Do No Harm

Two attendings at the bar looked away quickly when David caught their eye. Being scrutinized by his own goddamn colleagues on top of everything else. His anger departed quickly, though; he'd made his bed. Turning back to the track, he saw that dark clouds had gathered by the mountains, threatening a shower. "I see Don's no longer with his wife."

"You didn't hear? He got one of those photo traffic tickets, the kind like in Beverly Hills where a camera snaps your picture at an intersection when you run the red light."

"Don't you mean if you run the red light?"

"Anyway, the picture showed up at home, and his wife opened it, and there was Don in the car with some nurse from peds."

"How'd you hear that?"

"From Dr. Jenner. They play golf together."

"Do doctors really play golf together? How wonderfully stereotypical."

Diane reached for the front of his shirt, then stopped herself. "You missed a button."

Everyone began moving inside for the post-dinner address. Having raced around for the past few days, David had neglected to prepare a speech. He was too tired to worry about it; he'd spoken at so many events, he'd be able to regurgitate something suitable.

A man in a red caterer's jacket shuffled along the edge of the terrace, plucking empty cups and bottles from the balustrade. David had noticed earlier, when the man had smiled, that his teeth were stained gray, probably from taking tetracycline at too early an age. He limped slightly, favoring his left leg. David glanced down-sure enough, a special shoe. Probably a childhood brush with polio. The vaccine was developed in the mid-'50s; the man looked to be in his late fifties-that seemed about right. If he was twelve when he contracted-

"David."

When he turned to face Diane, he was surprised to find the balcony mostly empty.

"You're zoning out on me. What were you thinking about?"

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "How our bodies are marked. How physicians are like detectives, reading scars and limps and intonations, seeing what we can glean about a person's past and present."

Diane looked disappointed. "Relevant to the past days' events, I suppose."

"Why? What were you thinking about?"

"Our conversation in the cafeteria." She folded her arms, a fluid, graceful motion. "I decided we'd both be stupid to walk away from this after a few half-assed dates."

He smiled as if she were joking, though he knew she was not.

"Come on. Your ageism aside, you think I don't notice how you look at me? How we interact? We both know it's more than professionalism, David."

"Well, it shouldn't be." He realized he was speaking loudly, and he lowered his voice. "I'm the division chief and you're a resident."

"I thought we were colleagues."

"We… we are."

"Besides, it's not like anyone can accuse you of sexual harassment. I'm the one who'd get hauled off on that count."

"Diane, I'm still your superior." He did not meet Diane's stare when she looked over at him. His tone became more assertive. "There are certain boundaries that shouldn't be crossed in the workplace." He felt his face flush and realized he was growing anxious. He wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with two neat strokes of his index fingers. "And besides, I just lost my wife."

She didn't look as though she wanted to touch that one. She let it sit with him, and it didn't sit well. It was a cheap excuse; he wondered how long ago it had lost its legitimacy. Was two years long enough to mourn? To let go?

"That's three excuses in thirty seconds," Diane said, "and I still haven't heard you say you don't feel the same way."

"Well, I don't think I really need to-"

"When's the last time you had a friend over for dinner?"

"What?"

"A friend. Just a friend."

"I don't know. I guess it's been awhile."

"David, you are the most heavily sublimated person I know. You work constantly, you're in a field that doesn't involve long-term care so you have no long-standing relationships with patients, you have very little personal time, and with the exception of our few nights out, you don't date. It's like you've pulled yourself into a protective little shell. Maybe you don't want to recognize the fact that you still have feelings."

His anger flared, instinctual and protective. "It's been a few years since your psych rotation, Dr. Trace. Why don't you back off the armchair analysis?"

Diane's face hardened, and he felt a sharp stab of regret. Frustration, sadness, and intensity were all part of her weekly routine, but this was the first time he'd seen her really pissed. He started to say something to mitigate the harshness of his remark, but a woman stepped through the French doors to the back terrace. "Dr. Spier, we're ready for you!"

"I'll be right there."

Diane refused to look down or turn away; she faced him, angry and vulnerable. He tried desperately to figure out what he wanted to say but could not, and finally it was he who turned away as he headed inside to deliver his address.