“And?” He folded his arms across his chest, frowning even more deeply but making the lab coat’s fabric test its weave.
“Huh?” I might have been gazing at his overall Luke Perry-ness. It didn’t help that his first name was Luke, either.
“Ms. Chandler? Hello? I’m a busy person. They told me this was an urgent visit.”
Urgent. Right! Roland! I gathered the chunks of my dignity off the floor and broke into my rehearsed speech. “Dr. Hotwell. A month ago, you treated a patient, Roland Rutledge.” A whole month? I’d let it go this long? Shame on me. But it’d taken me this long to come to full boil.
“I don’t discuss patients.”
I held up a finger to stop his protest. “He’s no longer your patient because he died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“If you were any kind of care provider, you would already know that, Dr. Hotwell. But that’s just it: you don’t care. You provide zero caring. In fact, you are the antithesis of care.” My neck was getting hot. It probably had splotches on it. I tend to get splotchy when my adrenaline spikes.
“What is your relationship to the late Roland Rutledge?”
“I—”
“You’re not his wife.” Dr. Hotwell took a step toward the door I stood in, and I got a little shorter somehow. “And unless one of you was adopted, you’re not his sister.”
Roland had been of a different racial background from mine. “No. No blood relation.”
“Uh-huh.” Dr. Hotwell placed his hands on his hips and took another step closer, as if to move past me. Now he towered over me, but I didn’t back down.
Jane would’ve been so proud of me! In fact, if any of my coaching clients had seen me right now, they would’ve thought I coached assertiveness training or verbal judo, not positivity and emotional resilience.
“Dr. Hotwell, what you did to Roland Rutledge was inexcusable.” I dug my heels into the plush carpet, planting myself firmly. “The man was in an obviously vulnerable state, and a few words of encouragement and hope could have meant an additional length of time with his family and loved ones. Months, years even. But you, you”—there weren’t polite words for comparison—“you mercilessly ripped that away from him with your grim diagnosis.”
“Again, your relationship to the patient is …?”
“I was his life coach.” Saying it aloud, somehow it grated on my ears, and I winced.
Dr. Hotwell’s eye sparked, a hyena who’d just spotted a wounded bunny.
Well, I wasn’t wounded. I wasn’t the least bit ashamed of my profession. I un-winced and stated, “As such, I made it my business to instill in Roland—as I do in everyone I coach—a thirst for life. I consider it a calling.” Now I was really on a roll. He had to be impressed, right? “While you, sir, performed the equivalent of shoving a handful of sand into his thirsting mouth. Do you know how soon he died after you told him he had six months to live? Six days, Dr. Hotwell. Less than a week! How do I know this? Because he called me up and told me he’d been given terrible news and he was ready to give up. I begged him to come to me immediately, told him we’d talk it out, that I’d give him reasons to hope. But no. He was gone shortly thereafter.”
It had been tragic. News of his unexpected death spread among our support circle. No one had talked about the how or why of his passing from this life. The funeral had been private, just for family, but we all mourned—deeply.
Luke Hotwell’s awful bedside manner placed the blame squarely on his shoulders.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.” He didn’t sound sorry. Or look sorry. In fact, Dr. Luke Hotwell wore the same stoic frown he’d pasted on the second he saw me. “Now, I have a very important surgery.” He tipped his chin down closer, almost as if to whisper in my ear. “A life to save.”
“Save? Ha! You’re a life-taker, not a life-saver.”
He didn’t favor me with a response. Instead, he waved his hand to usher me out of the way so he could come out.
“I haven’t finished, Dr. Hotwell.”
“Maybe you haven’t finished speaking, but I’ve finished listening. Goodbye, Ms. Chandler.”
At least he got the Ms. part correct. My late husband deserved at least that much recognition for having been in my life, albeit briefly. “Roland had been trying to heal, Dr. Hotwell, until he encountered you. You’re the monster who stole his hope with your diagnosis.”
“I refuse to sugarcoat medical situations.” Dr. Hotwell walked directly into my personal space, and finally I took a few steps backward into the hallway, just so he wouldn’t bowl me over. He shut the office door behind him and began striding at a pace normally reserved for Olympic speed-walkers. “It’s dishonest. People need the truth.”
“People need hope!” I kept up.
“Goodbye, Ms. Chandler.” He turned a corner, obviously thinking he could dodge me or out-walk me.