While Maribeth sat shivering in the gown, she began to question the wisdom of going to this Dr. Grant, who had appointments open at the last minute, couldn’t afford a receptionist and a nurse, and, she now suspected, had probably done something to get himself ousted from the larger cardiology practice. She pictured the stooped, nefarious villain in every bad TV legal drama.
But when Dr. Grant walked in, leafing through her chart, he did not seem remotely villainous; he was actually rather handsome in that way that later-middle-aged men tended to be.
“Ms. Goldman,” he said, extending his hand for a shake. “I’m Stephen Grant.”
“Hi, I’m M.B. M. B. Goldman,” Maribeth stumbled over the name. It felt counterfeit, even though it was her. It said so right on the chart.
“I see you’re about three weeks postoperative for a coronary bypass.”
She nodded and waited for him to comment, on her age, the anomaly of someone so young undergoing such a procedure, the “luck” of it being only a double bypass.
“So what brings you in?”
“Well, as you noted, I’m post-op and . . .” she stopped herself. She was about to say she was missing the follow-up appointment with her surgeon but that would open a can of worms. At this point, she just wanted someone to tell her she was okay and be done with it. “I figured I should find myself a cardiologist while I’m in town.”
His eyes flitted from her chart to her. “You’re not from here?”
“Not exactly.”
“Where did you have your surgery? UPMC?”
“I didn’t have it in Pittsburgh.”
“Where did you have it?”
“I’d rather not say.”
He looked at her again, a straight-on gaze. His eyes were an unusual color, almost an amber. Maybe that was what made his look so discombobulating.
“Who performed it?”
“Again, I’d rather not say.”
He scratched at a sideburn. “But not in Pittsburgh?”
“No.”
“You relocated three weeks after surgery?”
There was a hint of surprise in his voice, and she felt the hairs on her neck rise. They’d already discussed the timeline. Could they not move on to the exam?
“This seems to be closing up. The tape fell off.” She tapped the incision on her chest.
Dr. Grant came closer to inspect. He had thin, delicate fingers, more suited, Maribeth thought, for playing a piano than palpating a chest. “It’s healing well,” he said.
“My leg’s still pretty swollen.” She started to roll down her support stocking, but he’d already gone back to her file, flipping through the pages, reading them carefully now. In her flimsy gown, she felt exposed. As if he were not just reading her notes, but reading her.
A piece of paper from the file fluttered to the floor: It was the receipt. He picked it up and read it, and she could see him taking in the facts—cash, no insurance. He was going to refuse her any minute.
He looked at her and she could feel the judgment. Are you always in such a hurry? she heard Dr. Sterling ask. She felt a sudden rush of loathing for this Dr. Grant. She understood it was transference, her anger toward Dr. Sterling, which was probably a form of transference itself. But still, she was so tired of all of them playing god. She wasn’t asking for them to examine her life, her choices, her priorities. She just wanted them to check her heart.
“You know, it’s my choice, not yours,” Maribeth said.
Dr. Grant looked up, bewildered. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s up to me to choose if you’re my doctor. Not the other way around.”
She sounded like a petulant teen, defending something stupid, a purple hair streak or a terrible band she loved.
Dr. Grant seemed taken aback. He retreated to his stool and set her file down on the counter. “I assumed you chose me when you made an appointment to see me,” he replied.
“Nope. I went to the place you used to work and they wouldn’t take me because I wasn’t using insurance. Someone there said you might.”
His face clouded over. So something bad had happened at the old practice. He stood up from the stool, and Maribeth stood, too, expecting to be shown the door. But instead, he unwound his stethoscope from his neck and stepped toward her. “Would you like me to check your heart or not?” he asked.
“Sure. You can see if I still have one.”
AFTER THE EXAM, after the EKG, after everything checked out—checked out enough that he discouraged doing blood work; she’d need to test at six weeks once her cholesterol levels stabilized anyhow and she could check her iron then if she was still worried—Dr. Grant instructed her to settle up with Louise.
She’d known a hundred and fifty dollars wasn’t going to cover it.
“How much more do I owe?” she asked Louise, now a receptionist again, even though there were no other patients to receive.
“You paid when you came in.”
“Right, but he did a few tests, the EKG.”
“The visit costs a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“He told me to settle up with you.”
“Yes. Dr. Grant would like to see you again next week. He’s in Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays.”
Next week? Dr. Sterling hadn’t wanted to see her again until her six-week mark. Was he milking her? Doctors did that, padded the bills with unnecessary treatments.
Except Dr. Grant hadn’t charged her extra for the tests he had run. He’d recommended against doing blood work because of the cost. He wasn’t trying to bilk her.