Free Doing Harm by Kelly Parsons Page B

Bernard a quick visit before leaving the hospital for the night.
    By design, luck, or both, Mr. Bernard has locked himself into a prime piece of hospital real estate: a highly coveted private room, perched atop one of the newest wings of the hospital, lined with bay windows that command a sweeping view of the downtown and waterfront. I usually find him these days sitting in a chair in front of the windows, gazing at the cityscape shimmering in the thick summer heat, watching the rest of the world continue on without him.
    Which is where he is tonight. He manages a smile as I walk through the door, as he always does, but it seems a bit frayed. In fact, he looks rotten. He beckons to an empty chair next to his and asks me what I’m doing still in the hospital.
    “Working,” I respond tiredly, settling reluctantly in the chair. I don’t want to stay too long.
    “Things going okay, Steve?” Despite the way he must be feeling, his expression and tone express a genuine concern.
    I like Mr. Bernard. I like him a lot. But I don’t like it when patients call me by my first name. It’s weird. It places us on a level of familiarity that just doesn’t seem quite right, especially after I’ve had my hands inside their abdomens, pulling on their intestines. I don’t correct Mr. Bernard, of course. That would just be rude.
    “Just a little busy.”
    “Why aren’t you going home? It’s Friday. I’ve seen you here every night late for the past week. Why don’t you go home? What about your rug rats?”
    “Well, I’ve got a lot of responsibilities.”
    “Oh.” His eyes narrow fractionally. “I get it. A lot of responsibilities. I guess I wouldn’t understand something like that.”
    “That’s not what I meant, Mr. Bernard.”
    “Yeah, I know. And I’ve told you a hundred times, Steve, call me Stu. Mr. Bernard’s my father. I swear, you doctor types are way too freakin’ uptight.”
    He shakes his head and adjusts himself in the chair with a grunt and a wince, then folds his hands neatly on his lap. They’re craftsmen’s hands, worn and callused, but also graceful and dexterous-looking. Whenever we talk, whether he’s sitting in the chair or lying in bed, he usually has them folded self-consciously in his lap, like he’s guarding his livelihood. I guess the way he makes his living isn’t too different from the way I make mine, after all: with his hands.
    “Don’t have a family myself,” he says. “Marriage and kids and all that. It’s not my style. Got a lady friend who lives with me. Been together a long time, my lady friend and me. She took some time off to be here for the surgery. Do you remember her?”
    I do—a thick, sturdy woman with a bronze face as weathered as the paint on an old New England shore house and wispy blond hair beaten senseless by God-knows-how-many years of sun and salt. I remember talking to her in the waiting room after his surgery. She smelled like fresh sawdust. I smile and nod.
    “She had to go back home for work. It’s tourist season, you know, and she’s been pretty busy at her bar.” His thick Yankee accent transforms “bar” into “bahhh.” “She calls me every day, though. I think she’s, ya know, getting a little lonely for some lovin’.” He winks at me, then smirks. His eyes dart down to his groin, and for a moment I think he’s going to grab himself to emphasize the point he’s making, but he doesn’t. I grin back. “Good thing it’s still attached, after what you did to me. Funny how I don’t remember anything from the operating room. You sure you people really saw what I wrote on my dick?”
    “Absolutely.” We’ve been over this several times already. As I had guessed would happen, he’s completely forgotten our conversation from right before his operation, when I spotted the DO NOT REMOVE written on his penis. “It’s those drugs we gave you. They made you forget.”
    “I wish I remembered the looks on your faces,” he says wistfully. He