by Hayes, Liv
Cambridge, I thought to myself. Cambridge, Mass. Cambridge, UK. The tiny coincidence (did it count?) made me smile.
Clicking back, I sifted through the few images that were available – mostly small, pixel-y shots, but they were still very much him. A bit of stubble, full lips, vibrant eyes. The shock of dark hair and wry smile. A man, not a boy. A man who had accomplished, so it seemed, a great deal. And I wondered how old he was. Early thirties, maybe?
Glancing around my room, I couldn’t help but feel slightly juvenile. Everything smelled of Victoria Secret body spray, and the floor was covered with clothes both washed and in need of washing – but because I never actually put my clothes away, I couldn’t tell.
I contemplated the morning, and how Dr. Greene seemed sincerely interested. I could see it, I could feel it. I couldn’t have been that delusional, could I?
But what did he see? Because what I saw, as I met my own reflection in the mirror that hung on my bedroom door, was a twenty-two-year-old girl. A twenty-two-year-old girl who watched too much Netflix, and liked to eat ice cream out of Tupperware containers instead of actual dishware, and didn’t wear sexy pajamas or even owned clothing nearly as nice as Dr. Greene probably did. A girl who could belt out Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space” like nobody’s business, but had no real grasp on science, or the mechanics of the body, or the grand inner-weaving that composed the human frame.
A girl. I was a girl.
And he was a man.
I was his patient, and he was my doctor.
So where could it go, anyway?
I sighed, shut my laptop, and lay back.
His words still pressed some untouched button deep inside of me. The brush of his fingers was still hot against my wrist.
But there was nothing to be done about it.
Chapter 4
ALEX
First, do no harm.
Alright, so that’s actually a myth – a common misconception often attributed to the Hippocratic Oath. But even as doctors, we use it. We tuck it away in our pockets like a Post-It note; a reminder of the oaths we take, and the paths we walk as medical professionals.
The most fucked-up part of it all is that we’re human, with human bones and human blood. Yet still, there are those that we meet with whom we can have nothing to do with. Even if the feelings are real. Even if we want them.
I had just come back from a run, and the sun was still low behind the buildings. It was going to be a hot day, and I could already smell the heady trace of highway smog in the air – the heat just made everything worse. It colored the people with a thick sense of irritation. People were, on the whole, pissy-er in the summertime. And God, the rain.
I blinked, glancing down towards the streets, where people were scattered like grains of rice. From where I stood, higher than the eye of God, even the cars darted around like ants. Indistinguishable.
My thoughts shifted to Mia, and I wondered if she was still asleep, or what she was doing, or if she was wondering the same.
Goodbye, Dr. Greene.
When the elevator doors closed, I had retreated into into an empty linen closet and tried to compose myself. When that failed, I took the elevator down to the first floor, popped my head into Triage, and said:
“I’m taking an early lunch.”
The nurses nodded. They flipped through their own paperwork, busy with their own patients and orders and thoughts. But I didn’t even bother taking lunch, either. I simply got into my Porsche, turned the air-conditioning on, and contemplated what an absolute lunatic I was.
I had taken a vow. I had made a sworn promise.
And here I was, obsessing over this girl, like a fucking juvenile. Not a grown man, in his mid-thirties, with his whole life sprawled out in front of him, full of plausible, viable possibility. And the statistical results were not in mine, nor Mia’s favor.
A light breeze tousled my hair, and I took in one final flicker towards the florescent horizon before walking inside.
Beneath the harsh jets of scalding water, I came with an almost apocalyptic intensity to the thought of Mia, her back against the glass tiles, her eyes tilted upwards towards mine, her lip caught between my teeth.
Fuck.
Then I dressed: a shirt, tie, lab-coat. I laced up my shoes, sighed heavily, and idled for a moment in the parking garage, staring through the tinted-windshield of my Porsche as if looking for something. And I guess I was, really. It was just something I’d already lost.
