Pulse

  He kissed the top of my head, sending a chill down my spine. When he pulled away, my blood having reached boiling point, I slapped him.

  “Don’t,” I said harshly. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  He jerked backwards, startled, touching a palm to his cheek. The striking noise seemed to echo throughout the entire apartment. His face was forlorn, stained in red, his mouth painfully twisted.

  His hand was still clutching my wrist. My right hand was still on his bicep. We were still touching, but the wedge between us was like the drop of a guillotine’s blade.

  When he moved closer, it was in centimeters. Slow, and I could hear his heartbeat sounding like the Death drums. Like the Telltale Heart.

  He touched my face, his thumb beneath my chin. I rose to my toes, falling against him, my arms around his neck.

  I hated this feeling. Every second was more painful than the last. And I hated what I was doing: drowning in his arms, in his scent, in his everything. He was a liar, and a fraud, and a senseless, stupid, selfish fool.

  But when he kissed me, his cut lip soft and tasting of copper, I was home.

  I struggled against him, fighting him and fighting myself and feuding against my heart and my head. My body craved him. My mind screamed leave. Run away and never look back.

  “Little fox…”

  How long had it been since I had heard those words?

  His breath was hot against my neck. Every touch of his lips to my skin made my bones go soft. In seconds were were on the floor, tangled, our faces wet with tears and our moans broken with shared suffering. We were as fragmented as we had ever been; stripping ourselves of our clothes until we were just two naked bodies clinging to something that we had already doused in propane and tossed the lit match.

  Alex slid himself inside me, closing his eyes. He moved slowly, kissing the corner of my mouth, the slope of my throat, my tear-stained cheeks. His hand reached up to interlace with mine, our hearts pounding against one another, our skin drenched in sweat and moonlight.

  I dug my fingers into his back. He groaned against my neck. We were both panting, loathsome; craving some kind of catharsis to release us from the pleasure, from the pain.

  He came inside me, deep and swollen. I tightened around him, sighing softly, tilting my head back. My eyes were on the window, on the towering buildings. Everything was slashed with shadowy nightfall.

  This was a mistake.

  Letting him have my body was mistake.

  Letting my hands touch him was a mistake.

  Alex stroked my face, looking at me, absorbing the way my mouth parted, trying to catch my breath. Trying to sift through what exactly had just happened.

  And the orgasm, still slowly flooding over me, hadn’t helped. The pain was still there. Each throb of my heartbeat was like a razor digging deeper and deeper into calloused skin.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “Don’t,” I repeated.

  He looked at if I had just slapped him again. But he didn’t move, he didn’t slide out of me. He stayed, hovering over me, studying the writing inked across my face in red-blotched teary streams.

  “I love you, Mia Holloway,” he said. “Why won’t you let me?”

  I pressed my hands against his chest; he slid out of me, rolling over onto his back.

  “You don’t even know what you’re saying,” I told him. “I’m sorry, Alex. I shouldn’t have let this happen. I should have left along with your ex.”

  “Why?” he demanded. His tone changed; like a fourteen-year-old who had just suffered his first break up. Spurned, sullen. “Why won’t you let me?”

  “Because you don’t know what those words mean. And neither do I,” I told him. “Because you were my doctor, and I was your patient, and this was a mistake of massive proportions.”

  Suddenly aware of my naked frame, I pulled on my shirt, my underwear. He slid back into his boxers.

  “You don’t mean that,” he said.

  “I do,” I said, swallowing another stone that was starting to form in my throat. Forcing myself to not start sobbing again. “You’re too old, Dr. Greene.”

  “Mia.”

  “You’re too old,” I repeated. “And I’m too young for you. For Christ’s sake, you’re over a decade older than me. I’m like a kid compared to you. What do you even see in me? You need to find someone else.”

  He sat there, looking blankly at me, gobsmacked.

  “But I don’t want anyone else,” he said softly.

  “Well, I don’t want you.”

