“Who’s the attending?”
“Dr. Herring.”
He chuckles ruefully. “I’m not surprised. Herring’s an asshole. And an idiot. Either Herring or the nurses will kill the patient when you’re not looking. Remember that. Do you like waffles?”
“Waffles?” My head spins from the sudden pivot to breakfast foods.
“They make the best waffles at the caf, but you have to know Lionel.”
“Lionel?”
“Keep up, newbie,” he says, smiling, as he heads for the elevator. “I’m about to blow your mind.”
* * *
* * *
Lionel looks like he might have been cast off a pirate ship at one point in his life for being too surly. When we approach the grill station, he’s muttering angrily to himself, clutching a spatula with both hands as if he might try to snap it in half.
A demure man with Endocrinology embroidered on the sleeve of his white coat is attempting to order. “Belgian waffle, please?”
“Nope,” Lionel says, looking him in the eye steadily.
The man adjusts his necktie. “No?”
“Nope,” Lionel says.
The man stares at him, waiting for some explanation, but none is forthcoming. I watch with a mix of fascination and terror as a subtle rage builds in Lionel’s face, as if he may completely lose control and start smashing all the glass objects in his immediate vicinity if this fellow doesn’t vanish from his line of sight this instant. Sensing danger, the man nods and quickly moves on toward a display of bagels.
“Lionel!” Ethan says cheerfully. “Morning, buddy.”
Lionel’s expression of barely controlled contempt is unchanged.
“Did you work the overnight?” Ethan asks.
Lionel makes a low grunting sound and turns around to tend to a puddle of eggs that has been bubbling and congealing on the enormous grill.
“Yeah,” Ethan says, “me too. I’m beat. This hospital sucks.”
“It’s sucked for years,” Lionel says, directing his bitterness at the eggs, pulverizing them into a scramble.
“Yeah, I hear you. I caught the end of When Harry Met Sally on TV, though.”
Without turning around, Lionel asks, “When he runs to the party to tell Sally he loves her?”
Ethan glances at me knowingly, as if we are sharing a confidence, but I have no idea what’s going on.
“Yup. When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody—”
“You want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible!” Lionel turns to us, his face aglow, looking like he might burst into happy song. “That’s one of my favorites.”
“Great movie, right?” Ethan says. “Hey, are you making the waffles today?”
Lionel frowns. “It’s such a pain in the ass, making the batter, keeping it the right temperature so it doesn’t get goopy, cleaning the waffle iron. I hate those damn waffles.” For a moment, it seems like we’ll be moving along to the bagel station too, but apparently bolstered by the thought of Harry and Sally, Lionel smiles reluctantly and adds, “But I’ll hook you guys up. Should take about ten minutes.”
“Thanks, buddy. You’re the man.”
Ethan pays for us at the cash register, and ten minutes later, we are each carrying a tray with an enormous, golden-brown, pillowy work of heartbreaking perfection to a table in the staff-only section.
“When Harry Met Sally?” I ask, inhaling the heady scent of maple syrup and vanilla. “That’s the secret?”
Ethan grins proudly. “Yup. He loves romantic comedies. As long as you can drop a quote or two from one of the greats—Princess Bride, You’ve Got Mail, Sleepless—you’ll get waffles.” He takes a bite, and his face glows with the kind of bliss that can come only from the consumption of cooked dough.
“Sleepless?”
“In Seattle,” he says, as if it shouldn’t require explanation.
“Right. And you happen to know all these movies well enough to quote them?”
“I actually do. My fiancée—well, ex-fiancée—would force me to watch all these chick movies, so I’ve seen them all. My mind’s filled with drug dosages and useless movie quotes.”
I take a bite of my waffle, and suddenly everything seems right and beautiful in the world. My mouth half-full, I mutter, “Oh my God.”
Ethan nods. “I know. It’s kind of life-changing.”
“My mind is blown. You were right,” I say. His comment about his ex-fiancée is just kind of hanging there in that awkward conversational space between revealing something personal and elaborating on it. I wonder if I should ask him about it, or at least offer my condolences on his failed engagement (which seems like a pretty big deal, even though he mentioned it like it was an afterthought). I decide to keep quiet, not wanting to be rude and pry.
“My ex, Heather, is an Anesthesia resident at UPenn,” he says.
Oh. All righty then.
I’m grateful that my mouth is full, saving me from having to reply right away. I raise my eyebrows and nod instead. I’ve found that nodding while raising one’s eyebrows is a good, generic way to respond to almost any awkward social situation. In the right context, it can convey interest, acceptance, acknowledgment, even sympathy. It’s a catchall, as far as facial expressions go.
“We’re still friends,” Ethan says, seemingly more to fill in the silence created by my chewing than for any other reason.
“Oh, that’s good.” My mouth is still half-full. “Sorry to hear it didn’t work out.”
He shrugs. “Better to find out now than after we get married, right?”
I wish I had something meaningful to say in response. Instead, I say, “Ugh, relationships.”
“Exactly. Residency isn’t conducive to healthy relationships.”
I frown, thinking of the adorable couple from medical school—Tyler and Lynn—who, immediately after our commencement ceremony, mutually decided to part ways. The breakup of LynnLer was discussed and dissected at length by the rest of our class for days afterward, and it was generally agreed that, had they stayed together during residency, the relationship would have ended anyway, and probably badly. The prophylactic split was the smart thing to do. My thoughts shift immediately to Ma; every year that goes by with me still single adds weight to the anchor dragging her down toward a social abyss. If I’m not married in the next several years, she may never resurface. “Do you really think that?” I ask.