Page 39 of Forget Me Not

“Shut up.” I throw my banana peel at his head, but he ducks, making it hit the wall behind him. It’s only us in the locker room right now, or else I never would’ve thrown it. “It wasn’t anything dirty, he just said he’s excited to see me later.”

“Aw, cute,” he says, picking up the banana peel and throwing it in the trash for me. “You’re disgustingly in love.”

“I’m not in love,” I defend. The words being said out loud bring me a sense of discomfort.

“Yes, you are. I’ve known you for how long? And I’ve never seen you smile like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re in love.”

“I’m not in love.”

“Are too. You’re so in love.” He emphasizes the “so,” smiling from ear to ear, amused by my discomfort.

“Whatever, you’re a child. I need to get back to work.” I stand up, gathering my things to head back into the ER where I’m working for the day.

“At least I can admit when I’m in love,” he yells as I close the door behind me, leaving him in there.

I walk through the hallway back to the ER, theLword still sour on my tongue. I’ve never told a man I’m in love with them, mainly because I never have been. I never let my feelings wander that far. Love has been a foreign concept to me since the last time I said the words five years ago to Lennox’s lifeless body. I vowed to never let myself feel love again after that, the concept of loving and losing too much for me to emotionally bear. But I never took Kade into account.

His eyes swirl in deep, rich blues that I continue to get lost in. His hand when he holds mine, grounding me. His arms, when he holds me, make me feel safe, cocooned from the pain that constantly follows me. The thought of loving him is just as terrifying as not loving him. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to admit it out loud.

I go about my day, seeing patients as they come in, never taking a moment to rest. It’s one of the reasons I love this job so much. It doesn’t give you the time to dwell on outside factors. All that matters is the patient in front of you and making sure that they’re okay. The sound of the busy emergency room, the sounds of the patients’ monitors beeping to the rhythm of their hearts, chatter from every corner. It’s an organized chaos that calms me in a way nothing else can.

I walk out of the patient room, leaving the grumpy fifteen-year-old boy who I just saw with his mom. He came in with a sprained wrist, although his mom swore it was broken, even though X-rays proved otherwise. Cara, the nurse working with me, assured her so, but she needed to hear it from me as well.

I walk down the hallway and into the next patient’s room. The patient is a middle-aged man. He is sitting quietly in the hospital bed, his back toward me as I enter the room.

“Hello, sir. I’m Dr. Hart. Can you tell me your name?” I smile over at him, hoping to gain his attention.

He continues to stare at the window on the opposite side of the room, not acknowledging me. I slowly approach the other side of the room so that I am in his eyeline.

“Excuse me, sir? Can I get your name?” I ask him, but he still doesn’t look at me.

“No,” he says, barely above a whisper. “No, no, no.” He continues to whisper the word under his breath. He abruptly stands from the bed, beginning to pace back and forth in the small space between the bed and the window. At this point, it seems pretty clear that something isn’t right.

“Sir, can you tell me your name and what is wrong?” I keep my voice calm and quiet, hoping it will ease him. He continues repeating himself, closing his eyes.

“I can’t do that,” he says, a little louder than a whisper this time.

It’s the way he says the words, almost in shock, that makes me certain he isn’t talking to me. I look out the glass door of the patient room to see Cara approaching, I make sure the patient still isn’t looking at me before mouthing, “potential code white” to her and she nods, immediately understanding.

“Is someone talking to you, sir? If you tell me what they’re saying, maybe I can help.” I stay still in front of the bed as he paces next to it.

“They don’t want to talk to you. They want to talk to me. They always want to talk to me.” He pauses. “No, I can’t do that. No, that is too much. But maybe not enough. It is too much. No, no, no.” He goes back to whispering the word over and over.

The way he talks leads me to believe he is having auditory hallucinations. I stay calm, trying to talk with him but not pushing him too hard while I wait for a team from the psychiatric department to come help. I keep subtly looking through the glass door as I wait for help to arrive.

“Can you talk to me a little about what you’re hearing, sir?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer me, rather the hallucinations.

“No, no, no,” he repeats at almost a yell now.

I try to discreetly reach into the pocket of my scrubs to grab my phone and check on where the team is, but the movement startles him. His eyes lock directly onto mine before zeroing in on where my hand is in my pocket.

“Stop it,” he yells loudly, his eyes slamming closed again and his hands pushing out in front of him as if he’s trying to forcefully push someone away. Unfortunately for me, I’m now standing directly in front of him.

He is a good six inches or so taller than me and must have at least a hundred pounds on me. Both of his hands are locked in fists as they push me forcefully back. His right fist connects with my left cheek and ear, while his left fist connects with my shoulder. The pain radiates through both areas. The force causes me to fall to the floor behind me, my butt slamming harshly against the tile.

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