Page 76 of Broken Dream
Tabitha’s hands are already steady, her scalpel poised. My chest tightens as I approach their table, the pull of Angie’s presence something I wish I could ignore. I force my focus to Tabitha instead.
“Tabitha,” I say, keeping my voice light but firm. “It’s not about speed. Just take it one layer at a time. Look at how the skin stretches slightly before the blade cuts. That’s your cue to use even pressure.”
She nods, her movements jerky but improving as she follows my guidance. Angie doesn’t look up, but I feel her awareness of me, like a current passing between us. I grip the edge of the table to ground myself and clear my throat.
“Good work,” I say briskly, stepping back and turning my attention to the next group.
Elijah and Ralph are next. Elijah is already slicing, his confidence almost startling.
“Elijah, you’re a natural.” I nod as he makes smooth, even cuts.
He beams, but Ralph looks less certain.
“Ralph, it’s okay to press a little more,” I say, standing beside him. “The tissue won’t tear if you’re controlled. Let the blade do the work, not your hand.”
“I’m trying,” he says a little sharply.
I raise an eyebrow. “Everything all right there, Ralph?”
He glares at me for just a moment. But then his eyes soften as he realizes who he’s talking to. “Sorry, Dr. Lansing. Just a little overexcited, I guess.”
I pat him gently on the shoulder. “We all react differently on the first day. Not a problem, Ralph. Just keep yourself focused.”
He nods, his eyes narrowed at me. “I will, Dr. Lansing.”
“Call me Jason, please.”
“Right. Jason.” He exhales sharply, nodding as he finally pushes down with just enough force to make a clean incision.
“There you go. Perfect,” I say. “Keep going like that.”
As I move back toward the center of the room, I glance at Angie again. She’s leaning over the cadaver, her hair tucked neatly under her surgical cap. She’s not cutting. So far she’s letting Tabitha do everything.
If it were any other student, I’d put a stop to it, tell them they both need to share the burden equally.
But I can’t. Not today. The idea of standing there, close enough to catch the faintest trace of whatever perfume lingers on Angie’s skin, feels dangerous. Unprofessional. I continue walking, keeping my distance, focusing on the others.
Next time, I’ll make sure Angie cuts.
Next time.
“Linda, how’s it going now?” I ask, circling back.
“Better,” she mutters, her voice tight with concentration.
“Good. That’s what I like to hear.”
As I circle back to Tabitha and Angie’s table, I linger despite myself. Tabitha is focused, her brow furrowed as she carefully deepens her incision, the tension in her shoulders giving away how hard she’s concentrating. But it’s Angie who catches my attention—or, more specifically, her stillness. Her gloved hands hover above the cadaver, the scalpel poised but unmoving, as though the blade weighs a hundred pounds.
“Tabitha,” I say, my voice steady, “you’re doing well. Just follow the natural line. Smooth, even strokes.”
Tabitha nods, offering a quiet, “Thank you.”
Angie still hasn’t said a word, her body stiff, her face pale. She’s staring down at the incision, not with curiosity or focus, but with something else—something closer to dread.
This time I have to say something.
I force myself to keep my tone neutral, professional. “Angie, is everything all right?”
