"Don't you ever feel lonely at night? I know that I do. I was wondering ..."
"These hours are murder, aren't they? Do you know what I find gives me energy? Good sex. Why don't we . . .?"
"My wife is out of town for a few days. I have a cabin near Carmel. This weekend we could ..."
And the patients.
"So you're my doctor, eh? You know what would cure me . . .?"
"Come closer to the bed, baby. I want to see if those are real. ..."
Paige gritted her teeth and ignored them all. When Alfred and I are married, this will stop. And just the thought of Alfred gave her a glow. He would be returning from Africa soon. Soon.
At breakfast one morning before rounds, Paige and Kat talked about the sexual harassment they were experiencing.
"Most of the doctors behave like perfect gentlemen, but a few of them seem to think we're perks that go with the territory, and that we're there to service them," Kat said. "I don't think a week goes by but what one of the doctors hits on me. 'Why don't you come over to my place for a drink? I've got some great CDs.' Or in the OR, when I'm assisting, the surgeon will brush his arm across my breast. One moron said to me, 'You know, whenever I order chicken, I like the dark meat."
Paige sighed. "They think they're flattering us by treating us as sex objects. I'd rather they treated us as doctors."
"A lot of them don't even want us around. They either want to fuck us or they want to fuck us. You know, it's not fair. Women are judged inferior until we prove ourselves, and men are judged superior until they prove what assholes they are."
"It's the old boys' network," Paige said. "If there were more of us, we could start a new girls' network."
* * *
Paige had heard of Arthur Kane. He was the subject of constant gossip around the hospital. His nickname was Dr. 007—licensed to kill. His solution to every problem was to operate, and he had a higher rate of operations than any other doctor at the hospital. He also had a higher mortality rate.
He was bald, short, hawk-nosed, with tobacco-stained teeth, and was grossly overweight. Incredibly, he fancied himself a ladies' man. He liked to refer to the new nurses and female residents as "fresh meat."
Paige Taylor was fresh meat. He saw her in the upstairs lounge and sat down at her table, uninvited.
"I've been keeping an eye on you."
Paige looked up, startled. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm Dr. Kane. My friends call me Arthur." There was a leer in his voice.
Paige wondered how many friends he had.
"How are you getting along here?"
The question caught Paige off-guard. "I. . .all right, I think."
He leaned forward. "This is a big hospital. It's easy to get lost here. Do you know what I mean?"
Paige said warily, "Not exactly."
"You're too pretty to be just another face in the crowd. If you want to get somewhere here, you need someone to help you. Someone who knows the ropes."
The conversation was getting more unpleasant by the minute.
"And you'd like to help me."
"Right." He bared his tobacco-stained teeth. "Why don't we discuss it at dinner?"
"There's nothing to discuss," Paige said. "I'm not interested."
Arthur Kane watched Paige get up and walk away, and there was a baleful expression on his face.
First-year surgical residents were on a two-month rotation schedule, alternating among obstetrics, orthopedics, urology, and surgery.
Paige learned that it was dangerous to go into a training hospital in the summer for any serious illness, because many of the staff doctors were on vacation and the patients were at the mercy of the inexperienced young residents.
Nearly all surgeons liked to have music in the operating room. One of the doctors was nicknamed Mozart and another Axl Rose because of their tastes in music.
For some reason, operations always seemed to make everyone hungry. They constantly discussed food. A surgeon would be in the middle of removing a gangrenous gall bladder from a patient and say, "I had a great dinner last night at Bardelli's. Best Italian food in all of San Francisco."
"Have you eaten the crab cakes at the Cypress Club . . .?"
"If you like good beef, try the House of Prime Rib over on Van Ness."
And meanwhile, a nurse would be mopping up the patient's blood and guts.
When they weren't talking about food, the doctors talked about baseball or football scores.
"Did you see the 49ers play last Sunday? I bet they miss Joe Montana. He always came through for them in the last two minutes of a game."
And out would come a ruptured appendix.
Kafka, Paige thought. Kafka would have loved this.
At three in the morning, when Paige was asleep in the on-call room, she was awakened by the telephone.
A raspy voice said, "Dr. Taylor—Room 419—a heart attack patient. You'll have to hurry!" The line went dead.
Paige sat on the edge of the bed, fighting sleep, and stumbled to her feet. You have to hurry. She went into the corridor, but there was no time to wait for an elevator. She rushed up the stairs and ran down the fourth-floor corridor to Room 419, her heart pounding. She flung open the door and stood there, staring.
Room 419 was a storage room.
Kat Hunter was making her rounds with Dr. Richard Hutton. He was in his forties, brusque and fast. He spent no more than two or three minutes with each patient, scanning their charts, then snapping out orders to the surgical residents in a machine-gun, staccato fashion.
"Check her hemoglobin and schedule surgery for tomorrow. ..."
"Keep a close eye on his temperature chart. ..."