Page 3 of Phoenix

Trina is my work mama. She’s in her sixties and so feisty. The patients love her. The doctors love her. I love her.

“It’s the lesser of two evils sometimes. Caffeine or no caffeine.” I tap my pocket to make sure I have my phone. I pat my chest to make sure my badge is there, and I touch my neck to verify my stethoscope is there. “I'm all set.”

“I appreciate you swapping shifts with me next week. I want to be fresh for Casey’s school program the next morning.”

“It’s no problem at all. I don’t mind. Tell Casey I said hello.” If I know anything about Trina, it’s her grandchildren are her whole world.

“I will. She adores you, child.” She pats my hand then gives it a squeeze. “Ready to tackle the evening? Friday nights are always entertaining. Maybe we’ll see a cucumber stuck in a rear or two.”

“Trina!” I laugh out.

“What? It keeps an old lady entertained. Plus, this is a learning experience for them anyway. We all know nothing can replace a dildo.”

“Oh. My. God. You did not just say that.”

“I’m old, Nora. Not dead.”

“I’ve got your discharge papers here, Mr. Holdings. Just remember to take your antibiotics to completion, even if you start feeling better.”

“Thank you, Nurse. I’m glad I had a nurse as pretty as you to help me out this evening. Some of the other ER nurses are just not as nice to look at. If I were forty years younger, I might even make a pass at you,” Mr. Holdings speaks from the bed as he sits up.

“I’m flattered and honored, but I’m just not sure I could handle you. You’re too much of a man for me,” I tease back with a smile, passing him his papers, but taking my copy first.

“You make an old man feel good about himself.” He releases a throaty laugh.

“You have a good night, Mr. Holdings.”

I leave the room and head back to the nurses’ station and plop down in front of the computer, releasing a heavy sigh. I wish I loved my job as much as I used to. In fact, I think I hate it.

I haven’t always hated my job, in fact, sometimes I still love it, but those moments are coming few and far between.

Luckily, Mr. Holdings was one of those moments. He was so sick, but so funny and enjoyed making our jobs easier.

That’s not always the case, though. Some shifts test my patience, my nerves, and my ability to cope.

I stretch my arms above my head and extend my fingertips upward, stretching the muscles in my back. Then I slide my hands through my hair, pulling the blonde locks into a messy bun and begin the process of inputting and saving all of Mr. Holdings’ treatment information.

It’s a mostly quiet night here at San Diego University Memorial Hospital. I can even hear the ticking of the clock above my head. Sometimes, I even make little songs to the tune of the ticking. That’s me. Nora Masen. Clock singer.

3:46 a.m.

Three hours and fourteen minutes to go.

“You hungry? I thought about ordering something to eat from that diner down the street,” Trina asks from across the desk.

“I could eat. Surprise me and tell me what I owe you.”

“You, don’t owe me a thing. My treat,” she says.

“You’re too good to me sometimes, Trina,” I say, rising from my seat. “I think it’s even time for a coffee refill.”

“That’ll have to wait, ladies,” our colleague, Courtney, says as she hangs up the phone. “EMS is on the way. They’ll be here in ten minutes. Severe burn. Housefire. Child.”

The air in my lungs feels as if it suddenly transforms into smoke, thick and burning, as memories of that night come rushing back.

Memories I want to wash away from my mind.

“Nora, you don’t have to—” Trina starts, but I stop her with a hand up.

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