But I could play the adult. I could continue on leading the part of a man who had once had everything neatly nestled in a snug little box. I just needed to let this fixation drop.
And how do men do this?
Well, it’s not pretty. I’m not proud of it, either. But there’s only one real answer: we find someone else.
So after my rounds, sitting at the corner-table of the cafeteria, when Dr. Weisman came up to me, knocked me on the shoulder, and asked: “How are things, Al?” I nodded, shoved a fork-full of quinoa into my mouth, and decided to play the game.
“Alright, Weis. How’s the wife?”
He grinned. What a seedy fucker.
“She’s fine. The kids are beautiful. The dog is great. The near-million-dollar mortgage on that Tuscan estate that Elaine insisted we raise the girls in is still burning a hole in my pocket. But dammit, Al,” Dr. Weisman always called me Al, and I loathed it more than young boys loathe eating their vegetables. “When are you gonna find yourself a wife?”
“I’m not sure if you recall, Nick, but I’m still in recovery from the departure of my previous intended,” I muttered, noticing the small stain – ink, probably – on Dr. Weisman’s lab-coat. It bothered me more than was probably normal.
“Oh, Alex, we both knew exactly what that was. Sure, she was gorgeous, but you looked at her with a fondness most men only reserve for prostate exams,” he laughed. He had a smoker’s laugh. “You should come to this benefit that Elaine is holding tonight. I could introduce you to some women.”
“Jesus, Nick,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“What’s not to know?” he pressed. “When’s the last time you got laid, anyway?”
I know what you’re thinking: how in the honest-to-God hell could a doctor speak this way? But they can, and they do. A patient’s ears will simply never hear it.
I cleared my throat, set my fork down, and cut a glance at my watch. In an hour I’d need to leave for the office, but I was ready to make any excuse to bail early. I’d cleared through my roster of patients and had nothing better to do than turn coffee into piss, anyway.
“Can’t say I recall,” I said. “But you know, it’s just not a good time for me, Nick. Though I appreciate the sentiment, I’m focused on other pursuits at the present moment.”
“Such as?”
Raising an eyebrow, I let my shoulders rise and fall.
“I’ve been doing some research into the treatment of heart-murmurs in premature infants,” I disclosed to him. “Did you know that you can now repair a murmur microscopically, without incision? Twenty years ago, the scars these surgeries left behind could stretch and cover entire side of someone’s torso. Now there’s not even the slightest mark.”
Dr. Weisman smiled tightly.
“You aren’t in Pediatrics.”
“I’ve been thinking of publishing an article. One doesn’t need to be in Pediatrics to muse about Cardiology-related breakthroughs in Pediatrics.”
I stood, picked up my plate, and half-watched as Dr. Weisman removed his cell phone discreetly from his coat pocket, looked at it, then immediately slid it back in place.
“The wife?” I asked.
We both knew the answer. Weisman smiled; the perfect bastard.
“An old student,” he explained. “We’re meeting for coffee this afternoon. She’s completing her residency at Moffit. She’d like my insight on a few things. You know how it is.”
“I guess.”
As he walked away, I thought about Mia, and immed
iately remembered that I had scheduled her for an appointment at the office tomorrow at 2:30 in the afternoon.
On cue, my insides started to ache. Once again, I felt disarmed.
Before Dr. Weisman could escape, I called out to him.
“Nick,” I said.
“What’s up, Al?” he asked.
I smiled bleakly. In the back of my head, that distant oath still rung.
I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.
If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter.
…do no harm.
“What time is the benefit?” I asked. “I’ll iron a shirt.”
The last time I went to any sort of banquet was when I met my ex, who until this point, I realize, has remained nameless. Her name, Caitlin, means pure – though she was anything but. Not that I’m trying to make any kind of judgments here, but as someone who spent the better part of five years with her, I have the authority to make an observation or two.
