Chapter 3: The Patient

I know her before she looks up.

This is the first problem.

The second is that she knows me too.

I wait in the doorway of the cardiology consultation room as Dr. Harris finishes speaking to the nurse beside her. Amelia Carter is sitting at the desk, reading a file.

The same woman who'd been in the lift.

The woman who stared me down and wouldn't push a button.

She looks up.

We don't talk for half a second.

Then her face changes.

Recognition.

“You.”

I almost laugh.

It had to be her, of all the cardiologists in the city.

“I see we’re both disappointed,” I say.

She closes the file.

“I was afraid you would remember me.”

“I remember people shutting lift doors in my face.”

“You were late.”

“I was going for a clear lift.”

“You were walking toward a lift that was closing.”

Dr. Harris glances between us.

“Do you two know each other?”

“No,” says Amelia.

“Yes,” I say at the same time.

Her mouth goes thin.

Dr. Harris clears his throat.

“Maybe I ought to let you two get acquainted.”

He leaves before either of us can object.

I look at Amelia.

She looks back.

Neither of us appears keen to make this easy.

I pull out the chair across from her and sit.

“I want this evaluation to be done fast.”

“Very well.”

She takes my file.

“I have patients.”

I look through the file.

“Then we’d better not lose any time.”

Her eyes go up.

“Fine.”

There is no tremor in her voice.

No hesitation.

No sign of the careful politeness I usually get from doctors when they know who they're dealing with.

I’m used to people being more agreeable when they know my name.

Amelia Carter seems to have become less agreeable.

She opens the file.

“Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Your files say.”

I say nothing.

“Hereditary?”

“Yes.”

“You had it. Your father?”

My jaw clenches.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She looks at the page, not at me.

“Did he have any complications, do you know?”

“I was there.”

The words are colder than I intended.

Her eyes lift again.

Something changes in her expression.

Not pity.

I hate pity more than anything.

She just nods.

“Then you know what I mean.”

I lie back.

“My father died years ago.”

“That doesn’t make the condition any less relevant.”

“I know how HCM functions.”

“Also, you know that how you manage it matters.”

“I’ve been handling it correctly.”

“You have?”

The question is more cutting than it should be.

I stare at her.

She does not look away.

“I’d been to my old cardiologist. No problems.”

“The cardiologist you had before is not the one sitting in front of you now.”

There it is.

The first obvious problem.

I should be pissed off.

Yes, I am.

But beneath that is something else.

She doesn't try to impress me.

My name doesn't frighten her.

She is not even particularly interested in it.

She glances at the figures on the page.

That should make it easier to dismiss her.

It does not.

She adds, “I’m concerned about your recent episode.”

“It went away.”

“That’s not the standard we live by.”

“That’s my measuring stick.”

“Then you have to change your standard.”

I look at her.

She shuts the file.

“I need an updated echocardiogram, ECG, blood work, and a more complete assessment of your symptoms.”

“I’ve had tests already.”

“And I’m ordering them again.”

“Why?”

“I don’t treat patients on the basis of assumptions.”

“I don’t have time for more unnecessary testing.”

“And I don’t have time to question whether something was missed.”

Silence falls in the room.

She says it so matter-of-factly that I have nothing to throw back at her at the moment.

And then I remember the lift.

“You seem to have a habit of telling other people what to do.”

“And you seem to have a habit of assuming your preferences take precedence over everyone else's.”

“Is that how you talk to all your patients?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

I nearly smile.

Close.

Instead, I glance at my watch.

“I want a different doctor.”

She doesn’t respond right away.

Then she picks up her pen.

“No.”

I raise my eyes.

“No?”

“Nope.”

“You refuse my request?”

“Switching doctors because you don't like being challenged is not a medical reason.”

I look at her.

Most people would have toned down the statement.

She doesn't.

“You know who I am?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t that change your answer?”

“No.”

“Most doctors would think of that before they'd talk to me that way.”

“I’m not like most doctors.”

The answer is silence.

Sure.

That somehow bothers me more than plain arrogance would have.

She writes something in the file.

“I'll send the orders over.”

I don't budge.

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I’ve got to be.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“An untreated heart condition is, too.”

Her eyes find mine.

And for a moment, the room is different.

Not because of desire.

Because she is not afraid to say the thing nobody else will say.

My father had been sick for years.

I remember hospital rooms. Those pill bottles. The serious conversations adults had when they thought I wasn't listening.

I remember how, at the end, everyone began to speak in hushed tones.

As if speaking softer could change what was coming.

I promised myself I would never be that man.

Weak.

Dependent.

Waiting for someone else to tell me what my own body had been doing.

I turn away.

“Good.”

She halts.

“Good?”

“I will take the tests.”

There is a slight surprise in her expression.

“You agree?”

“Don’t be so sentimental.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good.”

She gives me the orders.

Our fingers don’t touch.

“I want the tests done today,” she says.

“I’ve got a business to run.”

“Then build your company around them.”

I stare at her.

“You just don’t know when to stop.”

“I know exactly when to stop.”

“When?”

“When you are well enough to go.”

I take the papers.

I turn at the door.

“Dr. Carter.”

She raises her eyes.

“If it turns out to be unnecessary, I’ll remember.”

“I think you will.”

“And if I want another doctor again?”

Her face remains the same.

“You can ask.”

I wait.

She doesn’t look away.

“Perhaps not mine.”

I get out of the room.

The corridor is busy, but I hardly notice.

My assistant is waiting by the nurses' station.

“Mr. Blackwood, your ten o'clock has been moved to eleven. If we—”

“It can still be at noon. The board meeting.”

“Call it off.”

He halts.

“Call off the board meeting?”

“I'll be there remotely.”

He eyes me.

“You all right?”

“I’ve got tests.”

His face changes.

“It’s bad?”

I look at him.

His eyes dart away from me.

“I understand.”

We walk toward the exit.

I look back over my shoulder once.

I watch Amelia talking to another doctor through the glass panel. She's already looking at another patient.

No delay.

No matter if I’m watching or not.

She’s moved on.

This irritates me for reasons I can't explain.

My father had spent years being treated like a man whose life was defined by his illness.

I’d spent years ensuring no one could do the same to me.

And now a cardiologist who didn't even know my name yesterday has looked at my records, questioned every

decision I've made about my health, and refused to let me walk away just because I wanted to.

I need to find another doctor.

That would be the smart thing to do.

Instead, I look at the tests in my hand.

For the first time in years, I wonder whether the woman who annoyed me in a lift might be the one specialist who won’t let me hide behind my own control.

And that thought is far more disturbing than the diagnosis.