Page 41 of Stay Awake
The empty seat to Amy’s right, opposite mine, is for Brett. He’s always running late whenever he’s working, or on call. Brett is a cardiothoracic surgeon, older than Amy by over a decade. He turns forty next year, but he looks years younger. He’s a fitness fanatic with a wiry frame and a great physique. He broke up with his wife shortly after meeting Amy. Apparently, it had been in the cards for a while.
Amy has dated Brett for almost eight months. It’s her personal best. Sometimes I think the secret to their successful relationship is that they barely see each other. Their schedules at the hospital always seem to clash. And when Brett’s off from work, he has family responsibilities. He has two kids from his broken marriage. Amy confided in me once that she both admires and resents Brett’s dedication to his children because it cuts into the time they spend together, although she admits that he’s an amazing dad.
The waiter brings me a menu and I order a grilled salmon dish with chili and lime. As I hand back the menu, my eyes flick to the bar where a man sitting on a barstool watches our table over a glass of bourbon.
Our eyes lock. His smile is so engaging that I unwittingly smile back for a fraction of a second. I look away to see that Brett’s finally arrived. He strides toward our table holding an extravagant floral bouquet of pastel flowers wrapped in brown paper. He hands it to Amy, along with a Tiffany jewelry box. A smile spreads across Amy’s face when she lifts the lid.
Brett mouths “thank you” to me as Amy puts on her new earrings. They’re white gold with a stunning diamond and aquamarine setting that matches the color of her eyes. She’s over the moon, as I knew she would be.
“I can’t take all the credit,” Brett laughs, after Amy kisses him. “Liv chose the earrings. She has wonderful taste. The second she saw them she knew they’d be perfect for you.”
Brett doesn’t tell Amy that the earrings came with a price tag that almost made me swoon. I was about to ask the saleswoman to show me something cheaper, assuming that Brett would balk at the cost. But he didn’t blink an eye as he produced his platinum credit card.
He’d told me that he wanted to spoil Amy with something very special. For his birthday, Amy bought him a thousand-dollar pair of shoes for his custom-made shoe collection. He happily paid ten times that amount for her earrings.
We had coffee after we left the jewelry store, and all we talked about was Amy. Brett asked me to convince her to drop the idea of going to Africa to work for a medical aid group. He said it was a waste of her remarkable talent. He thinks Amy should specialize in pediatrics first and then they could both go together to Africa to do humanitarian work for a year.
“I’ve always intended to give back. Amy and I would make an incredible team,” he told me.
It sounded like Brett had their lives all planned out. He even confided that he’d pull strings to get Amy into the pediatrics program at the hospital once she finishes her internship. When there was nothing more to say about Amy, he started talking about his kids and all the prep schools where they were being registered years in advance. He didn’t once express the slightest interest in me. Marco was right. Brett is self-obsessed.
He orders a medium-rare steak without looking at the menu. It arrives after most people have finished their meals. When he’s almostdone eating, he gets a text message on his phone. He whispers something to Amy and kisses her before rising from the table and sprinting out.
“Brett’s been called to the hospital,” Amy tells me. “A three-car pileup at the turnpike. He says it sounds ugly. It’s going to be a long night.”
Amy does not appear upset at her boyfriend’s fleeting appearance at her birthday dinner. I suppose she knew the drill when she became involved with a surgeon. Brett’s soon-to-be ex-wife obviously did not. From what Amy’s told me, one of the prime reasons behind their breakup was his ex’s resentment at the way that Brett always prioritized his patients before his family. It’s not something that troubles Amy. She’s equally dedicated to her career. In that respect, they’re a perfect match.
“Are you a doctor, too?” one of Amy’s doctor friends asks.
“Hardly,” I laugh. “I’m a staff writer atCultura Magazine.”
“Really? What do you write about?”
“All things food. The making of it. The eating of it. Celebrity chefs. I sometimes write about the arts scene as well when our art reviewer isn’t available. In fact, I came here from an advance viewing of a performance art show.”
“I’ve always wondered about performance art. What is it exactly?” he asks.
“Have you heard of Marina Abramovic?”
“Is she a Russian scientist?”
“She’s a performance artist. She’s very famous. She did a performance at the Museum of Modern Art a few years ago where she sat at a table all day and stared at members of the public brave enough to sit opposite her. There was a documentary made about it.”
“Are you telling me that sitting on a chair and staring at people for hours upon end is considered to be art?”
“It is for some people. Performance art is a type of conceptual art in which the public interacts with the artist’s vision.”
Through the corner of my eye, I notice the man sitting at the bar turning around again and unabashedly listening to our conversation.
“It sounds like pretentious, self-indulgent crap,” the doctor says.
“It’s all a matter of perspective,” I say, trying to be diplomatic. “The show I went to earlier contained violent themes. It seemed very personal, and vaguely threatening. I’m not sure I’ll do a write-up, at least not before I interview the artist to find out more about his motivation and inspirations.”
A waitress arrives with a birthday cake for Amy. Through the bright flames of the birthday candles, I notice the man at the bar has disappeared.
When we leave the restaurant an hour later, I’m slightly tipsy. Marco ruefully declines my invitation to stay over. He tells me he’s flying to Houston early in the morning and still has to pack.
“It’s a last-minute trip. I managed to get a meeting with an investor who I’ve been trying to connect with for months,” he tells me. That explains why he didn’t mention it before. “I’ll make it up to you, hon. We’ll do something extra special on the weekend.”