  I didn’t believe a word that I was spilling. Not a single word. And I knew that he knew it, too. He knew I was lying, and I knew that he was hoping that any moment I would stop, and run into his arms, and tell him that I forgave him and that all I wanted was to live with him, and die with him, and all the poetic, Nabokovian prose with him.

  But I said nothing else. I grabbed my sweater, my bag, and I left him there, folded like a child in a cold puddle.

  Aimee was sitting in her car, half-asleep, the AC rattling. When I slunk inside and shut the door, she straightened up.

  “What happened?” she asked. Her face was full of words I didn’t need to say.

  “I’m so stupid,” I whispered. “You were right. I’m such an idiot.”

  I curled up, head against the window, wanting nothing more than to disappear. Wanting nothing more than to forget him. If there was some kind of drug, some kind of memory eraser, I would have taken it in a single dram. No hesitation.

  “You’re not,” Aimee said gently. “You just saw something, a spark of something, and you fell into it. That’s all. That’s all it ever is.”

  Chapter 26

  ALEX

  In the wake of the proverbial crash, the following week was a mix of whiskey and late-night talk shows and little sleep. The sound of the alarm at six o’clock, sharp. The sound of pen against paper, the wheels of gurneys against the sun-speckled floors, the chatter of doctors and nurses and families in crowded hallways.

  But I barely felt as if I were a part of it at all. Inside, I was drifting; exhausted, depressed, and completely drowning.

  As a doctor, though, you can’t let others see this. You have a part to play.

  Standing in the hallway, flipping through one of my assigned files, Grace approached me with a look of concern.

  “I heard,” she said. “About Cait. I’m so sorry, Dr. Greene.”

  I nodded. She slid a second file into my arms, and I glanced at her.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “Do you remember Mr. Moulton?” she asked. “Mid-seventies. Congenial heart failure.”

  “With a refusal to listen to any of the dietary advice I gave him,” I muttered, opening the file. “And roughly eighty pounds of extra weight that he needed to lose. Yes, I remember.”

  I skimmed through the ink. He was back. Cardiac arrest. And now, his heart was giving out. Pumping blood in little spurts.

  “What do we do?” she asked, hushed.

  “He’s stable,” I said. “But the EKG indicates that his heart is weak. Has he been given a shot of Epinephrine yet?”

  She shook her head. My eyes widened.

  “I’m sorry,” she sputtered. “I just – I wanted a consult, first. I didn’t dare do it without your consent. I spoke to Dr. Weisman, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “It’s adrenaline,” I told her. “We aren’t giving him horse tranquilizers, Grace. This is standard protocol.”

  Grace wrung her hand nervously. I sighed softly, turned, and marched down the bright, morning-washed halls. I grabbed a syringe, and a glass vial of Epinephrine, and Grace pitter-pattered behind me as I walked with a rapid pace – feeling admittedly irritated – towards Mr. Moulton’s room.

  There, I knocked. I entered. He was watching some shit program on TV. A paunchy-looking guy was dancing around on stage after having been told that he was not the father.

  Mr. Moulton turned to me, looking exhauste
d and vaguely ashamed. Like a little kid caught red-handed with his sibling’s bucket of Halloween candy.

  I clasped his hand briefly, a congenial gesture, before slipping on a pair of latex gloves.

  Mr. Moulton eyed the syringe.

  “What’s that for?” he asked.

  “For your heart,” I answered. I watched the lazy line dance across the screen of his EKG for a second or two before filling the syringe. “Just a bit of adrenaline to get your heartbeat perked up. Not to worry, Mr. Moulton.”

  I wasn’t about to lecture the guy. There was no point. He was old, and nothing would have changed. All I could do was what little I had available, and hope for the best.

  Grace swapped the fleshy patch of his arm with an alcohol wipe. I gave him the shot, watching the clear liquid slowly dissipate. When finished, we bandaged him up, I shook his hand again, and said:

  “I’ll be back in half hour to check on you,” I told him. “Enjoy whatever this is you’re watching. It looks informative.”

