Broken People by Scott Hildreth

doctors possess a quality that made them more caring than other people. More understanding. More able to understand people. Kind. Considerate. Compassionate. Michelle was all of these things. I pulled at my jeans one more time, and I smiled. I stood to take my cup to the trash. I don’t like trash on the table. Not if it doesn’t have to be there. And really, there is never a reason to have trash at the table if there is a place to put it. And, because there was a place to put it, I was going to take it there.
    “I am going to toss this in the trash, and get a glass of water. You want anything?” I asked as I stood.
    “Thank you, I will take a cup of water. When you get back, I have a question,” she smiled again as she spoke. She didn’t have her hand in her hair this time. Just her chin in her hand.
    I threw the trash in the receptacle, and went to get our waters. When I returned, I handed Michelle her water, and placed mine on the table. I handed her a straw. It had a protective cover. As I begin to sit, I pulled at my thighs, so my jeans wouldn’t wrinkle under my legs as I sat down. After I sat, I took a drink of water. I don’t like lids on my cold drinks, and was drinking straight from the cup, with no straw. Straws are gross.
    “So, David, are you gay?” she looked me in the eye.
    “Yes, Michelle, I am,” I responded, without hesitation. I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t believe anything. I had actually told someone besides Dr. Baritz that I was gay. Well, in a sense, Michelle was a doctor, but not actually. Just sort of. Well, not really, but she was more of a doctor than I was. I had so much more to say, but I left it at that, and was excited to hear what she had to say. My heart was beating faster than normal, but I was not nervous or sweating like I did in Dr . Baritz’s office. “Does it bother you?” I asked.
    “Does it bother you that I am a girl?” Michelle asked, in an almost offended tone, her eyes opened wider than before.
    “Heavens no,” I responded. I felt kind of excited with her response.
    “Well, David, I look at it this way. I was born a girl. Cloe was born a girl. My brother was born a boy. I was born heterosexual. You are homosexual. I haven’t decided if it’s necessarily a decision you make , or if it is the way God made you. Were you born that way, or did you consciously or subconsciously decide? I struggle with that. We can talk about it later.” She took a breath and continued, “I want to show you something,” she said as she took her phone from her purse. She spent a moment looking at it, and after looking at the screen and smiling, she handed the phone to me. “Look at that picture, David. Look at it good.”
    I looked at the phone. There was a black and white caption-less photograph on the screen. In the photo, which was in an operating room, there was a white man on an operating table. He was wearing a KKK Clansman robe, which was covered in blood. There was a black doctor whose hands were covering a gaping wound, attempting to stop the bleeding. The look on his face was one of urgency. The operating room was full of black nurses, black doctors , and a white Clansman. But, every one of the black staff was clearly rushing to save this man’s life. To save a man that would rather see those helping save his life hang by the neck than live. I could not stop looking at the photograph. I was moved. Michelle, with a broken voice, began to speak. I placed my hand on my chest and checked my heart. Still beating.
    “David, this picture basically defines all my beliefs about medicine, life and humanity in general. How much more beautiful does it get? They’re black, and rushing to save this guy’s life. And he’s in the KKK. Like, what? Tolerance. Respect. Grace. It’s so beautiful.” She stood, and continued to speak. “That picture will forever be dear to my heart. And that’s the thing about medicine. The doors to a hospital, to a doctor’s office, at