understand how you could avoid the subject,” said Thomas.
“Robert is a sensitive, intelligent human being and a damn good pathologist.”
“I’m glad he has some redeeming qualities,” said Thomas, conscious that he was baiting his wife.
Cassi bit down her reply. She knew that Thomas was angry and was trying to provoke her; she also knew that losing her own temper would accomplish nothing. After a brief silence, she reached across and massaged Thomas’s neck. At first he remained rigid, but after a few minutes she felt him respond.
“I’m sorry I talked about my diabetes,” she said, “and I’m sorry I talked about my eye condition.”
Maintaining her massage, Cassi stared out the window with unseeing eyes. A cold fear made her wonder if Thomas was getting tired of her illness. Maybe she’d been complaining too much, especially with all the upset about changing residencies. Thinking about it, Cassi had to admit that Thomas had been distancing himself from her in the last few months, acting more impulsive and with less tolerance. Cassi made a vow to talk less about her illness. She knew, more than anyone, how much pressure Thomas put himself under, and she promised herself not to make it worse.
Moving her hand up his neck, Cassi thought it would be wise to change the subject. “Did anyone say anything about your doing three bypasses while the others did one or two?”
“No. No one says anything because it’s always the same. There really isn’t anyone for me to compete with.”
“What about competing with the best: yourself!” said Cassi with a smile.
“Oh, no!” said Thomas. “Don’t give me any of that pseudopsychology.”
“Is competition important at this point?” asked Cassi, becoming serious. “Isn’t the satisfaction of helping people return to active lives enough?”
“It’s a nice feeling,” admitted Thomas. “But it doesn’t help me get beds or OR time even though the patients I propose are the most deserving both from a physical and sociological standpoint. And their gratitude probably won’t make me chief, although I’m not sure I want the position any longer. To tell you the truth, the kick of surgery doesn’t last like it used to. Lately I get this empty feeling.”
The word “empty” reminded Cassi of something. Had it been a dream? She glanced around the interior of the car, noting the characteristic smell of the leather, listening to the repetitive click of the windshield wipers, letting her mind wander. What was the association? Then she remembered-“empty” was the word Colonel Bentworth used to describe his life in recent years. Angry and empty, that’s what he’d said.
Emerging from the leafless woods, they sped across the salt marshes. Through the rain-swept window, Cassi caught glimpses of the bleak November landscape. Fall was gone, its last agonal bits of color driven from the naked tree limbs by the rain. Winter was coming, its arrival heralded by the damp chill of the night. They rounded the last bend, thundered over a wooden bridge, and turned into their driveway. Within the bouncing headlights, Cassi could see the outline of their house. It had originally been built around the turn of the century as a rich man’s summer home in the shingle style peculiar to New England. In the nineteen-forties it had been winterized. Its sprawling character and irregular roof line gave it a unique silhouette. Cassi liked the house, perhaps more in summer than in winter. The best part was the location. It was situated directly on a small inlet with a northern view of the sea. Although it was a forty-minute drive north of Boston, Cassi felt the commute was worth it.
As they pulled up the long driveway, Cassi thought back to when she had first started dating Thomas. They had met when she was sent to the Memorial on her internal medicine rotation her third year of medical school. She’d seen Dr. Thomas Kingsley one day on the ward. He and a group of residents who
“Robert is a sensitive, intelligent human being and a damn good pathologist.”
“I’m glad he has some redeeming qualities,” said Thomas, conscious that he was baiting his wife.
Cassi bit down her reply. She knew that Thomas was angry and was trying to provoke her; she also knew that losing her own temper would accomplish nothing. After a brief silence, she reached across and massaged Thomas’s neck. At first he remained rigid, but after a few minutes she felt him respond.
“I’m sorry I talked about my diabetes,” she said, “and I’m sorry I talked about my eye condition.”
Maintaining her massage, Cassi stared out the window with unseeing eyes. A cold fear made her wonder if Thomas was getting tired of her illness. Maybe she’d been complaining too much, especially with all the upset about changing residencies. Thinking about it, Cassi had to admit that Thomas had been distancing himself from her in the last few months, acting more impulsive and with less tolerance. Cassi made a vow to talk less about her illness. She knew, more than anyone, how much pressure Thomas put himself under, and she promised herself not to make it worse.
Moving her hand up his neck, Cassi thought it would be wise to change the subject. “Did anyone say anything about your doing three bypasses while the others did one or two?”
“No. No one says anything because it’s always the same. There really isn’t anyone for me to compete with.”
“What about competing with the best: yourself!” said Cassi with a smile.
“Oh, no!” said Thomas. “Don’t give me any of that pseudopsychology.”
“Is competition important at this point?” asked Cassi, becoming serious. “Isn’t the satisfaction of helping people return to active lives enough?”
“It’s a nice feeling,” admitted Thomas. “But it doesn’t help me get beds or OR time even though the patients I propose are the most deserving both from a physical and sociological standpoint. And their gratitude probably won’t make me chief, although I’m not sure I want the position any longer. To tell you the truth, the kick of surgery doesn’t last like it used to. Lately I get this empty feeling.”
The word “empty” reminded Cassi of something. Had it been a dream? She glanced around the interior of the car, noting the characteristic smell of the leather, listening to the repetitive click of the windshield wipers, letting her mind wander. What was the association? Then she remembered-“empty” was the word Colonel Bentworth used to describe his life in recent years. Angry and empty, that’s what he’d said.
Emerging from the leafless woods, they sped across the salt marshes. Through the rain-swept window, Cassi caught glimpses of the bleak November landscape. Fall was gone, its last agonal bits of color driven from the naked tree limbs by the rain. Winter was coming, its arrival heralded by the damp chill of the night. They rounded the last bend, thundered over a wooden bridge, and turned into their driveway. Within the bouncing headlights, Cassi could see the outline of their house. It had originally been built around the turn of the century as a rich man’s summer home in the shingle style peculiar to New England. In the nineteen-forties it had been winterized. Its sprawling character and irregular roof line gave it a unique silhouette. Cassi liked the house, perhaps more in summer than in winter. The best part was the location. It was situated directly on a small inlet with a northern view of the sea. Although it was a forty-minute drive north of Boston, Cassi felt the commute was worth it.
As they pulled up the long driveway, Cassi thought back to when she had first started dating Thomas. They had met when she was sent to the Memorial on her internal medicine rotation her third year of medical school. She’d seen Dr. Thomas Kingsley one day on the ward. He and a group of residents who
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