She was holding a bottle and her hands were not steady, and she was fussing with a blanket over a little boy with pale hair who was trying to get hold of a stuffed giraffe.
I had my coat on. The badge says Dr P. Sandell**. I had a tablet full of clinic letters under my arm and a meeting in twelve minutes and absolutely no intention of stopping.**
And then he saw me.
“Well,” he said, at a volume chosen for the waiting area. “Look who it is.”
Four or five people looked up.
“Hello, Rhett.”
He looked disappointed that it came out level.
For eleven years that man ran on reactions. Tears, shouting, the silent treatment — anything he could put in his pocket and bring out later as proof that I was not well.
Medicine teaches you the opposite. You keep your hands still while a family comes apart in front of you.
