Saturday evening, June 12, Beacon Hill, Boston

Jake

Massachusetts General Hospital looms ahead of me, an eclectic mixture of sleek glass towers, stately brick buildings and temple-like facades. As a medical student, I attended lectures here in the same amphitheater that saw the first pain-free surgical procedure, performed in 1846 using ether as a general anesthetic. I walked corridors lined with pictures of the gray-haired men who founded modern medicine.

When I pass through the revolving doors into the crowded foyer of the White Building, memories from medical school come rushing in – some good and some bad.

“What the fuck? Someone call a derm consult on a Saturday night? What an outrage!”

I’d recognize Carpstein’s gruff Staten Island accent anywhere. He’s wearing sea-green surgical scrubs and a cap, his face spotted with stubble and his eyes ringed with fatigue, but he looks genuinely excited to see me. He pulls me into an enthusiastic bear hug.

“Jake! Long time no see, kid!” After whacking my shoulder, he takes a step back to size me up. Seeing the amused look on his face, I instantly regret my clothing choice. I should have known better than to wear a pink button-down shirt.

“Just look at you! All spiffy and dressed up, looking like you just strolled in from the country club.” He grabs my hand, mockingly admiring my manicured nails. “Hey, when did you become such a pretty boy? You kinda look like one of those J Crew models. Or a QVC infomercial guy.”

“Shut up.”

“No seriously, just repeat after me –” He continues in a nasal, faux-British accent: “And if you order my age-defying serum, I’ll also send you a complimentary sample of our booty lift powder. It comes with a money-back guarantee.”

“Will you please shut up?”

“Hey, I meant that as a compliment. You look sharp.” He motions toward a group of nurses walking past us. One of them turns her head in our direction, probably to see where all the noise is coming from. “See, they’re checking you out. Maybe they’ll join us for drinks. Whaddaya think?”

“Okay, now I’m leaving.”

“Not without me you ain’t. I’m effin’ starving.”

“Fine. Then will you behave?”

Carpstein removes his surgical cap and bows his head. “Sure dad. Jeez, when did you become such a tight-ass?”

“I’ve got kids, remember?” I say. “That tends to do it.”

“Bummer. Hey, how come you’re flying solo tonight? Where’s Jess?”

I shrug, deciding to lie, at least for now. “She has a case to deal with back home. Had to leave Boston early.”

“Makes sense.” He nods approvingly. “Hard working chicks… I dig that.”

“Glad to hear you’ve become a feminist.”

“Yeah.” Carpstein flexes his biceps, which are bulging through the short sleeves of his scrub top. “I like to think so.” Josh has always had a stocky, wrestler’s build, but he’s bulked up considerably since I last saw him. Apparently, he’s been spending what little free time he has in the gym.

As we move toward the hospital exit, he slaps me on the back. “Man it’s good to see you! It’s been way too long. Are you crashing at my place tonight?”

“Um, I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Sweet! Then you’re stayin’ over. That way, we can get wasted on our own schedule.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agree stiffly.

Josh must notice the tension etched on my face, because he shakes his head. “Oh, man. We’ve gotta loosen you up.”

He checks one of the many electronic devices clipped to his belt, then fires off a few rapid texts. “Okay if some of my boys join us later?”

“Fine with me,” I say, figuring that will give me an excuse to bail early. I’m not exactly in the mood to party.

“What you’re doing is totally amazing,” I tell Carpstein in between swigs of chilled Sam Adams draft. “Seriously… little Josh from Staten Island.  Performing open heart surgery. Who would have guessed it?”

Carpstein shrugs as if to say “no big deal.” We’re seated at a table near the crowded bar of the Oyster House, an ancient pub near Faneuil Hall, and I have to yell in order to be heard over the noise. My friend looks exhausted, but he’s the one who insisted on hitting the bar scene.

“So tell me,” I ask, catching a whiff of clam chowder. “When we met ten years ago, did you ever imagine we’d be doing such different things with our careers?”

“Yeah, well… you always were the smart one.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, let’s see.” He takes the pitcher of amber ale and pours another glass. “Let’s consider your life: marriage, two perfect kids, nice house in the ‘burbs, sweet salary, nine-to-five job with weekends off.”

I clear my throat, feeling the sting of his words. Obviously, he hasn’t realized how bad things are between me and Jess.  “Hey…” I say, trying to sound lighthearted. “Those aren’t exactly my hours.”

“Yeah whatever. Don’t even try to compare your lifestyle to mine.”

“Okay,” I concede. “But you love what you do.”

“Sure, but I got no effin’ life. That’s some price to pay.”

“But it’s worth it, right?”

Josh gulps down the rest of his beer, contemplating the question for a while before finally answering: “I sure hope so.”

“So are you still dating that physical therapist?” I ask, eager to keep the spotlight on him.

“Heidi? Nah, man. That ended months ago.”

“How come? She sounded great.”

