field—with the proper guidance and mentorship, of course, which we can provide for you. I think you would do very well here with us.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s very generous. I would most definitely be interested in staying here at University.”
“Good. Now,” he says seriously, his eyes narrowing, “bear in mind that this opportunity—I hesitate to use the word ‘offer’ at this point—is completely dependent upon your job performance for the remainder of this year. Any consideration of your staying on at University will be contingent upon the continued satisfactory execution of your duties as chief resident. Deviations will prompt immediate reconsideration of this opportunity. Think of the rest of your chief year as an audition, of sorts. Is that clear?”
“Thank you. I understand, Dr. Collier.”
“Very good. You know, Steven,” he says expansively, leaning back and spreading his hands, “academic medicine is an extremely rewarding pursuit. Joining the faculty of this medical school, fresh from my own residency training here, was one of the best decisions I ever made.”
He rises from his chair. I follow suit.
Interview over.
We shake hands. He sits back down at his desk, studying the papers laid out in neat rows on top of it, already absorbed in his next administrative task of the day.
I leave his office with my feet floating six inches off the ground.
Before I’ve gone ten paces from the door to Dr. Collier’s office, I’m calling Sally to relay the good news.
* * *
It’s late when I finally get home that night. The house is quiet. There’s a light on in the kitchen. When I go to turn it off, I find a clean wineglass, a card, a single red rose, an unlit candle, and a half-full decanter of red wine with an uncorked bottle on the kitchen table. I gasp when I read the label on the bottle: an extremely expensive pinot noir that we’ve been carefully storing in our basement for the last several years, since our trip to California wine country. That was back before the girls came along, when Sally was still working, and we had some extra money. These days, with two kids and only my meager resident’s salary to live on, we wouldn’t be able to afford it.
I open the card. “Congratulations!” it reads. “I’m so, so proud of you and love you so much!”
“Way to go, Professor,” Sally says from behind me. She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing a white T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “I thought I heard you come in. I was upstairs in bed reading.” She walks over and hugs me. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers in my ear.
“You’re amazing. You know that? I don’t think it would have happened without you. Your conversation at the cocktail party greased the wheels for me.”
“I know.”
“How do you do it?”
“What can I tell you? You have your strengths, Mr. Surgeon. And I have mine.” She looks me squarely in the eyes, very serious. “You know I’d do anything for you, right? And the girls? You guys are my life.”
“What makes you say that all of a sudden?”
“No reason. Just because. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I kiss her on the cheek and point to the wine. “I can’t believe you cracked this wine open. It’s one of your all-time favorites.”
“Have some,” she says, pulling up a chair. “We need to celebrate.”
I usually never drink on work nights, but … what the hell? The job isn’t guaranteed, but it’s pretty much in the bag, and what better time than the present to pat myself on the back a little? So I pour myself a generous amount.
“But where’s your glass?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Why?”
She holds up a home-pregnancy test-kit box and grins. “Positive. Twice.”
“Holy crap!” The glass almost slips from my grasp, and some of the wine sloshes over the side and dribbles down my fingers, but I hardly notice. “Really? Why didn’t you just say so, Sally? Oh my God.” I reach across the
“Thank you, sir. That’s very generous. I would most definitely be interested in staying here at University.”
“Good. Now,” he says seriously, his eyes narrowing, “bear in mind that this opportunity—I hesitate to use the word ‘offer’ at this point—is completely dependent upon your job performance for the remainder of this year. Any consideration of your staying on at University will be contingent upon the continued satisfactory execution of your duties as chief resident. Deviations will prompt immediate reconsideration of this opportunity. Think of the rest of your chief year as an audition, of sorts. Is that clear?”
“Thank you. I understand, Dr. Collier.”
“Very good. You know, Steven,” he says expansively, leaning back and spreading his hands, “academic medicine is an extremely rewarding pursuit. Joining the faculty of this medical school, fresh from my own residency training here, was one of the best decisions I ever made.”
He rises from his chair. I follow suit.
Interview over.
We shake hands. He sits back down at his desk, studying the papers laid out in neat rows on top of it, already absorbed in his next administrative task of the day.
I leave his office with my feet floating six inches off the ground.
Before I’ve gone ten paces from the door to Dr. Collier’s office, I’m calling Sally to relay the good news.
* * *
It’s late when I finally get home that night. The house is quiet. There’s a light on in the kitchen. When I go to turn it off, I find a clean wineglass, a card, a single red rose, an unlit candle, and a half-full decanter of red wine with an uncorked bottle on the kitchen table. I gasp when I read the label on the bottle: an extremely expensive pinot noir that we’ve been carefully storing in our basement for the last several years, since our trip to California wine country. That was back before the girls came along, when Sally was still working, and we had some extra money. These days, with two kids and only my meager resident’s salary to live on, we wouldn’t be able to afford it.
I open the card. “Congratulations!” it reads. “I’m so, so proud of you and love you so much!”
“Way to go, Professor,” Sally says from behind me. She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing a white T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “I thought I heard you come in. I was upstairs in bed reading.” She walks over and hugs me. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers in my ear.
“You’re amazing. You know that? I don’t think it would have happened without you. Your conversation at the cocktail party greased the wheels for me.”
“I know.”
“How do you do it?”
“What can I tell you? You have your strengths, Mr. Surgeon. And I have mine.” She looks me squarely in the eyes, very serious. “You know I’d do anything for you, right? And the girls? You guys are my life.”
“What makes you say that all of a sudden?”
“No reason. Just because. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I kiss her on the cheek and point to the wine. “I can’t believe you cracked this wine open. It’s one of your all-time favorites.”
“Have some,” she says, pulling up a chair. “We need to celebrate.”
I usually never drink on work nights, but … what the hell? The job isn’t guaranteed, but it’s pretty much in the bag, and what better time than the present to pat myself on the back a little? So I pour myself a generous amount.
“But where’s your glass?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Why?”
She holds up a home-pregnancy test-kit box and grins. “Positive. Twice.”
“Holy crap!” The glass almost slips from my grasp, and some of the wine sloshes over the side and dribbles down my fingers, but I hardly notice. “Really? Why didn’t you just say so, Sally? Oh my God.” I reach across the
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