Shredded: An Extreme Risk Novel: Flirt New Adult Romance Page 29
“Your score on the emotional readiness portion of the exam wasn’t high enough to grant you a license to practice medicine without supervision,” O’Reilly explains, his voice flat.
Emotional readiness exam? “You mean that psych evaluation you made me and Justin take?”
“Yes, that would be the one. And scoring in the adequate range is a condition you and Dr. Martin agreed on when I allowed you into this surgical program despite your age,” he says, even though he’s fully aware of my inability to forget facts and details like these.
What the hell was wrong with my answers? I play back every bit of the hour-and-a-half-long session with the psychologist and find nothing I said that would deem me incapable of handling the job.
“The consensus among all the hospitals that considered you for residency programs is that you don’t have the ability to see consequences, to understand the impact your actions have on others, and though we have no incident to report of you making a poor medical decision for a patient—”
“Exactly,” I interrupt.
“—it’s still a big risk none of the programs, including this hospital, are willing to take,” O’Reilly finishes. “You would be in charge of five interns, overseeing their education. You’re not ready for that, Isabel. You’re eighteen years old.”
“Eighteen and three-quarters.” My chest is tightening. I can’t breathe. No, I’m breathing. But struggling.
“Given your age and short trip through med school, there was always a chance you wouldn’t be ready for this next step.”
A chance, yeah. But I never thought it would happen. “That’s it? I’m done? I can’t be a doctor? Why the hell did you let me get this far if I couldn’t keep going?”
Dad wraps his arms around my shoulders. “It’s all right, honey. Take a breath.”
I inhale and exhale slowly before lifting my eyes to look at O’Reilly again. “Is this because of what happened today? The diabetes kid?”
He points to a stack of pink papers. “That’s just one of many similar reports.”
“Does it say anywhere in that report that Justin wanted to diagnose him with food poisoning? Please tell me he didn’t get into any programs, either.”
O’Reilly looks down at his hands.
“He did, didn’t he?” I shake my head. “God, that’s fucked up.”
“Isabel,” Dad warns, releasing me and turning his attention to his boss. “What are her options, then? Another year as an intern?”
“This hospital has already filled its intern quota for the fall,” he says. “You can apply to other programs, but I’m sure it would be the same situation. I can recommend her for a position in lab research. There are a number of facilities in the Chicago area—”
“I’m a surgeon. I’m not going to work in some lab, cutting up rodents.” I shake my head in protest. “I’m the best intern at this hospital and you know it.”
“You’re the most knowledgeable intern in the surgical program,” O’Reilly agrees. “But there’s a lot more to being a doctor than knowledge and diagnostic ability. Your practical surgical skills are above average, but not the best.” O’Reilly leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers together. “Perhaps this is simply an issue of lacking typical life experiences for someone your age. At least that’s one of the theories Dr. James presented in her evaluation. She pointed out that the majority of eighteen-year-old females are either just beginning college or starting out in the work world and have no real concept of their long-term plans. Dr. James believes your certainty may be a mask for avoidance of important age-related milestones.”
What a bunch of bullshit. Even O’Reilly doesn’t sound like he believes any of that. I scowl at the memory of the pinched face, pressed pants suit, and perfectly in-place hair that came with Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D. She doesn’t even have a real medical degree.
“I’ve spoken to the AMA,” O’Reilly adds, obviously uncomfortable with the topic of female adolescent milestones, “and they’ll allow you to retake the emotional readiness test, but not before at least six months have passed. That gives you a little downtime to do some thinking and experiencing.”
“What am I supposed to do for six months?” My whole life I’ve been on the fast track, never waiting for those age-related milestones. I’ve never had downtime. I’m not even sure I know what it means.
O’Reilly and Dad drone on about options for me and my destroyed future, but I can’t listen. All I can do is think about that stupid psych evaluation and getting my hands on it. Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D., what else did you write about me? I need to know where I went wrong. I need to know how to pass next time. But getting hold of it would be completely illegal and require a great deal of hacking—something I’m fortunately very capable of.
My devious and illegal planning is interrupted by O’Reilly’s secretary poking her head into the office. “Dr. Jenkins?”
“Yes?” Dad and I both say, twisting around in our chairs. I’m sure he’s replaying his patient list for today in his head like me, attempting to guess who might have taken a turn for the worse or be in need of further consultation.
“This Dr. Jenkins,” she says, pointing at me. “You have a speaking engagement in thirty minutes?”
I groan, remembering. “Fuck,” I mumble, but not low enough to avoid being heard. I stand up and wiggle my chair back into place. I’m only an intern for a few more weeks, so what will O’Reilly do if I skip out on this stupid task?
Dad looks like he wants to say something more, but I wave him off and bolt out of there. I don’t want to hear any patronizing speeches about everything turning out okay.
And to add an extra blow to my day, I have to face Justin and the smirk he’s wearing right now. He knows.
How the hell does he know already?
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and take a deep breath before approaching him. Justin holds out a wad of twenty-dollar bills.
“Who told you?” I say, staring down at the money.
He shrugs. “Word gets around. And no, I’m not going to say I’m sorry you flunked your test, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“We both know you’re not sorry.” I glare at him. “Put your fucking money away. I don’t want it.”
He has to jog to keep up with my brisk pace. “What are you gonna do now? Where are you going to go?”
My fist pounds against the elevator button. “Somewhere you’re not.”
“Well, I’ll be here, so …” His grin broadens.
It’s hard to keep the shock from my face. As the elevator doors open, I reach over and snatch the money from his hand. “On second thought, I’ll take the cash.”
“You’re right.” He leans against the elevator wall. “I’m not sorry you failed, Izzy. And it’s quite possible I hope you fail in your next somewhere-that-isn’t-here location.”
I can’t freakin’ believe O’Reilly’s giving him a resident position in this hospital. My dad’s home base. My second home, practically. My stomach sinks, replaying every piece of the conversation I’ve just walked out on. My body has physical aches at the thought of this failure, of my lack of direction. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I’ve been around this campus and university hospital since I was twelve years old. Leaving this and moving to Baltimore wouldn’t have been easy (though I’d gladly accept the challenge), especially not for someone like me, who places a lot of value on staying in the same spot for long periods of time. I’ve lived in Evanston with my parents since I was five, but there’s still always that fear that something might happen and I might go back to not having a permanent home, like when I was with eight different foster families during the first five years of my life. It was so lonely it hurts to think about. In fact, I haven’t let myself think about this in years.
But right now I feel a hollow emptiness that comes with having my life thrown off track. It’s no different from when I was floating between homes—I wasn’t good enough for the last famil
y, or the one before that. And now I’m not good enough to be allowed to practice medicine on my own.
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