I was in labor carrying a 10-pound baby – usnews

Not the confident knock of a doctor.

This one was hesitant.

Maya opened the door a few inches.

“Dr. Grant? There’s someone asking to speak with you.”

My mother woke instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Maya looked uncomfortable. “It’s Dr. Patel from Psychiatry.”

I frowned.

“Anil?”

Dr. Anil Patel had been my friend since residency. Gentle, observant, impossible to rush. He had once diagnosed a rare neurological reaction in a patient everyone else had dismissed as anxious because he noticed the man tapped his left fingers out of rhythm with his right.

He stepped inside carrying no chart.

That, too, told me this was not a normal consult.

“Amelia,” he said softly. “I’m sorry to come so late.”

My mother stood. “Why are you here?”

Anil looked at me, asking permission with his eyes.

I nodded.

He closed the door.

“I was contacted by a resident tonight,” he said. “Not Sophie. Another intern. Leah Morris.”

I recognized the name vaguely.

“She was scared,” Anil continued. “She asked whether conversations with me could be confidential if no patient was involved. I told her I could not promise confidentiality if someone was in danger. She almost hung up.”

My pulse quickened.

“What did she say?”

“She said Sophie had been telling people you were unstable.”

My mother made a soft sound of disgust.

Anil continued, “Not publicly. Quietly. Carefully. A comment here, a concern there. She told two residents she had seen you crying in a stairwell last week. She told another that you seemed fixated on her relationship with Cameron.”

“I haven’t cried in a stairwell since my second year of residency.”

Anil gave a small, sad smile. “That does sound unlike you.”

“What else?”