Mac's Bedside Manner

There was no doubt about it, Harrison MacKenzie thought. He was one very lucky man.

Mac walked down the corridor past Blair Memorial’s MRI lab. He nodded at a hospital administrator he recognized by sight, though not by name. He knew he was one of the fortunate ones. He liked what he did for a living and he was good at it. Very good.

His skill wasn’t an overstated, overblown egotistical assessment of his capabilities; it was simply a given, a fact. He made sure of it. There was no excuse for seeking middle ground or being content with half measures. Mac didn’t believe in riding on yesterday’s accolades, of which there were more than a few. Yesterday’s accolades wouldn’t help today’s patient, or tomorrow’s.

And that was his business, his passion: Helping today’s patient.

He stopped a moment at the vending machine, feeding it quarters in order to feed his own sweet tooth. A small dark chocolate bar did a high dive from its position on the rack, surrendering itself to the inevitable. Mac retrieved it and peeled back the wrapper with relish. He’d never gotten over his love of chocolate.

The people who came to him carried baggage—hidden or in plain sight—that when unpacked ultimately contained some sort of crisis of self-esteem. Large or small, the content was always the same. Quite literally, they needed his help to face the world, needed him to rid them of some superficial flaw that had managed to get the better of them and interfered with their daily lives.

Never mind that they might be people of worth beneath their skins, they needed this badge, this emblem, this shield that he could give them through the skillful manipulation of his scalpel. All this in order to feel better about themselves.

So to the very apex of his ability, Mac gave it to them and let the magic of change do the rest. For his talent, he collected a very sizable fee.

The children were another matter.

The children he operated on came to him broken, scarred, either from birth or through some kind of horrific accident. Those were the cases that both broke his heart and buoyed his spirit. Because he could help. In some fashion, some manner, he could help. He made sure of that.

And he gave a piece of himself to everyone. Because he remembered Carrie.

Remembered his effervescent older sister and how after the car accident, the very light within her eyes had disappeared, like a candle being blown out by the wind. It had happened the night after the prom. The windshield had shattered, sending glass flying everywhere. Large shards had slashed one side of her face like a rapier, disfiguring her.

Traumatized, Carrie withdrew from the world and, most hurtfully, from him. She chose instead to exist behind her scars like a wounded animal imprisoned by circumstances, unable to free herself of the shackles fate had imposed and she had reinforced. Shame changed her from the outgoing, loving young woman she was to someone he didn’t begin to know. Eventually, when there was enough money to pay the fees, it was the unrelenting efforts of a plastic surgeon that had set Carrie free and returned her to the world of the living.

It was the kind of a difference he wanted to make. The kind of difference, Mac liked to think, that he did make. It didn’t matter if the families of the children could pay. He was paid in currency far dearer than paper or coin could ever be. His payment was the genuine smile of a child when he or she first looked in the mirror and truly liked what they saw.

Crumpling the wrapper, Mac tossed it into a wastebasket as he turned the corner. Reflexes had him coming to a skidding halt, narrowly avoiding an unintentional christening of his newly purchased shoes.

Jorge Ruiz plunged his mop into the bucket, dragging the latter back into a safety zone. The smile he flashed was neither sheepish nor apologetic, bordering instead on the amused.

“Sorry, Dr. Mac, you on duty today?” the ebony skinned orderly asked mechanically, knowing the answer before it was given. Jorge knew everything there was to know about the operation of one of Southern California’s most respected hospitals.

Mac nodded, then looked at his watch. “For another five minutes, Jorge, and then I’m off.”

It was Wednesday, known far and wide to a host of doctors as their unofficial day off. Mac’s observance of the day entailed keeping his office closed, but he still put in an E.R. shift, one of two he did on a weekly basis. He did more when a space needed covering.

Wednesdays was also the day when he liked to schedule most of his more difficult operations.

However, today had turned out to be incredibly light. His last patient had been seen to three hours ago, heavily bruised but now in possession of a new, far more delicate nose. The E.R. was quieter than a stadium two hours after a championship game had been lost, and Mac was looking forward to taking out Lynda Rogers, a curvaceous pharmaceutical representative for the Tyler & Rice Drug Company. He’d run into her at the beginning of the week when they’d shared a stuck elevator for the space of twenty-five minutes.

The ordeal had been far from unpleasant. Lynda, it had turned out, had a fear of small places and had literally clung to him for the duration of the elevator’s immobility. By the time it was running again, he’d gotten all her vital statistics, half her family history and knew he had an exciting evening ahead of him once they got together.

