Mitt had never told anyone about these special talents, not even his parents, even though as an only child he had a relationship with them that had been, and still was, particularly close. Knowing what his parents were thinking without them being aware was often to his advantage, although this was not always the case with his contemporaries. Especially during his teen years, it was usually disheartening for him to sense what girls thought of him, as it was often negative. Mitt was the first to admit that he was not a member of the “in crowd,” as he was decidedly bookish, hardly a positive in the teen value system he grew up in. On the other side of the coin, he did find his unique abilities helpful in giving him a leg up with his schoolwork. Before an exam, all he had to do was talk to his teachers or professors to predict what was going to be asked, eliminating any surprises. From an early age he developed a penchant for good grades.
After brushing his short, dirty-blond hair into a semblance of order, Mitt returned to his bedroom to dress. Casting an eye on the bedside clock, he was shocked by the raucous ring of his mobile phone. Curious and mildly unnerved at who could possibly be calling so early on a Monday morning, he snatched up the device. The answer was obvious, and he should have guessed. It was his father. Clicking on the phone and holding it up to his ear, Mitt said: “What in God’s name are you doing up at this hour? Are you ill?” He knew his father was an inveterate night person who usually remained in his home office until well past midnight to digest the early-morning European financial news to give him a jump on his workday.
“Ha ha,” his father fake-laughed. “As if I’d miss the big day. To be truthful, I’m jealous. At the same time, I couldn’t be any prouder. I hope you enjoy yourself!”
“Ditto that,” his mother, Clara, voiced in the background.
“I’m not sure ‘enjoy’ is the right word,” Mitt said. “To be honest, I’m a bit nervous.” In the back of his mind, he quickly banished the thought of his nightmare. “It’s an awful lot of responsibility. Going from medical student to resident is a big step, like going from day to night with no twilight.” After another glance at the time, he put his phone on speaker, placed it on the top of his bureau, and continued dressing.
“You will do fine!” Benjamin said with conviction. “You excelled in medical school, so you couldn’t be better prepared.”
“We’ll see,” Mitt said noncommittally. He didn’t want to get into a discussion about the deficiencies of current undergraduate medical education, which were looming in the back of his mind. “But thanks for calling. I’ll let you know how the day went as soon as I can. It might not be until tomorrow. I sense I’m going to be on call tonight, but I don’t know for certain. Andrea and I haven’t been given our schedules, but since there are only two of us, the chances are fifty-fifty.” He actually already knew he would be on call that night, but he didn’t want to get into a discussion about how he knew. As for Andrea, his parents had met her at their recent medical school graduation. They also knew from a previous phone call that both she and Mitt had been assigned to Bellevue to start their residencies together.
“Our illustrious surgical ancestor Dr. Benjamin Fuller has to be tickled pink that you are following in his footsteps.”
“I hope so,” Mitt said. He’d thought about his ancestor on multiple occasions, including the night before. Benjamin Fuller was his most esteemed surgical forebearer, born just before the Civil War in 1860. He earned his formidable reputation at Bellevue, serving first as an intern, then a resident, and finally as an attending physician. He’d worked with the internationally famed surgeon William Halsted and also with William Welch, the father of modern pathology, until both men switched from Bellevue to the newly formed medical school at Johns Hopkins. For Mitt, it was daunting to follow such a legend, as it undoubtedly raised expectations for his performance with the powers that be. Was he up to it? Mitt had no idea, but he was soon going to find out. For him the situation was like jumping into the deep end of a pool with only a rudimentary knowledge of how to swim.
“I’m convinced you are going to become more famous than my namesake,” Benjamin said as if sensing Mitt’s insecurities and wanting to be supportive. “I can feel it in my bones.”
“Famous or not,” Mitt responded, glancing again at the time, “I have to get a move on here. I’m due at the hospital at seven thirty sharp.”
“Of course,” Benjamin said. “Call us when you can. Good luck!”
“Yes, good luck,” Clara called out in the background.
Mitt disconnected the call and quickly ran the knot he’d made in his tie up under his chin and folded down the collar of his shirt. Donning the short white coat and white pants he’d been given during his brief orientation at NYU Grossman School of Medicine, plus the lanyard he’d been given with his hospital ID, he checked himself in the mirror. At least in his all-white outfit he looked like a surgical resident, even if he didn’t feel like one.
Chapter 2
Monday, July 1, 7:03 a.m.
Although it was just after seven, the rising sun already felt distinctly warm on Mitt’s face as he quickly walked east on 30th Street toward First Avenue. There was no doubt in his mind that it was going to be another summer scorcher in New York City. Yet a broiling afternoon, no matter the temperature, wasn’t something he needed to worry about. He suspected that once he entered the Bellevue Hospital high-rise, he would not leave again until tomorrow. His precognition of the night before, heralded by a trace of pins and needles on his chest, had signaled that he, and not Andrea, would be on call on their first night of surgical residency.
The traffic on First Avenue was already heavy with a surging melee of cars, taxis, buses, and trucks emitting a muffled roar, and as Mitt approached the vehicular free-for-all, he felt both his excitement and anxiety rachet upward. Luckily the excitement significantly overshadowed the anxiety, which had lessened considerably following his brief chat with his parents.
Reaching First Avenue, he had to stop at the curb to wait for the traffic light to change. Looking north while he stood there, Mitt could make out most of the NYU Langone Health complex, which stretched for three entire city blocks. Turning his head and gazing to the south, he could see most of the Bellevue Hospital complex, including the dominating twenty-five-story hospital tower. Beyond that was the veterans hospital. The view in both directions justified the area being called “hospital row.”
Directly in front of Mitt on the north side of 30th Street he could see the Office of Chief Medical Examiner, which he knew was a fancy title for the New York City morgue. He didn’t know very much about forensic pathology, having had only a single lecture on the subject during his second year in medical school, but he knew enough about it to appreciate that the building housed the largest such institution in the world. More important, from his perspective, it had its origins — like a lot of major medical advances — at Bellevue Hospital. There was absolutely no doubt he was joining a celebrated medical community with an impressive history.