“Remember, when someone asks what you do, just say you work at the hospital.” Caleb coached me as I zipped myself into the designer dress he’d selected but never once complimented. “Don’t mention you run the cardiac unit. These people don’t want to hear about medical stuff at parties.”
He was rehearsing me again, the same way he did before every gathering with his investment firm crowd, scripting my responses to ensure I never outshone him.
Five years ago, he’d bragged to everyone about marrying a surgeon. Now, he treated my career like an embarrassing secret. I stood in front of our bedroom mirror, adjusting the emerald green fabric that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
The dress was beautiful, I suppose, but it felt like a costume for a play where I’d forgotten all my lines. Behind me, Caleb continued his preparation ritual, checking his collar for the seventeenth time. It was easier to focus on his obsessive adjustments than to think about how we’d gotten here.
“The Jenkins will be there,” he continued, scrolling through his phone. “Remember, he’s in mergers and acquisitions, not private equity. Don’t mix that up again.
And his wife’s name is Patricia, not Paula.”
I wanted to tell him that I’d been calling her Patricia for three years, that the Paula incident was his mistake. But corrections weren’t part of our script anymore. Instead, I watched him transform in the mirror, each adjustment another step away from the man who’d once waited outside the hospital with coffee and flowers after my tough surgeries.
“I saved a twelve-year-old boy today,” I said quietly, testing the waters. “His mitral valve was—”
“That’s great, honey,” Caleb interrupted, not looking up from his phone. “But nobody wants to hear about blood and procedures over cocktails.
It makes people uncomfortable. Just stick to light topics. The weather, vacation plans, that new restaurant downtown.”
The weather.
Five years of medical school, three years of residency, two years running the cardiac unit at one of the country’s best hospitals, and he wanted me to discuss cloud formations with investment bankers who probably couldn’t locate their own pulse points. My phone buzzed with a message from my surgical team. The boy was stable, already asking when he could play baseball again.
His mother had cried when I told her the surgery was successful. Those tears meant more to me than any party invitation ever could, but mentioning them would violate Caleb’s carefully constructed rules. “Also,” Caleb added, finally looking at me through the mirror, “Marcus asked about our plans for the Hamilton fundraiser.
I told him we’d take a table. It’s fifty thousand, but it’s important for visibility.”
Fifty thousand for visibility. Meanwhile, the pediatric ward needed new monitoring equipment that the hospital board deemed too expensive at thirty thousand.
I’d been planning to make a personal donation, but apparently, our money was already allocated for Caleb’s networking. “Ready?” he asked. He was already heading for the door, expecting me to follow like a well-trained accessory.
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