Page 35 of Paging Dr. Hart
Melanie: I will. See U in a week.
Tiffany: See you.
28
Tiffy…Tiffy…Tiffy! Wake up!”
Someone’s shaking me awake. Half-asleep, I flail out, smacking into a hard chest. There’s a loud curse, and my arms are pinned. I panic and struggle. “Get off me! What are you doing?”
“Calm down,” says a deep voice, close to my head. “You’re having a nightmare.”
I sit up with a start. Heart pounding. Mouth dry. When I wipe my cheeks, my fingers come away wet. I’ve been crying in my sleep again.
Large, warm hands are wrapped around my upper arms. I stare at them stupidly, then slowly trace them back to their owner. It’s Ethan, sitting on the side of my bed. Holding onto me like he’s scared I might fall off a cliff if he lets go. He waits until the haze of the nightmare leaves my eyes and only then releases me.
I had been running in my dream, my white dress billowing around my ankles, the fabric so long that it tripped me as I ran and ran and ran. I looked back to see what was chasing me. It was a man in a mask, the elegant kind like you might find in Venice, Italy. In my nightmare, those empty eye holes had glowed red, lit from within. Awash in fear and guilt, I had screamed in terror…
That’s when Ethan woke me.
“What happened?” My voice is scratchy from sleep. I know the answer to my question but don’t want to admit it.
Ethan tiredly rubs his face with both hands. He looks exhausted, dark circles forming under his eyes. “You were having a nightmare…again.”
It’s our third week in Cleveland, and I’ve interrupted his sleep every single night with my nightmares. All the other nights, the dreams have led me outonto the balcony. Often, Ethan has joined me there. It’s much easier talking to him in the darkness, where he can’t see my face. We’ve continued to share pieces of ourselves with each other. Pretty pieces and ugly ones, too.
This is the first time he’s come into my bedroom. I must have really frightened him. Lit by the light from the bathroom, Ethan looks at me curiously and asks the same question that he’s asked every night. “What are the dreams about?”
I give the same answer I’ve offered each night. “I don’t remember.”
It’s a lie.
He closes his eyes for so long that I think he’s fallen asleep sitting up. He opens them and pins me with a hard stare. “You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”
I assume Ethan means I’m going to kill him with sleep deprivation, which is a bit melodramatic. “You can go back to bed now. I’m sorry I woke you.” I truly feel bad about it. Ethan shouldn’t have to pay for my sins.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” His eyebrows knit together.
I try for a breezy response. “I’ll be fine. Seriously.”
After he goes back to his room, it takes us both a long time to go back to sleep. Lying in bed, I listen to the squeaking of Ethan’s bedsprings as he tosses and turns. It’s over an hour before his room becomes silent.
It takes even longer for me to succumb that night. When I finally do, the bad dreams chase me into the darkness.
29
Even though I’m groggy from a lack of sleep, the next day work goes smoothly. Ethan and I have been taking turns giving radiology lectures at the noon conferences. We’re making great strides in setting up the radiology exchange program. Only a few more tasks need to be completed before we go back to Columbus. The thought of leaving makes my chest ache ever so slightly. It’s been nice having someone around all the time. Less lonely.
Toward the end of the day, Ethan tells me that he’s going to run some errands before coming back to our apartment. I nod distractedly, focusing on a complex MRI case and only half-listening. Afterward, I realize I should have told him to get more vanilla creamer. I’m almost out.
It feels odd to come home to an empty apartment. I’ve gotten used to a routine with Ethan. Usually, we walk home and change out of our work clothing. Ethan gives me a few moments alone while I catch up on emails or read. He seems to understand that I need some quiet time to reset.
We order dinner or make something simple together. Ethan is a better cook, so I’m his sous-chef and mostly chop vegetables. After dinner, Ethan pretends to fight with me about what to watch on TV until he eventually gives in, and we settle down to see the show I picked. Then it’s off to the bathroom, where Ethan spends an abnormally long time on his teeth, and finally to bed.
Now, barefoot in the kitchen, I busy myself tidying up while I listen for his return. Not much later, the front door opens and closes. I listen as Ethan’s foot falls walk to his bedroom. Thirsty, I go to the refrigerator to pick out a drink.
Ethan comes into the room. He’s changed into the more comfortable T-shirt and athletic shorts that he likes to wear outside the hospital. The shirt hugs the gentle curve of his muscular chest and shoulders. He places a new bottle of my creamer in the refrigerator, reaching past me, his arm gentlybrushing my shoulder. The heat from his body transfers to mine. His scent of clean soap, laundry, and mint gum washes over me. I’m suddenly aware of how close he is. I could reach out and touch him, press my finger into the cleft in his chin…but I don’t.
“Thanks for getting that,” I say, a bit breathless.
