Page 13 of Paging Dr. Hart
“Seven liters total removed,” I say, proudly holding up the last fluid-filled bottle.
Ethan stares at it in awe. “It’s crazy that someone can walk around with all that sloshing inside of them.”
I nod in agreement, pulling off my glasses, the ones I use when I need to see something close up. “Mr. Adams is going to feel better when he wakes up and realizes this is all gone. He’s going to breathe easier. That big belly pushes up on his chest, making it hard to take a deep breath.”
After bandaging the tiny wound from the tube, we exit the patient’s room. The incessant beeping of monitors surrounds us as we walk through the ICU.
“You were really great in there,” Ethan says, his eyes shining.
“Well, I’ve had lots of practice. Being a doctor is basically my whole life.” Usually, that thought makes me happy, but somehow speaking it out loud to Ethan makes it sound hollow. I realize with a start that if I lost this job I would have nothing. It’s become my whole identity, the thing I wake up for in the morning.
My phone dings in my pocket as we exit the double doors of the ICU. When I look at what’s on the screen, a shudder runs through me.
Ethan can’t see this.
I angle the phone away from him, hiding the text. It’s from that same person, the one I don’t know. I had thought about blocking the number after the last disturbing message but decided against it. I hoped it had been a fluke, that Las Vegas picture. Maybe it was a random one-off, a coincidence. Apparently, I was in denial. Today’s text is an image of a gambling chip, the kind you use to bet in a casino. The Statue of Liberty in its center and around its red edge, it reads $5 New York-New York Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas, NV.
My shock must be obvious because Ethan is asking, “Tiffany? Everything okay?” He places his hand lightly on my upper arm, the warmth of his touch burning through the sleeve of my lab coat.
“Oh, yes. Fine.” I quickly adjust my expression, slipping my calm, professional mask on. I’ve slowed my walk while I looked at my phone. Now I speed forward, moving so fast that Ethan has to stretch out his long legs to keep up. We enter the elevator on our way down to the Radiology Department.
My mind whirs, obsessing over the text. What does it mean? Who could have sent it and why? There’s a sinking sensation, a feeling of dread, as I consider the possibilities. I’m so lost in my thoughts that it takes a second to recognize Ethan’s talking to me.
“About earlier, with the ultrasound patient…” He clears his throat and stabs at the first-floor button. The elevator jolts, making my stomach drop, and begins its descent. “I should have listened to you. It’s just kind of hard,” he mumbles, staring down at his feet. “I spent almost two years in internal medicine. I had enough experience that I knew what I was doing, the diagnoses and how to treat them. Now I’m back to square one. I’m glad to finally be in radiology, but it’s frustrating to start all over again.” His eyes slide up to mine, then skitter away. “Anyway, sorry.”
His apology is the last thing I was expecting. I hadn’t given much consideration to how it must feel, being the “new kid” again. Hate to admit it, but I’m impressed by his honesty. “It’s okay. Nobody’s perfect,” I reassure him, wanting to ease his tension.
Somewhere in the shadowy hallways of my past, neon lights flicker, gunshots ring out, and glass shatters, reminding me exactly hownotperfect I am. Ethan has no idea about the mistakes I’ve made.
No one does.
10
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 10
In the summer, a guy named Mike starts to hang around Brandi’s place. He’s younger than Brandi. Good-looking in an unkempt way. String-bean thin with a lightly muscled body that he likes to show off with tight, heavy metal-band t-shirts. During the day, Mike works on cars. At night, he works security at the club where Brandi works.
Brandi is the happiest I have ever seen. She walks around singing and shaking her full hips from side to side. Surprisingly, her singing voice is beautiful, high and clear. I tease Shelly that she’s going to get a new dad. The comment gets me elbowed in the gut.
My mom doesn’t like Mike at all. She interrogates me about him almost every night. How long was he at Brandi’s apartment? Was he ever there alone with me and Shelly? Did he talk to me? Touch me?
She’s overreacting. Mike seems pretty harmless. He listens to music and messes around with his car’s engine down in the parking lot. He spends more time with that car than he does with Brandi. One thing I don’t like about Mike is the sour stench of cigarettes on him, but I’m used to that. Even though Mom doesn’t smoke, she still reeks of it every night when she gets home from work. Sometimes a sickly sweet smell rolls off Mike. Shelly says it’s from something he smokes called pot. Over time, Brandi smells more like that, too.
It turns out I was right. Brandi and Mike elope on a Wednesday night the following spring. In the evening, they show up at my apartment and surprise everyone with the news. Brandi shoves her new gold ring in our faces, grinning. Words slurring, she describes the ceremony.
A red-faced Shelly storms out, interrupting Brandi. We all listen to herfeet pound down the concrete steps that separate our apartments. She slams the front door downstairs so hard the noise sets off a car alarm in the parking lot. Mom tells me to go down and check on her.
As I enter her apartment and walk down the narrow hallway toward her room, Shelly’s harsh sobs are so loud I hear them through the thin walls. Without knocking, I walk in. She’s under the covers, a pillow thrown over her head. I lay down next to her on the pink ruffled bedspread. It’s become more bedraggled since the first time I saw it. Broken threads and stains mar its surface. I touch the red splotch next to my arm where Shelly and I spilled nail polish when we were six. Brandi had been screaming mad at us. It doesn’t seem that long ago.
Silently, I wrap my arm around Shelly’s heaving shoulders. She doesn’t like to be talked out of her pain. Over the years, I’ve learned that trying to use words as comfort at these times turns into an argument. It’s like she believes sympathy is an attack on her sadness. Like it’s a way of saying she has overreacted. No. Better to let her cry it out.
Eventually, she stills. “I hate him, and I hateher,” she whispers angrily. “She’s so freaking selfish. All my mom thinks about is what she wants. She should ask me what I want. Like ask me before she goes off to marry Mike. It affects me too, so shouldn’t I get a say in it? Butno, whatever makes her happy. I’m an afterthought. She never wanted me in the first place.”
Shelly has talked about this fear of being unwanted by her mom before. It all started because of our stupid classmate, Dominic, who lives down the hall. Last year, he told Shelly on the playground that he overheard Brandi say Shelly was a mistake, that she accidentally got knocked up and wished she hadn’t had her.
Who knew if it was the truth? Shelly had taken it to heart, though.
At least Dominic wouldn’t tell that to anyone else. I made sure of it. I had punched him so hard in the face it chipped his front tooth. The other kids stood in a circle around us, chanting, “Fight, fight, fight,” until the principal pulled us apart. As I was being escorted into the front office, I had overheard another student say, “She’s crazy.” Grinning madly, I was happy, satisfied that no one would mess with Shelly or me again.