Anyway, it was a benefit to raise money for a group of aspiring doctors to take their profession overseas, serving the underprivileged in places like the Middle East, or Haiti. And I was three Guinesses in when Caitlin had approached me – frosted hair, wide grin, slant mouth that was not so much charming as naturally asymmetrical – but that’s alright.
“Hi,” she’d said. “I’m Cait.”
“Alex,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She extended a hand, and we shook as if making a deal. And that was all there was to it, really. I have no particular thoughts to add to the story, aside from the fact that she got on well with my folks when they came for the occasional visit, and that the sex was good, and that she was – in the traditional sense, I guess – very beautiful.
But the thing of it is, I was a lonely man. And when you’re lonely, and what you have doesn’t quite fit the needs, quench the palate, or so on…you keep searching even after something falls into your lap. Or you simply check out.
And Caitlin, with her perfectly-manicured nails and white blouses and tight skirts; her penchant for letting my credits cards burn hot in her wallet – she wasn’t particularly loving, but neither was I. We fought a lot. She liked to break dishes, and I liked to slam doors. And when it was over, and she packed up her things, I sat out on the cement deck, eyes caught on a sliver of moon, and contemplated why I had even bothered dedicating any amount of time to something that, when ended, I didn’t even feel an ounce of loss for.
This night wasn’t much different, except I wore a nicer suit, and put on a different cologne, and got slightly more drunk than I intended to off a few too many Manhattans. I hung around, wandering through a sea of the impeccably dressed; the kind who spent what some would consider a year’s salary on the accessories hanging around their necks and wrists, and mulled over how screwed-up it was that people were supporting this Big Pharma event that was thinly veiled as a cocktail party.
When a small brunette approached me, smiled, and tilted back her drink, I smiled back.
“What’s your name?” I asked her. Only I didn’t care, because sometimes I’m an asshole.
“Sarah,” she said.
“Sarah,” I said. “I’m Alex.”
“And what do you do, Alex?”
I knew what she was. A hunter of the most obvious kind. But it was fine, because it was only for a night, and I wasn’t about to let someone so obvious sink her red-painted claws into my nice jacket.
“What does anyone do around here?” I mused. “I’m a doctor. Cardiology. What do you do?”
“A little of this, a little of that.”
“Sounds whimsical.”
“I guess,” she said. She looked liked the kind of person that guessed a lot. “But I saw you from across the room, and I knew that I needed to say hello.”
So we shook hands, and like a deal, the events that followed sealed themselves. I took her back to my place, and fucked her on the couch while she was still wearing her cocktail dress. I didn’t come, but she did, so I chalked it up to an overall success. And when she was asleep, with a blanket draped over her pretty gown like some typical PG-13 rated rom-com (only there was no romantic dalliance here), I sat up in bed with my laptop open, staring into the glow of the single photograph of Mia that I could find – on her Facebook page. A new low in terms of the middle-aged-male-stalker, of course, but when in Rome.
Her eyes were lit up. She wore a hooded sweatshirt, with plain jeans, and no makeup. It made me think about the girl in the other room, and how these women all tried so fucking hard.
The thing is, people often think that because doctors have a substantial salary, and can buy nice things, that their women need to look like the starlets on magazine covers. People often forget that we were born from mothers who wore old jeans and carried us around in worn Tshirts. People forget that we’re not all striving for unattainable perfection.
I didn’t come that night. Sure, I could have. But instead, I fell asleep with that image burned into my head.
That was enough.
Chapter 5
MIA
Sitting in the waiting room, I couldn’t help but wonder why waiting rooms always seemed so bland – and Dr. Greene’s office was no different. The walls and the floors were all colored in shades of green that reminded me of toothpaste. But I guess it made sense – this wasn’t a business office. A place where you might expect sharper colors and colder-looking furniture. You want people to feel safe. Bland colors, I suppose, do just that.
On the television, a news broadcast flashed across the screen: a sixteen-wheeler had caused a pile-up on I-4. The fatalities were staggering.
I sighed inwardly, turning back to the paperback resting on my lap – the text that I would be using to write my final essay for my French literature class – Antoine de-Saint Exupery’s The Little Prince. I remember picking it up for the drawings, and sticking around for the words.
Outside, I could hear the beginnings of rain fall. The clouds had hung heavy with water all afternoon, and it was the kind of rain that you sit around, anticipating. You could smell it in the air.
I flipped through a few pages, sighing, and glanced at the clock. I didn’t want to anticipate seeing Dr. Greene. I didn’t want to think about how fast I had gone from lamenting Evan’s cheating to not even wondering what he was doing, or where he was sleeping, or if he was off screwing or falling in love with another girl.
My legs continued to wobble. I had worn a pair of jeans that I liked enough when I was looking them over in the full-length mirror of my bedroom, but now I felt frumpy and under-dressed. My sweatshirt felt too baggy, and the jeans felt too saggy, and my hair, I was certain, probably could have been smoother. Humidity ruins everything.
I pressed my lips together, reminding myself that only a weirdo would care so much for a stranger. The adrenaline nipped at my skin like the first frost of a winter I had never felt. I had never seen snow in all my life, but I imagined it felt something like this.
“Mia Holloway,” a nurse said.
I blinked, stood, and nodded.
“Hi,” I said. “That’d be me.”
I followed her down the narrow hallway, noting the few men (and one woman) in their clean, white coats. But none of them were Dr. Greene, and for a flash-second I envisioned being told that he wasn’t around, and that I had been assigned some other doctor, and that – as if by the snap of a finger – I would never see him again.
“Here,” the nurse said. She wore black scrubs, as did all the nurse staff, it seemed. We stepped into a small examining room that was still very much as toothpaste-colored as everywhere else. After taking my weight, she added: “You can have a seat by the desk.”
So that’s what I did. And when she took my blood pressure, there was no surprise when I watched her eyebrows raise, tw
o golden arches:
“It’s high,” she noted. “Very high, actually.”
“Oh,” I said, half embarrassed. I might have known why, but what do you say to that? “I guess that’s kind of weird.”
She nodded, removing the band from around my arm, and told me that Dr. Greene would be in shortly. And then, like flash of smoke, she was gone. I was alone.
Every cell in my body seemed to freeze. I clutched the well-worn book in my hands, trying to catch my breath. All around me, the room itself was sterile and clean and lacked any trace of the kind of place you would expect to meet someone whom you felt a sense of longing for. The walls were covered in charts depicting the various parts of the heart, which looked a lot like a fist, I acknowledged. There was a large model that sat atop the desk beside me, next to the computer. It was all so formal. So professional.
My own heart thudded. I looked down at my hands, at my fingernails that were bitten down more than I would have liked them to be, and closed my eyes.
When the echo of a door-knock sounded, they fluttered open. I looked up, and saw Dr. Greene in the doorway with a chart in his hands. The look on his face was impossible to read.
“Mia,” he said formally. “How are you this afternoon?”
“Fine,” I said, fidgeting slightly. “But the weather has me feeling a little drowsy.”
“Rain is good for that,” he remarked. Dr. Greene walked over, took my hand, and squeezed gently. I exhaled softly. “I’ve heard through the grape-vine that your pulse was high.”
“A little, I hear.”
He smiled. I wanted him to touch me again. Please, please, touch me.
And then, as if hearing my own thoughts, he offered a hand, and I placed mine in his, and he held two fingers to the flesh of my wrist. I could feel the pulse beneath his fingertips.
His eyes fell, soft and sullen.
“It seems better now,” he said gently. As the words fell, he seemed to catch sight of the book on my lap. “The Little Prince?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s my favorite book. I’m actually rereading it for a paper I’m writing for my French Literature final. We’ve been given the last few weeks to write our papers in advance, and so…” I trailed off a bit. “I thought this is what I would choose.”