Great, what am I gonna do now?
Chapter 8
Sturgill
I’ve only got two office appointments today, and they’re both before ten thirty. It’s a
beautiful day, and I think I might actually be able to get a little time in the surf as long as nobody goes into labor or has some other emergency.
“Good morning, Dr. Warner,” Jen smiles when I come into the back door. “Files are on your desk.”
“Thanks, Jen,” I smile back as I take my shirt out of the wardrobe. I barely broke a sweat on this morning’s run, but I still need to get changed. I see her eyes skate over my shoulders as she gives me a tight, professional smile. Though our relationship never extended beyond the exam room, I suppose I can’t blame her for wondering if we might have a connection.
We don’t. It’s just a hazard of the job. Human nature is always trying to form attachments.
It has created something of a problem with the women of Willowdale. When my father retired, everybody still saw me as the young boy. They were still in the habit of taking their “serious” problems to him, as they had for their whole lives. Even after I completed medical school and Peace Corps training in Costa Rica, I could see it in their eyes. Though I was a fully trained medical professional, they still saw me as the high school quarterback.
Or worse, the grade-schooler who had gone to their houses for birthday parties and backyard barbecues.
Slowly, I gained their respect. It has taken the last four years of continuing my father’s practice to win them over. But our family brand of personalized attention has at least won me the respect—if not devotion—of the women in Willowdale. Single and married alike, we do have a certain bond. It just hasn’t happened to materialize into a partner for me.
And it can’t. Doctors have a name for it: we call it “transference.” It’s only natural that a human forms a romantic attachment to someone who has cared for them, cared for their health, touched them in seemingly intimate ways. But it is simply therapeutic. Even if some of our traditional therapies are not mainstream, they are still therapies. In fact, everybody swears by them.
I have heard it has earned me a nickname, which seems unfair. While my father is still simply known as “Boss Warner,” the younger ladies in Willowdale have given me a less auspicious nickname.
Dr. Stud.
I guess it’s a somewhat clever change from my first name, Sturgill. But it’s also a bit of a backhanded compliment from women my age who are perhaps frustrated that I can’t return their affections. What they don’t realize is that their affections are not based in reality; it is simply the medical phenomenon of transference.
Not that they would understand, anyway.
I just smile at Jen for a few more seconds, waiting for her to back out of the room. I’ve been treating her ever since my father retired, so of course I’ve seen her in a state of undress. But she hasn’t seen me, and we’re going to keep it that way.
She pauses just another moment, just half a second in case that metaphorical door is open. But it isn’t, and she nods in an antiseptic, professional way and turns around. Always friendly. I appreciate that about her.
Changing into a blue button-down and trousers, I slip the white coat around my shoulders as I head to my private office. I suppose it’s not strictly necessary, but people feel more comfortable seeing me in a doctor’s coat than in a hoodie or sweatshirt or anything.
And I appreciate the tradition, to be honest. I like things that have a sense of history to them, a sense of stability. Like this place. I could have built a modern office building with tile floors and LED lighting, but I prefer the old house my father used for his patients, and his father before him. Warner men have been caring for the families of Willowdale for four generations in this house. Even though it needs some pretty expensive upkeep from time to time, I’m happy to roll up my sleeves and make that happen. It’s just part of the duty.
My office door closes behind me and I take the big leather chair behind the desk, opening the first manila folder. It’s a new patient, and I press the button to signal to Jen to bring her in while I scan the form that she filled out.
Just a birth control refill, I note, with no underlying disease or anything. The name seems familiar, but the address is in New York? That seems strange…
The carved mahogany door swings open and I glance up to see Jen guiding a young woman into the room. My breath stalls in my throat. She looks like something out of the past in a smart wrap dress with a flared collar and cap sleeves. The pink stripes swirl over her full hips as she takes a seat in the leather chair on the other side of the desk, nervously knotting her fingers in her lap.
Jen squints judgmentally at me before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
She clears her throat. Flaming red hair curls in waves around her cheekbones. With the dusty bookshelves behind her and her vintage-style dress, I swear she could have been a patient here for my father, circa 1968.
“Good morning, miss… Joanna…” I murmur tersely, forcing myself to look down at the questionnaire she filled out again.
What is wrong with me? I suddenly feel like I barely know how to do this.
“Joe,” she says simply.
“Excuse me?” I ask, automatically glancing up at her.
It’s like being slapped in the face. Like I forgot she was there. Like I’m startled. But the strange vintage vision is like a memory, yet so acute. She’s like a dream in person. I almost expect a jukebox to start playing.