  In the hall, I tore the gloves off loudly, tossing them in the trash. Grace thanked me.

  “Does Mr. Moulton have any family?” I asked her. “He’s not married that I can see. But what about a girlfriend? Next of kin?”

  “He’s seventy-eight,” Grace said. “He’s all by his lonesome, Dr. Greene. Unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately,” I agreed, but I didn’t feel much of anything.

  I raked my fingers through my hair, stressed. I needed air, or a minute alone to get myself together.

  “Why don’t you grab some coffee?” she suggested. “I’ll keep an eye out on Mr. Moulton for you.”

  I gladly took her offer. Quickly beforehand I made a point to check on my other patient, but they were sleeping soundly.

  “I’ll be back,” I told the woman’s husband. “We’ll let her sleep for now.”

  I quietly dipped out of the room, finding some solace in the noisy tranquility of the cafeteria. I had a table to myself. I had some time alone with my screaming, cluttered thoughts.

  Mia.

  Mia in my arms.

  Mia, sprawled out on the floor, her eyes towards the window.

  Did you know that was possible to die of heartbreak? In my profession, it’s very cleverly known as Broken Heart Syndrome.

  But I wasn’t dying yet. Not today.

  Spinning the empty paper cup on the table, like a dreidel, I spotted Grace as she came sprinting around the corner. Her eyes were wired, as if she’d absentmindedly grabbed hold of an electric fence.

  “Dr. Greene,” she said frantically. “We need you. Now.”

  In his room, Mr. Moulton had gone into a second fit of Cardiac arrest. Grace had found him, completely flat-lined. And less than an hour had passed.

  “Fuck,” I hissed. “Oh, fuck.”

  I grabbed the defibrillator as Grace watched, covering her mouth. Pulling up his shirt, I applied the electrodes to skin that gleaned with an unhealthy sweat. My stomach knotted.

  “Clear,” I commanded, sending a jolt through him. His body rose, then fell.

  A second time.

  A third time.

  Nothing.

  Heart pounding, I looked up at the EKG. A solid line, a steady shrill.

  “No,” I said softly. “No. We gave him the Epinephrine. This isn’t right.”

  As I went to send a third jolt, Grace grabbed my arm. And Mr. Moulton lay there, lifeless, his blue eyes staring emptily towards to the ceiling.

  “Dr Greene…” she said. “You need to pronounce him.”

  I shook my head. My throat constricted. I could have started sobbing.

  I had already seen my fair share of patients die. As a doctor, this is expected. You will witness at least one death in your time spent in medical practice.

  But watching Mr. Moulton, as Grace covered him with a white linen sheet, something haunted me. Maybe it was the scant traces of whiskey still in my blood. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or lack of human contact – but as I stood there, stone cold, I had become completely despondent.

  “Time of Death: 10:52am.”

  Dr. Weisman pressed a hand to my shoulder, squeezing. I turned to him, thanking him with a silent nod.

  We both watched with a mutual solemnity as Mr. Moulton’s body was wheeled down to the morgue. Soon they’d strip his bedding, and a new person, a new body, would fill his spot.

  “You never get used to it,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, my voice breaking. “You’re right.”

  Whenever a death of a patient occurs, a formal council is held. It’s kind of like a trial, except held around a large, circular table in a room surrounded with leather chairs and men in exorbitantly nice suits.

  When I entered, I seated myself at the head of the table, clasping my hands. And even though I knew exactly why I was there, somewhere in my self-destructive line of thought, I imagined that I had suddenly been found out – maybe Weisman had said something, or maybe Grace knew more than she’d let on – and I was about to lose my job, my license, my life.

  Every little glance felt incredulous.

  We know what you’ve done.

  We know what you are.

  Now hand in your badge, Dr. Greene.

