A door that presumably leads to the interior of the clinic opens. A young blond woman, also clad in pink scrubs, steps out and then holds open the door for an Amish woman pushing a wheelchair. A boy of about eight or nine sits in the chair, playing with a stuffed bear. He’s wearing trousers and suspenders and a white shirt. Through the thick lenses of his eyeglasses, I see that he suffers with what used to be referred to as lazy eye.
I offer both of them a smile. The Amish woman takes in the sight of my uniform, gives me an obligatory smile, and continues on. The boy, however, hits me with huge, lopsided grin that’s so infectious I find myself grinning back.
“Chief Burkholder, Doctor Armitage has a few minutes until his next appointment,” the receptionist tells me. “He can speak with you now if you’d like.”
“That would be great.”
She stands and calls out to the Amish boy. “See you next week, Jonas! Bye, Sweetie!”
The boy turns in his chair and waves vigorously. “Bye!”
Still smiling, the receptionist motions me through the door. “Third door on the right, Chief.”
My boots thud dully against the hardwood floors as I make my way down the hall. I pass three examination rooms with paper-covered exam tables, laminate counters, and sinks. But all semblance of clinical ends there. Framed photos of farm animals—horses and pigs and ducks—cover the walls. An oil winterscape of Amish children frolicking on a snowy hillside. A second painting depicts a horse and sleigh and a group of children ice skating on a frozen pond.
The last door on the right is partially open, and a brass nameplate reads: DOCTOR MIKE IS IN! I push open the door and find myself looking into a large office with a double set of French doors that open to a small deck. Judging from the size of the room, I suspect it was originally a master bedroom. It has gleaming hardwood floors and plenty of natural light. An old-fashioned banker’s lamp sits atop a lovingly distressed cherrywood desk, the surface of which is littered with papers and forms and files. On the wall, a dozen or more tastefully framed diplomas and certificates are prominently displayed.
Through the French doors, I see red-stained Adirondack furniture. Two chairs, a lounger, and a table. Beyond, in a small patch of manicured grass, is an old-fashioned rocking horse and a sandbox filled with plastic shovels and colorful buckets. A man in a white lab coat and blue jeans sits on one of the wooden chairs, thumbing something into his phone.
I cross to the French door and push it open. “Dr. Armitage?”
The man startles, and only then do I realize he’s smoking a cigarette. I almost laugh when he makes a feeble attempt to conceal it. He stands and drops the cigarette, sets his foot over it. “Oh, hello.” Hand extended, he starts toward me. “You must be Chief Burkholder.” He glances down at the butt. “I guess I’m busted.”
“It’s not against the law to smoke,” I say.
“Well, it should be. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. You’d think I’d know better.” He chuckles. “Stupidest damn habit I ever started.”
We shake. His grip is firm, but not too tight. The lack of calluses tells me he doesn’t do much in the way of manual labor. He maintains eye contact with me, his expression intelligent and full of good humor.
“Never too late to quit,” I tell him.
“I plan to.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “As soon as the divorce is final. Which should be any day now.”
I nod. “Sorry.”
“Ah, it was my own doing. All work and no play made me a pretty bad husband.” Shrugging, he motions toward the door. “I’ve got about five minutes before my next appointment. Would you like to sit out here or would you be more comfortable inside?”
“Outside is fine.”
“It is a nice day, isn’t it?” He settles back into his Adirondack chair.
I sit opposite him and take a moment to look around. The yard is small and fenced with white pickets. A big maple tree shades the corner where an old-fashioned swing set sits. A basketball hoop and backboard has been installed in a gravel area, the mesh net swaying in the breeze. It’s the perfect retreat for kids and stressed-out parents. “This is a nice facility,” I tell him.
“I love this clinic. I love the people—the Amish in particular. I love this part of Ohio.” He grins. “Even the long winters. For the first time in my life I can honestly say the work I do is important—and not only to me.”
“It must be very gratifying.”
“It is. Immensely.”
“I remember reading about the grand opening of the clinic,” I tell him. “I understand most of your work involves genetic disorders.”