, if she’d only stayed conscious and had the right supplies when needed.
Today she just had to get through the work day. “Get a grip, Peterman,” she said to herself. She shoved open her car door, and moved to get out. Instead she dropped her head to the steering wheel. She tried to pull the tough-girl mask over her sorrow and get on with her life. Instead she cried like adults learn to cry: silently and alone.
Grabbing the rearview mirror, after her allotted ten-minute-cry, she checked for tattle tale mascara under her eyes, wiped her nose with the fast food napkins she stashed in the glove compartment for this very reason, and got out of her car.
On the fifth floor of Med One Hospital and Clinics in downtown Elmwood, Lucy brushed a piece of lint from her shoulder and tried to anchor a springy curl behind her ear. With almost religious reverence, she placed her palms on the smooth counter and breathed in the disinfected, white, no-question-can’t-be-answered aroma. For Lucy, there were no gray areas here. Sorrow, maybe; loss, certainly. But always in black-and-white. The doctor is IN. She widened her eyes and said, “God, I love Mondays.”
Melissa, a brown-haired, plump, hyper-organized nurse who had worked with Lucy since the beginning of her tenure here, pulled her head back.
“I’ve warned you to keep that kind of thing to yourself around here, Dr. Peterman. Nobody likes Mondays. People like Fridays, Saturdays, but never Mondays.”
“I love ’em. I get to see you, talk to people in pain, drug them, and cut out their problems. It’s the next best thing to working in a candy store.”
Melissa frowned and said, “You don’t fool me, Dr. Peterman.” She squinted at her. “You look pale. Are you sleeping?”
Lucy didn’t answer her. “Where’s my other lab coat? I hate the pockets in this one.”
“I think you should talk to Menkin.” Stanley Menkin was a fellow surgeon, a friend, and the clinic director. He was not, however, the kind of guy who understood weakness. Stanley and she were the same in that respect, and Lucy was not about to request a leave of absence. This was a man’s world. Have a baby, take six weeks, and get back to work. Lose your family, go to the funeral, get back on track by heading to the office. Or, in her case, the hospital.
Melissa continued. “Take one day a week off. You came back too early.”
“Oh,” Lucy went on, “I brought some good coffee and put it in the break room. I cannot drink that crap the med students bring in.”
Melissa stared at her, and put her hand on Lucy’s closed fist. “Dr. Peterman.”
“If I’m working, I can pretend that nothing happened. This is what I do. I work.”
Melissa withdrew her hand and watched Lucy slip her lab coat, like armor, onto her shoulders effectively changing the subject. She nodded in the direction of the patient rooms. “Your student got a head start this morning.”
Lucy glanced over and saw Blake, her medical student standing at the foot of a bed with his hands in his pockets and the door wide open. The woman before him clutched the neck of her gown, her legs exposed, her bare white knees pressed together.
