Page 69 of Holiday Star
A lone paparazzi caught my eye when I looked through that crowd. The only one still watching me rather than his screen. The tip of his cigarette glowed red as snow fell down all around us.
Needless to say, I made the front page. I stared at it in the grocery store checkout line. A picture of me with my mouth a jagged gasp and my hair tangled. On my toes, I’m jabbing my finger into the face of the scary-looking bodyguard, who lurches away from me in fear. The headline reads, “Caleb Lawson’s ex-girlfriend tells him to f*ck off.”
I mean, how can I complain? It was an accurate quote.
Caleb was wrong. I can handle the press. It’s easy to tune out their noise. What’s harder to deal with is work. Those first weeks back in the hospital, I’m bombarded with questions. Nurses and techs I’ve never met before call out my name like we’re old friends.
They ask about Caleb, about me, about us. They ask how he takes his coffee (he prefers tea, but I don’t tell them that) and how he is in bed (fantastic, but thinking about that makes it hard to breathe).
I deny, deny, deny. “Oh, that was a mistake,” I say. “That’s not me in the picture.” I try for a lighthearted laugh and end up choking. “He’s a distant relative. I’ve only met him a handful of times.”
No one believes me. They all saw the photo, but my lies are enough to stop their questions. After a month, things start to quiet down. The number of microphones in my face each morning dwindles. The whispers and stares in the hospital hallways diminish.
That’s why I’m extra-irritated to be called into the office of the hospital’s chief medical officer, my boss’s boss. Top of the doctor food chain.
“Dr. Benson.” I swallow nervously when I shake his hand and take the seat he offers. We’re in his corner office, with a view of the Hudson River out of his window. Wooden framed diplomas with shiny gold seals line the wall. I find myself distracted, reading them rather than listening to what he has to say. There are so many intimidating letters after his name on those certificates. M.D., Ph.D, FACP, FAHA, FACC. Even I don’t know what they all mean.
“Is it going to continue to be a problem?” he asks, and, judging by the scowl on his face, he has repeated this question several times.
“I’m sorry. Is what a problem?” I cross my legs, think better of it, and uncross them.
“Your involvement with celebrity personalities. The press that waits for you outside of our hospital’s doors every day. The foul language published by the newspapers.”
Shit. He saw that one.
“No, sir. Dr. Benson. It—I won’t be a problem.” I shake my head. This meeting is terrifying. Will this man fire me?
Caleb’s voice whispers in my mind.You could lose it all. Everything you worked so hard for.
Shut up, I snarl at imaginary Caleb, willing myself to hold still and not fidget.
“It’s going to be fine,” I say, not sure who needs more reassurance, Dr. Benson or myself. “This is a tiny blip. Those reporters will get bored soon. In fact, every day, more of them leave.”
He looks doubtful, but I’m just one more unpleasant meeting in his day, so he releases me with a vague warning to “try to stay out of trouble.”
Whatever that means. Trouble is following me these days, not the other way around. If I could avoid it, I would.
39
Stupid things trick me into thinking about him. They come out of nowhere, slap me in the face, and run away before I can hit back. A quaint used bookshop, with a battered copy of Twilight in the window. The smell of a man’s cologne in the hospital elevator. Sunlight filtering through clouds, its golden beams the same color as his hair.
I think of him during a particularly difficult shift. I’d just transferred a forty-year-old mother up to the ICU when we lost her pulse, and she stopped breathing. We coded her for over an hour, but all her heart monitor showed us was a flat green line. We couldn’t get a single beep of life back. Every death is hard, but the young ones, like her, always hit closer to home.
As I sit next to her body and write out the death certificate, I glance up at the TV mounted on the wall. I do a double take when I see Caleb on the rectangular screen. It’s a rerun of one of his old movies. His face was still rounded with teenage youth in this film, those cheekbones not so sharp yet.
The sound is off so I can’t hear his lines, but the movie must be a romance because he’s smiling at a gorgeous actress and she’s smiling back at him. He closes his eyes and leans toward her. The camera zooms in for a closeup as their lips touch. Caleb kisses her passionately as I watch, unable to rip my gaze away.
Gagging, I bolt for the doctor’s lounge, sprinting down the long beige hallways until I reach it. It’s past three a.m. and I’m all alone, so there’s no one to see me vomit noisily into the trash can.
At a round table, I collapse and bury my head in my folded arms. I burst into heaving, body-shuddering tears. Bawling so hard that I can’t catch my breath. I’m hyperventilating, wheezing, struggling for oxygen so much that tiny white spots float in front of my eyes. This a full-on panic attack. Like the ones I used to have after Dad died.
I’m going to pass out. Dimly, I imagine some other doctor finding me unconscious on the floor. It’ll be so humiliating, all the hospital gossip stirring up again. Dr. Benson will fire me for causing more drama.
A hand is on my shoulder, shaking gently, but I refuse to open my eyes. I don’t want anyone to see me like this, so undone.
A woman’s voice, honey-smooth, says my name over and over. “Dr. Wright. Dr. Wright. Come on. You’re okay.”
As I gasp desperately for air, she becomes sterner, more commanding. “Stop that caterwauling right now, little missy,” she snaps. “You need to breathe.”
