What was it about men and boats? wondered Abby. This was gizmo talk, men and their sailing machines, high-tech conversation fuelled by testosterone. In this circle, centre stage belonged to the men with greying hair. To Archer, with his silver-threaded mane. To Colin Wettig, already a distinguished grey. And to Mark who, at forty-one, was just starting to turn silver at the temples.
As the conversation veered towards hull maintenance and keel design and the outrageous price of spinnakers, Abby's attention drifted. That's when she noticed two late arrivals: Dr. Aaron Levi and his wife Elaine. Aaron, the transplant team cardiologist, was a painfully shy man. Already he had retreated with his drink to a far corner of the lawn, where he stood stoop-shouldered and silent. Elaine was glancing around in search of a conversational beachhead.
This was Abby's chance to flee the boat talk. She slipped away from Mark and went to join the Levis.
"Mrs Levi? It's so nice to see you again."
Elaine returned a smile of recognition. "It's… Abby, isn't it?" "Yes, Abby DiMatteo. I think we met at the residents' picnic."
"Oh yes, that's right. There are so many residents, I have trouble keeping you all straight. But I do remember you."
Abby laughed. "With only three women in the surgery programme, we do stick out."
"It's a lot better than the old days, when there were no women at all. Which rotation are you on now?"
"I start thoracic surgery tomorrow."
"Then you'll be working with Aaron."
"If I'm lucky enough to scrub on any transplants."
"You're bound to. The team's been so busy lately. They're even getting referrals from Massachusetts General, which tickles Aaron pink." Elaine leaned towards Abby. "They turned him down for a fellowship years ago. Now they're sending him patients."
"The only thing Mass Gen has over Bayside is their Harvard mystique," said Abby. "You know Vivian Chao, don't you? Our Chief Resident?"
"Of course."
"She graduated top ten at Harvard Med. But when it came time to apply for residency, Bayside was her number one choice." Elaine turned to her husband. "Aaron, did you hear that?" Reluctantly he looked up from his drink. "Hear what?"
"Vivian Chao picked Bayside over Mass Gen. Really, Aaron, you're already at the top here. Why would you want to leave?"
"Leave?" Abby looked at Aaron, but the cardiologist was glaring at his wife. Their sudden silence was what puzzled Abby most. From across the lawn came the sound of laughter, the echoing drifts of conversation, but in this corner of the garden, nothing was said.
Aaron cleared his throat. "It's just something I've toyed with," he said. "You know. Getting away from the city. Moving to a small town. Everyone daydreams about small towns, but no one really wants to move there."
"I don't," said Elaine.
"I grew up in a small town," said Abby. "Belfast, Maine. I couldn't wait to get out."
"That's how I imagine it would be," said Elaine. "Everyone clawing to get to civilization."
"Well, it wasn't that bad."
"But you're not going back. Are you?"
Abby hesitated. "My parents are dead. And both my sisters have moved out of state. So I don't have any reason to go back. But I have a lot of reasons to stay here."
"It was just a fantasy," said Aaron, and he took a deep gulp of his drink. "I wasn't really thinking about it."
In the odd silence that followed, Abby heard her name called. She turned and saw Mark waving to her.
"Excuse me," she said, and crossed the lawn to join him. "Archer's giving the tour of his inner sanctum," said Mark. "What inner sanctum?"
"Come on. You'll see." He took her hand and led her across the terrace and into the house. They climbed the staircase to the second floor. Only once before had Abby been upstairs in the Archer house, and that was to view the oil paintings hung in the gallery.
Tonight was the first time she'd been invited into the room at the end of the hall.
Archer was already waiting inside. In a grouping of leather chairs were seated Drs Frank Zwick and Raj Mohandas. But Abby scarcely noticed the people: it was the room itself that commanded her attention.
She was standing in a museum of antique medical instruments. In display cases were exhibited a variety of tools both fascinating and frightening. Scalpels and bloodletting basins. Leech jars. Obstetrical forceps with jaws that could crush an infant's skull. Over the fireplace hung an oil painting: the battle between Death and the Physician over the life of a young woman. A Brandenburg Concerto was playing on the stereo.
Archer turned down the volume, and the room suddenly seemed very quiet, with only the whisper of music in the background. "Isn't Aaron coming?" asked Archer.
"He knows about it. He'll be on his way up," said Mark.
"Good." Archer smiled at Abby. "What do you think of my little collection?"
She studied the contents of a display case. "This is fascinating. I can't even tell you what some of these things are."
Archer pointed to an odd contraption of gears and pulleys. "That device over there is interesting. It was meant to generate a weak electrical current, which was applied to various parts of the body. Said to be helpful for anything from female troubles to diabetes. Funny, isn't it?The nonsense medical science would have us believe."
Abby stopped before the oil painting and gazed at the black-robed image of Death. Doctor as hero, Doctor as conqueror, she thought. And of course the object of rescue is a woman. A beautiful woman.
The door opened.
"Here he is," said Mark. "We wondered if you'd forgotten about it, Aaron."
Aaron came into the room. He said nothing, only nodded as he sat down in a chair.
"Can I refill your drink, Abby?" said Archer, gesturing to her glass. "I'm fine."
"Just a splash of brandy? Mark's driving, right?"
Abby smiled. "All right. Thanks."
Archer touched up Abby's drink and handed it back to her. The room had fallen strangely quiet, as though everyone was waiting for this formality to be completed. It struck her then: she was the only resident in the room. Bill Archer threw this sort of party every few months, to welcome another batch of house staff to the thoracic and trauma rotations. At this moment, there were six other surgical residents circulating downstairs in the garden. But here, in Archer's private retreat, there was only the transplant team.
And Abby.
She sat down on the couch next to Mark and sipped her drink. Already she was feeling the brandy's heat, and the warmth of this special attention. As an intern, she'd viewed these five men with awe, had felt privileged just to assist in the same OR with Archer and Mohandas. Though her relationship with Mark had brought her into their social circle, she never forgot who these men were. Nor did she forget the power they held over her career.
Archer sat down across from her. "I've been hearing some good things about you, Abby. From the General. Before he left tonight, he paid you some wonderful compliments."
"Dr. Wettig did?" Abby couldn't help a surprised laugh. "To be honest, I'm never quite sure what he thinks about my performance."
"Well, that's just the General's way. Spreading a little insecurity around in the world."