  But when the meeting was called, and I opened the file, Mr. Moulton’s name dragged me back into the present reality of things.

  “John Moulton has died,” I confessed. “But I followed standard procedure. The Epinephrine injection is commonplace when dealing with heart failure.”

  A shared, collective murmur of voices followed. All joined in agreement:

  He was old.

  Advanced heart failure.

  A history of neglected health.

  Sitting silently, I waited for them to give their concluding remarks.

  “As such,” the head of the Cardiology department ended. “We are sorry for the loss, Dr. Greene. We know these are never easy. But all indications are that the death of John Moulton was a rather inevitable unfortunate event. You are a fine asset to the department. I hope you are aware of this.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  And then they let me go home, as usually done. After a death, any death, a doctor needs to breathe.

  I was entirely numb by the time I crossed the threshold into my apartment. It was mid-afternoon, and the room was harrasingly bright.

  I drew all the blinds, making a dark haven for myself. I was riddled with anxiety. I was riddled with loss.

  Mr. Mouton was dead.

  Mia was gone.

  Cait’s baby was not mine.

  What the fuck did I have going for me now?

  After four shots of Jameson, laying on my couch, I held my phone mere inches from my face, studying the photo that Mia had sent me. In a towel, wet hair clinging to her covered breasts, her red smile slant.

  “Little Fox,” I said gently. I was already more drunk than I should have been.

  I scrolled down until her name was highlighted on my contacts list:

  I miss you. I’m so sorry. Please come over. I need you.

  I studied the words, heart clenching, then deleted the text. The last thing she needed was a blubbering, pathetic excuse for a man-child.

  I closed my eyes, and all I could see was her face.

  I hate you, she had said. I hate you so much.

  You told her I was nothing.

  I don’t want you.

  Hot tears trailed in crystal-sized droplets. It was hard to breathe. And the only person that I wanted to be with then, to have, to hold, despised me.

  With my whiskey glass filled with nothing but air, I threw it against the window and sent shards scattering all over the floor. They glinted like razors in the dim darkness.

  And then, crouching over the mess, I covered my face in shame. In fury.

  “But I don’t want anyone else,” I repeated aloud.

  But there was no one there to hear me. The dead hear nothing.

  Chapter 27

  MIA


  Regret is a funny thing. Not in a literally humorous way, of course. But like a peculiar, abrasive, grating kind of way. It’s the kind of thing that you never really pay much attention to until you’ve managed to do something stupid, and the consequences come spinning straight around to bite you in the ass.

  And oh, I was feeling it.

  Rolled up in bedding, with the blankets pulled over my head, I tried to shield myself from that one jagged slant of sunlight that wouldn’t yield, leaking in through the sliver-sized gap between my drapes.

  What had started out as hunger pains, an incessant gnawing, had morphed into a settled dent in my stomach.

  My bones were sore.

  My eyes were heavy.

  I hadn’t eaten anything aside from half an apple and three Saltines. I couldn’t eat. I could barely keep water down. I just stayed curled up like a wounded animal, my earbuds plugged in, playing “Love The Way You Lie” about a thousand times, and crying, and then playing the song again.

  I guess that’s what happens when a tornado meets a volcano.

  My coping skills were impeccable.

  And on the floor, in the far corner of my room, my phone had yet to make a sound. Not a single text, nor a single phone call.

  I had half begun to doze-off, less from actually being tired and more from lack of nourishment, when a knock came to the door.

  I ignored it.

  Go away, I thought. It was probably nothing. Maybe it was the Census Bureau. Had I filed that weird form out?

  Another knock. The slow click of the lock sliding open, the dragging of the door against linoleum tile.

  “Mia?”

  Aimee’s voice was both melodic and masked with worry. I could feel her flittering about, peeking around the kitchen, the living room, until she finally found me.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Being a stupid, melodramatic twenty-something-year-old. Isn’t that what Millennials are all about? Attention-seeking, