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I, Michael David Robinavitch, resident in the City of Pittsburgh, County of Allegheny, State of Pennsylvania being of sound mind, not acting under duress or undue influence, and fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereof, do hereby make, publish, and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, and hereby revoke any and all other wills and codicils heretofore made by me.
“You ever think about writing a will?”
He can see Jack turn and look at him out of the corner of his eye, but he keeps his own gaze focused on the Pittsburgh skyline. It's not completely dark out despite the late hour, the last remnants of summer still hanging on. The cool night breeze makes his stethoscope, hung on the railing he leans his body against, sway back and forth.
“Why do you ask?”
Robby shrugs. “We’re getting older. Accidents happen. Always good to be prepared." Jack has been on high alert around him ever since PittFest. He can’t risk setting off any alarm bells. So, he appeals to Jack's sensibilities, makes himself sound reasonable.
Jack still squints at him. “Right,” he says, slowly. “Well, no. Not in any serious capacity. I don’t have much to leave behind, anyway. No wife, no kids.”
Robby nods. He drums his fingers against his arm, ducks his head down until his forehead rests on the cold metal of the railing. It's the only thing keeping him from falling headfirst into the streets below.
“Are you thinking of writing one?” Jack takes a step closer, nudging Robby's elbow with his own. Robby lifts his head a fraction and forces a smile.
“Maybe. Just to be safe.”
They're quiet for a few minutes, just listening to the sounds of the city. Somewhere, a siren wails—a firetruck, Robby thinks. He wonders if there will be injuries, what hospital they’ll end up at.
Jack breaks the silence. “Dana tells me you’ve been smoking again.” He’s leaning over now, trying desperately to look Robby in the eye, but he refuses, looking away.
“Are you guys talking about me behind my back?”
“We're worried about you, man.” The sincerity in Jack's voice hurts as much as if he had slapped him across the face. Robby just shakes his head.
“No need to worry about me. I'm better than ever.” For once, it’s not a complete lie. He does feel better. He can’t tell Jack the reason why, though. He wouldn’t understand.
Robby grabs his stethoscope and loops it around his neck, taking a step away from the railing. He needs to go home—no, doesn’t need to, there’s nothing there for him to do, no one waiting for him—but he’d rather be in the dark of his bedroom than standing on this fucking rooftop with his best friend trying to psychoanalyze him.
As if reading his mind, Jack reaches out and grabs his arm. “What,” Robby snaps.
Jack swallows—the closest Robby can get to looking at his face is his throat, which bobs as he finds the right words. “You know you can talk to us, right?”
“Going into therapy now, are we? Didn't realize you quit being a physician. I'll let Gloria know we need to hire a replacement.”
“Come on,” Jack scoffs. “I'm serious. I'm here for you. And if I can't help you, I'll find someone who can.”
Robby laughs. He’s not sure there’s a point.
ARTICLE I: PERSONAL REPRESENTATIVE
I nominate and appoint John “Jack” Abbot of Pittsburgh, County of Allegheny, State of Pennsylvania as Personal Representative of my estate and I request that he be appointed temporary Personal Representative if he applies. If my Personal Representative fails or ceases to serve, then I nominate Dana Evans, County of Allegheny, State of Pennsylvania to serve.
My Personal Representative will exercise such legal powers and authority to:
- Purchase or sell assets, real estate, or tangible or intangible property.
- Settle all my debts, loans, mortgages, bills, outstanding expenses, or any other money owed be paid.
- File and pay federal, state, local, and any other taxes related to my death or the Estate, including inheritance taxes.
- Control and decide the use of real estate.
- Resolve and negotiate active legal claims, lawsuits, or proceedings at the time of my death, in addition to claims brought against the Estate.
- Handle the division and separation of my Estate to its rightful Beneficiaries so that each party receives its equal share.
- Use Estate funds to hire legal, financial, and any other professionals to assist in preserving the Estate’s value.
- Borrow, pledge, mortgage, or post any property as collateral, and to make secured and unsecured loans. This includes making interest-free loans to Beneficiaries during the probate process.
Every action by the Personal Representative must be done in the best interest of the Estate. The Personal Representative is prohibited from benefitting financially in any way, directly or indirectly.
“How much do you have saved for Jake's college tuition?”
Janey looks up from where she’s stirring the pasta. “I have a few thousand in an account. I know Eric also has some money put aside. Might have to take out some loans, but it's covered for the most part." She lifts a piece out of the steaming water on a spoon and blows on it before popping it into her mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, she reaches over to the timer on the stove and adds two more minutes. “Why?”
“I'd like to help. I have a lot of money and nothing to do with it.” Robby rounds the kitchen island and grabs a stack of plates from the cabinet. Jake should be home any minute now—he wasn’t thrilled at the idea of Robby being over for dinner, but still agreed, albeit begrudgingly, and only with the promise of his favorite meal.
“You don't have to,” Janey says. “Use that money to buy a fancy new car. Or take a nice vacation. Or—” she waves the spoon around, water dripping onto the floor— “your retirement fund. Who knows, maybe you could even retire early.”
Robby shakes his head. “I'd rather my money go towards something actually useful. You know? Like charities. Or furthering Jake’s education.”
“You seem awfully preoccupied about getting rid of your money.”
“I just want to make sure it's put to good use. In case I'm not around to use it.”
Janey stills. He curses under his breath. That was a bit too much, and he can tell from the look on Janey's face when she turns that she thinks so too.
"Don't say things like that,” she whispers. There are already tears in her eyes—she was always so quick with her emotions. Robby weirdly admires her for that. “You always used to joke like that, and I would always ask you to stop. You never did.”
“I didn't mean…” Robby starts, and stops. There’s no point in arguing. “I just want to set him up to have a successful life. I know I'm not his dad, but he’s the closest thing to a son I'll ever have, Janey."
It’s a bit of a low blow, he knows that. She doesn't respond right away, just turns the burner off on the stove and carries the pot over to the sink. A billow of steam rises as she pours the pasta into the strainer, and Robby’s glasses fog.
“Fine,” she says. Her voice wobbles ever so slightly. “Just—just know you’re not going anywhere. So don't say that.”
“Where’s Robby going?”
Neither of them had heard Jake come in. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen, warily glancing back and forth between the two of them.
“Nothing. Just talking about a trip I might take this summer," Robby smiles. “You hungry?”
ARTICLE II: DISPOSITION OF PROPERTY
I devise and bequeath my property, both real and personal and wherever situated, as follows:
Name: Janey Malloy
Relationship: Friend
Property: $400,000
Name: Jake Malloy
Relationship: Friend
Property: $100,000; my car, a 2006 Jeep Liberty, license plate 78J KP0
Robby taps the desk where Santos's head is resting once, twice. “Paging Dr. Santos. Earth to Dr. Santos?”
“Ah!” She sits up with a start, blinking rapidly against the bright fluorescents overhead. “Fuck. Sorry. Didn't mean to do that.”
“This is the third day in a row,” he says. He's trying to keep his tone light. Him and Santos have developed a bond over the past few months—she looks up to him, trusts him. He knows how strong she is, but he’s also aware of the weaknesses she tries so hard to hide.
“I know, I just…” she trails off, staring at the screen where her patient’s chart remains unfinished, filled with lines of random letters from where she fell asleep on the keyboard. “Our coffee machine broke. At home. I've had it since undergrad—it’s a total piece of shit, I'm surprised it lasted this long.”
“You and Whitaker don't want to pool some money together to spring for a new one?”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Bold of you to assume either of us have the expendable income or the time to go out shopping for one. All of our money goes towards loans and food and bills to keep the apartment habitable, and all of our free time is spent dead asleep in our rooms.”
Robby sighs. He remembers the life of a resident well. “There’s coffee in the break room. And energy drinks in the vending machines.”
“No offense to whoever brews that coffee,” Santos says, pointing in the direction of the break room, “but I'd rather drink straight from The Mon.”
That gets a full, genuine laugh out of Robby, and Santos smiles. “Well,” he says, trying his best to get back into mentor-mode, “you need to figure out some sort of solution. Falling asleep on the job is unacceptable.”
Santos sobers and nods. “Absolutely. I’ll pull it together. Sir.” Robby can’t help but grin again. He pats her on the shoulder as he walks away.
“I know you will.”
ARTICLE III: SPECIAL BEQUESTS
I wish to separate the following property from my Residual Estate to give to the following parties:
Name: Trinity Santos
Property: Jura Giga X8 Coffee Machine
He calls Heather on the phone one night. She's surprised he called—he’s surprised she picked up.
He steers the conversation so it’s all about her. Asks how she's doing. Smiles when she talks about her new job, her patients, her colleagues, what it's like to be home, the adoption agency she’s looking into.
After an hour, he runs out of questions to ask her, and the tables turn. “How are you, Robby?" she asks. Robby swallows and stares at the ceiling, just barely able to make out the blades of the fan in the darkness.
“I'm getting by,” he says. He chews his lip, trying to think of a way to logically transition into the real reason he called—yes, he wanted to catch up, check in, but there are other things on his mind—and gives up. “Listen, I'm doing some spring cleaning. Are you interested in any of my old medical journals? I have a few about pediatrics, I think.”
Heather is quiet for a moment. “Spring cleaning? Doesn’t really sound like you.”
“Had a few days off in a row. Got bored.”
She laughs. He loved making her laugh—still loves it. “Okay, that does sound like you. Sure, send me a few pictures of what you have, I’ll let you know which I want. I can give you my address too.”
He's about to say great, to end the call, so he can go back to mindlessly staring at the ceiling until he falls asleep or until his alarm rings (whichever comes first) when she speaks again. “If you’re getting rid of anything else…you remember how much I loved that blanket.”
Now Robby laughs. “The one my bubbe made? The red one?”
“Yes!” she exclaims. “I literally have never felt anything softer in my life. I dream about that blanket, I'm dead serious.” She pauses, then continues, quieter. “Sorry, that's too much. That's a family heirloom.”
Robby pulls the phone away from his face so he can take a deep breath before he responds. “It's not like I have any family to leave it to.”
Name: Heather Collins
Property: Hand-made blanket; my collection of medical journals
He asks around at work if people need things—furniture, books, other odds and ends. “I have a few extra that I don't need,” he would say, or “I don't really use it much anymore, I'd be happier if it was in better hands.” McKay takes the matching side tables from his spare bedroom; Samira snatches up a rocking chair and a few old medical textbooks with his notes still in the margins.
His apartment gets emptier and emptier.
He spaces his donations out enough to evade suspicion, but it's easy to brush off concerns. I don’t have enough space, he says. Too much junk. Too much clutter.
The more he gets rid of now, the less he’ll have to worry about later.
Name: Jack Abbot
Property: My collection of vinyl records
Name: Dana Evans
Property: My bubbe’s box of recipe cards
“What's all this?”
Dennis is in his bedroom—not for the first time. They've had something going on for a few months now. Robby is avoiding putting a label on it. It's unfair, he knows it's unfair, but he can’t bring himself to do it.
“Getting rid of some old clothes,” Robby says, casual. There are a few black plastic trash bags lined up against the wall, and, true to his word, they contain clothes—old shirts, jeans, some nicer clothes, too, like suit jackets and button downs. His closet is practically empty now, save for one suit (just in case) and a winter coat. His bureau, too, is barren—only the essentials are left. Scrubs, pajamas, a few pairs of underwear, socks.
Dennis sags. He’s upset–Robby can tell from the slight furrow of his brow, the slouch of his shoulders. “Oh. I like your old clothes.”
It's true. When Dennis is in his apartment, he’s naked about 70% of the time. The other 30%, he’s dressed in Robby's clothes—sweatpants he has to roll up over his feet, shirts that Robby bought before he was even born. One time, Dennis accidentally wore Robby's college hoodie to work, and he got an earful from Dana over it.
Robby comes up behind him, wraps his arms around his waist and kisses his neck. “I’m not getting rid of all of them, baby. I saved some for you.” One drawer of his bureau held Dennis's favorite items.
Dennis melts back into his touch. “You're sweet,” he whispers. He smells like antiseptic and lavender. Robby presses his nose against the shell of his ear.
“Besides,” he continues, slipping a hand past the other man's waistband, “I need to make space for all of your stuff when you move in.”
Dennis whirls around, his eyes just as wide and wet and starry as they always are when Robby praises him, or kisses him, or does just about anything, really. “You’re serious?” he asks, breathless.
Robby's mouth is so dry. He pecks Dennis's forehead, then his nose, both cheeks, his lips, his jaw, before landing on his neck and nipping at it.
“Of course, I am, baby,” he murmurs. “Of course.”