“Yeah, at first she was, but none of it was real. The girl was totally tofu, man.” Seeing my confused expression, Josh continues, “You know… tofu, the universal food. Takes on the flavor of whatever’s next to it. Cook it with fish and it tastes fishy. Cook it with sugar and it tastes sweet. Some chicks are like that, especially the cute ones. They take on the personalities of the guys they’re with, at least for a while. You think you’re so compatible until one day…”

He snaps his fingers. “Wham. It’s like the spell’s broken, just like that. They drop the act and…” He winces. “Total nightmare. Turns out she wasn’t even a real Yankees fan. Didn’t even know what position Jeter plays.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I say, wondering if some of Josh’s ‘tofu factor’ has filtered into my relationship with Jess. “But did you ever consider the possibility that maybe you’re setting yourself up for these kinds of relationship letdowns?”

Josh raises an eyebrow. “How do ya figure?”

“Well… you don’t exactly pick your romantic prospects based on their personalities.”

“And you do?” He shakes his head. “Hypo-fuckin'-crite. Let’s say Jess had exactly the same cool, amazing personality but looked –” He glances around the bar, which is crowded with attractive twenty-somethings, before settling on a plain-looking woman coming out of the bathroom. “Like her.”

I slap down his pointing finger. “Hey. That’s rude, Carp.”

“Oh lighten up! She didn’t see me. And don’t try to weasel your way outta this one. You know I’m right. Remember, I was there when you guys met. You chased after Jess ‘cause she’s hot. Plain and simple.”

“Well that certainly wasn’t the only reason,” I snap. Josh can’t possibly know our marriage is pretty much over, but that doesn’t give him the right to trivialize the origin of our relationship.

Sensing my irritation, he backpedals. “Don’t get me wrong, dude. Physical attraction alone doesn’t seal the deal. You guys took it to the next level real fast. But my point is you started with infatuation.” He nods smugly. “Just like me.”

“Well…” I glance at the foamy dregs of my beer. “Take it from me, infatuation never lasts. More often than not, it turns out to be a dead-end street.”

Carpstein sets down his glass, eyeing me with concern. “Are you tryin’ to tell me something here?”

I answer the question by slumping forward in my chair.

“How bad is it?”

I shrug. “I guess that depends on your definition of bad. No one’s died yet.”

He lowers his head, and I’m surprised to see how saddened he looks by this news. “So things have gotten worse?”

“Much worse.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “At this point, I’m just waiting for Jess to draw up the divorce papers.”

“So you’re waiting?” He eyes me critically. “That’s all you’re gonna do? Just sit on your ass and watch your marriage fall apart?”

“Yeah,” I challenge, flicking away my beer coaster in disgust. “Well what the hell am I supposed to do? Jess made her intentions perfectly clear, and to be honest… I’m starting to think if she wants to make a break so badly, why fight it? I mean, fuck it, right? Life shouldn’t be such a struggle.”

Instead of disagreeing, Carpstein just gives me a sympathetic nod and places his beefy hand on top of mine.  “I’m sorry, Jake,” he says in a somber voice. “I’m just sad for you guys, that’s all. Christ, you’ve got kids. Isn’t there another way?”

I shake my head in frustration. “We’ve tried.”

“Have you?”

“Of course! We both understand what this means. Believe me, no one’s taking this move lightly.”

“So… is there anything I can do? I just wanna help.” From the look on his face, I can tell how much he means it.

“Thanks Carp. Just keep taking my calls in the middle of the night, okay?”

“You know I’ll be there for you, but…” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “That won’t be enough. I won’t lie to you, Jake. You've gotta fight for this. Your marriage is worth saving. Don’t just roll over and play dead.”

As the words leave my friend’s mouth, his pager starts to vibrate, scuttling against the worn wooden tabletop like an injured cicada. He doesn’t even seem to notice the racket.

“Hey… don’t you need to get that?”

“Fuck no!” He swats angrily at the buzzing mechanical bug. “I’m post-call. Not even God himself could get me to answer this page right now.”

Despite Josh’s bravado, it only takes him a few seconds to break down and check the message. When he does, a pained look crosses his face. Apparently, God is paging.

“Shit, man. I’ve gotta get this.”

As Josh talks on his cell, his expression shifts from one of annoyance to excitement. “No shit! And Vinson’s gonna take the case? Hell, yeah! Don’t let them start without me! I’ll be right there.”

He flashes me an apologetic look. “It’s an emergency thrombectomy. Some geezer threw a DVT, and it’s lodged in his right atrium. Vinson’s taking him to the OR right now.”

“Then you’d better get going.”

Carpstein rises from the table, looking guilty. “Are you sure?”

“Please. Don’t worry about it. This kind of thing goes with the territory. We’ll catch up later.”

“I’ll text you,” he promises before rushing for the door.

Moments later, I sit alone at the table, sipping another beer and absently playing with my iPhone. When I check the messages, I recognize her number instantly.

She’s left a text:

TY FOR THE COFFEE & COMPANY. SORRY (frowny face emoticon) I WAS SUCH A GROUCH AT THE END -- BREE

My finger hovers over Delete.

Just press it.

But of course I don’t.

Instead, I hit Call, praying she won’t answer.

Even though I somehow know she will.

*****

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