Hitting the Right Note Read Online Free PDF Page B

came to putting him in line, she got a free pass.
    â€œDon’t good morning me. I have two women waiting to see you since ten thirty, and another one just came in,” she said, pinning him with her trademark stern gaze. Though he towered over her, his six-foot-five frame squirmed under her glare. This woman was old enough to be his mother, and there had been more than a few occasions when he felt like she was.
    â€œI had to stop by SickKids,” he said apologetically, referring to the Hospital for Sick Children. “Dr. Mason had a case there he wanted me to look at. I’ve been over there since seven a.m. Up since six. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
    â€œI’ve been up since four,” she quipped. “Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
    â€œNo, ma’am.”
    Her eyes widened but then she laughed. “You take these charts from me before I smack you with them,” she said.
    â€œGood morning, Dr. Massri.”
    Simon and Dr. Sterling looked up as a much younger nurse, who looked more like a cover girl than a medical professional, sauntered down the hallway pushing a cart. Simon was about to open his mouth to respond when Dr. Sterling smacked him with the charts in her hand.
    â€œYou stay away from those fast-tailed nurses,” she whispered quietly for his ears only. “You do what you’re here for and get back to what you’re really meant for. Without any distractions.”
    Simon saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
    He chuckled as she shook her head and walked away. The few times he had been at Mount Sinai, he could always count on Dr. Sterling to take some time out to check on him.
    Glancing at his charts of referrals, he headed to the first patient. Each one took time. Time to get the family history. Time to assess the patient’s state of mind. Time to become up-to-date on the situation, do an assessment, and draft a plan of care. By the time he got around to his third patient, he was already feeling emotionally drained.
    â€œGood morning, I am Dr. Massri,” he said, stepping into the private room to find a honey-toned young woman with cropped hair propped up against pillows. Her forehead was dotted with perspiration and her eyes were bloodshot and tired.
    â€œYou must be Sheree Isaacs,” he said kindly, immediately feeling empathy. Without glancing at the chart he guessed her to be about five months along. Pale skin. Shorter than normal breaths. Could be anemic on top of everything else noted in the referral.
    The woman nodded, just as another woman, who had been on her cell phone, turned around.
    â€œI left a message for Dean. Hopefully he’ll at least call back,” the woman said. Then she looked up and Simon felt like he had been punched in the chest.
    Her hair was different. Short. Some kind of uneven cut that ended at her chin. Like that black girl he had seen on the cover of some magazine at the nurses’ station. It wasn’t just the hair though. Her features seemed slightly sharper. But maybe that had to do with how much thinner she was. There were lines in her forehead, near her eyes. Not age lines—she was too young for those. But she had aged since the last time he saw her. The first and last time he saw her. Almost four years ago. So long ago that someone else might not be sure that it was her.
    But he was sure.
    It was the eyes that confirmed it. Those huge doe eyes. Brown, with flecks of gold. Eyes that didn’t really belong on a creamy caramel face, but which fit perfectly on hers. Eyes that showed emotions like windowpanes. Eyes that he used to see in his dreams a long time ago.
    What in the world was she doing here? In this hospital? And why had she cut her hair?
    â€œHi, I’m JJ,” she said, holding out her hand as if she had never seen him before in her life. As if for one day—one intense day—their lives hadn’t dramatically intersected. “I’m Sheree’s