When they have sex that night, Robby tries to commit every sight and sound to memory. The smooth curve of Dennis’s back, his lightly freckled skin, his pretty sighs, his perfect lips, his desperation to please Robby. As if he needed to try.
When they fall asleep, still naked and wrapped up in each other, Robby presses his lips into Dennis’s bare shoulder. “I love you,” he whispers into his skin. “I'm sorry.”
“Hmm?” Dennis asks. He's already half asleep.
“Nothing, baby,” Robby says. “Goodnight.”
Name: Dennis Whitaker
Property: Any residuals of my estate after payments made to beneficiaries, debts, taxes, and funeral expenses; my condominium, located at 145 Plainfield Street; my bubbe’s wedding ring.
He doesn’t go to therapy. He doesn’t reach out to anyone. He certainly does not text or call Langdon to see how his recovery process is going. In fact, he's planning to be long gone before the man steps foot back in the ED.
He arranges to go on a sabbatical. Three whole months off, sightseeing across the country. For his mental health. That’s what he tells everyone.
He makes sure he leaves plenty of time for Gloria to find a replacement. Plenty of time for him to make his rounds, say his goodbyes to everyone. “I won’t be around for that,” he starts to say when people talk of future plans. “Come July, I’ll be gone.”
ARTICLE IV: SPECIAL EXCLUSIONS
The entirety of my Residual Estate will be received by the Beneficiaries named in this Will with no exclusions.
He fixes up his old bike. He rides it around the city at night when he can’t sleep. He doesn’t wear a helmet.
He gets new tattoos. “Phaedrus Impellite,” one word on each forearm, a mirror of the tattoos he got after Adamson’s death. The long sleeves he wears under his scrub top tend to cover them most days. He doesn’t mind, they’re only for him.
He puts the finishing touches on the document. Charities and foundations to leave money to—the American Nursing Foundation, the Pittsburgh Center for Mental Health Research, the ASPCA. Final decisions on who to leave what items in his possession, like the massive collection of books in his study (Jack always joked that if he wasn't a doctor, he’d make a great librarian, or maybe a literature professor.)
He dots his i’s and crosses his t’s on all of the legalese that he can’t make sense of. The lawyer said it looked good, so in Robby’s book, it was good.
ARTICLE V: ADDITIONAL REQUESTS
I request that my remains be cremated and buried with those of my bubbe and my parents in their plot at West View Cemetery.
He cleans his apartment, top to bottom. Does the laundry. Buys groceries, makes sure to get Dennis’s favorite cereal and protein bars.
He packs one bag for his trip. I travel light, he says when Dennis voices his concern. Dennis has been more concerned lately, and it doesn't help that Robby has said, on more than one occasion, “if I don't come back.”
“Why wouldn’t you come back?” Dennis asks. Or, “you could take me with you,” bottom lip trembling, eyes glazed with tears.
He kisses the space between his eyes and pulls him closer. There is no answer that he can give that will satisfy them both.
ARTICLE VI: EXECUTION
I hereby declare to have executed this instrument as my Will to be used in the event of my death. I sign it willingly, and I execute it as my free and voluntary act.
On his last day, Robby leaves his helmet at home.
When he gets to the hospital, he pauses in front of the remembrance wall. Staring at the faces of those who have gone before him, those who have made an impact on his life and saved countless others, he wonders what photo they’ll choose for him.
He hopes they don’t put him up there. He’s not sure he deserves it.
His gaze lingers on Adamson’s smiling face. I’ll see you soon, he thinks, and laughs despite himself. You’ll give me an earful, but I’ll see you soon.
The shift passes in a blur. He’s almost giddy, laughing at everyone’s jokes, taking each case in stride, barely pausing at the loss of a patient struck in a motorcycle accident. He’s close. So, so close.
Jack corners him. Reminds him to call him if things get dark, that he can always turn around and come back. Robby can’t hold back a grin when he gives him a hug.
He finds Dennis before he leaves, slipping the key to his apartment into the younger man’s hand. “I already have the spare,” he says, confused. Robby shrugs.
“I don't want to lose it. You’ll let me back in, right?”
A long, bone crushing hug, a chaste kiss, a “promise to call me when you get to your first stop.” Robby has to take a deep breath to stop the tears from flowing.
He leaves his phone in his locker. He won’t be calling anyone.