Which by his watch was in a little over four hours.

“Heads up, people,” Wanda Hanlon, the formidable-looking head nurse, called out as she replaced the receiver in its cradle and came around from behind the centrally located desk. At six-one, Wanda had a commanding presence the moment she entered a scene. Her booming voice did nothing to negate that impression. “We’ve got a crowd coming in.” She frowned, shaking her salt-and-pepper head.

“Some party-goers tried to see how many of them could fit on a balcony. The fools got up to twenty-three before the whole thing just collapsed under their weight.”

“Damn.” Jorge whistled and leaned on his mop, amused. “What makes people so stupid?”

“In this case, probably more than their share of cheap wine.”

The comment, stated in a soft voice that made Mac think of a silk scarf being lightly slipped along bare skin, came from behind him.

Turning, he saw a petite nurse with short, straight blond hair and flashing green eyes. She looked as if she had to place rocks in her pockets to keep from being blown away whenever the annual Santa Ana winds swept in from the California desert. At six-four, he could have easily walked right into her and not noticed unless he was deliberately looking down.

Mac’s mouth curved in appreciation. The woman didn’t smile in response.

First time that had happened, he thought.

“Not a very charitable attitude,” he observed.

The nurse spared him a half shrug. “No, but probably an accurate one.”

Aware that Jorge was taking this all in as if it were a spectator sport played out for his benefit, Mac opened his mouth to say something else, but the woman was already walking away as if he hadn’t even been there.

That surprised him even more. Her attention appeared riveted to the rear doors that would spring open any second, ushering in gurneys bearing wounded cargo.

Bemused, Mac shifted his gaze to Jorge. “And who was that little bright ray of sunshine?”

Jorge had been at Blair ever since it first opened its doors nearly thirty years ago. Unofficially he was known as the go-to man, an eternal source of information. He was also the man who could mysteriously come up with things that Administration maintained couldn’t be obtained for a variety of reasons and certainly not without a mountain of paperwork. Reasons never stopped Jorge, and paperwork was something that never obstructed his path. Mac had come to regard the man as nothing short of a national treasure.

“Pretty little thing,” Jorge agreed. Two even rows of gleaming white teeth reinforcing the pleasure he received from observing the woman. “Her name’s Jolene DeLuca. Fresh from San Francisco General. Divorced. Has a two-year-old daughter named Amanda. Lives near her mother, Erika. Erika’s a widow.”

Amused, Mac asked. “What’s her shoe size?”

Jorge kept a straight face. “Dunno, but I’m working on it.”

Mac shook his head in pure delight. “Tell me, Jorge, is there anything that goes on in this place that you don’t know?”

Jorge didn’t even pretend to think the question over. “Nope.” Eyes the color of midnight met Mac’s. “You wouldn’t be asking me if you thought I didn’t know.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. Thanks for the Cliff’s Notes.” Mac turned away, about to head in the direction of the rear doors.

“Oh, Dr. Mac, one more thing,” Jorge called after him. Mac looked at him over his shoulder, one brow raised in silent query. “Nurse DeLuca doesn’t much care for doctors.”

“Then she’s in the wrong profession.” Although that would explain the frosty shoulder, Mac decided. It was a condition, he was confident, that would change in the very near future. He’d never met a frosty shoulder he couldn’t warm up. Grinning, Mac gave the older man a two-finger salute. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jorge went back to cleaning up the mess that had been left by a nine-year-old. The latter had discovered a neglected Easter basket filled with six-month-old, slightly melted chocolate and had decided to consume the entire contents in one sitting rather than share it with his older sister.

Mac noted that the nurse with the frosty attitude had sought out Wanda’s company. Probably thought she was “safe” there, he mused as he approached her.

By all rights, he knew he was free to go home and if he moved quickly, he could make good his escape before any of the ambulances arrived with the inebriated party-goers. But the world of medicine wasn’t something he chose to escape. He hadn’t worked damn hard to become a doctor just to shirk off the mantle at will. Being a doctor didn’t end the moment his shift was over or when he exited through the hospital’s electronic doors.

As far as he was concerned, being a doctor was like his being of Scottish descent. It was a twenty-four-hour deal. He was a Scotsman waking and sleeping. The same could be said of his being a physician. That meant helping whenever he could.

The rear doors flew open.