It's You Read Free

were thick as thieves. I got into dentistry to impress my dad. It didn’t work.
    “It’s not serious,” he repeats, even as I hear voices in the background. Two women talking. He’s not alone. “Just a little fall, but they wanted me to let you know. A broken wrist and a couple scrapes, nothing much.”
    “Oh, Dad.”
    “It happens.”
    “I’ll come up.”
    “No need—”
    “I want to.”
    “There’s nothing you can do.”
    “You’re my dad.”
    “Doesn’t make sense to lose work time.”
    “It doesn’t make sense to lose you.”
    “I’ll be here when you have vacation time—”
    “I’d like to take that vacation time now.”
    He says nothing but the silence is tense. I hold my breath, battling my frustration, bottling the confusion. He doesn’t want me. I don’t understand it. It was easier when Mom was alive. She was our buffer. She made us a family. “You’re important to me,” I say quietly. “I want to come see you. I need to come see you. Please.”
    The silence stretches again.
    “Fine,” he says, exasperation in his voice.
    I tell myself not to be hurt. There’s no point in being sensitive. This is Dad. It’s how he’s always been. It’s how he’ll always be. “I’ll fly up tonight, and if I take tomorrow off, that will give us a three-day weekend.”
    “Your front office will have to reschedule.”
    “It happens when there’s an emergency.”
    “Alison, I don’t want a fuss.”
    “That’s good, Dad, because I don’t fuss. That’s not my style.” My tone is brisk. I mastered professional crispness long before I graduated from dental school. It was the only way to survive lifewith my father. Now I’m grateful for the training. Grateful I’m not easily crushed.
    He sighs. “No. It’s not your style. I’ll give you that.”
    High praise indeed. “I need to book a flight, Dad, and I’m not sure when I’ll land, but I imagine it’ll be late, so plan on seeing me tomorrow. If not for breakfast, then by lunch.”
    “Don’t rush. Tomorrow morning is duplicate bridge.”
    “How will you hold the cards?”
    “I’ll manage.”
    I’m sure he will. Dad is remarkably resourceful. “Do I need to talk to a nurse? Is there someone with you waiting to speak to me?”
    “No. I think I’ve handled it just fine.”
    “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    “You know where to find me.”
    I need a second to compose myself after the call. I use the time to make a list of all the things I need to do. Clear my schedule. Book a flight. Get a rental car or shuttle to the house. Maybe I should drive. Twelve hours driving. Too long. Book a flight. Get a car. Make sure I pack Dad’s new shoes.
    In the next exam room I see the mother in the corner first, and then the little boy in the exam chair, blue paper bib around his neck. His eyes are huge. His lower lip is trembling. He’s afraid.
    “I’m Dr. Alison McAdams,” I say, introducing myself before washing my hands at the sink. “But most of my patients call me Dr. Ali.”
    The boy says nothing. The mother gives me a grim smile. Maybe she had to take time off work, or maybe she has children at home, or maybe she’s not a fan of dentists.
    I dry my hands on a paper towel and sit down on my stool and roll towards the child. “What’s your name?” I ask.
    He glances at his mom, brown eyes huge.
    “Tell her,” the mother says.
    “Brett,” he whispers.
    “James,” his mother adds. “That’s our last name. We’ve been patients of Dr. Morris for years.”
    I register the mother’s comment. That means she knows me. Or she knows about Andrew and me. Or just knows about Andrew.
    “Brett James,” I repeat, forcing myself to focus. He’s little. Can’t be much older than five. “That’s a nice name. And how old are you?”
    “Five.”
    “And that’s a good age.”
    He just looks at me. I keep smiling at him even though I suddenly want to cry and I never cry at work. Never. Ever.
    “So what are we doing today?” I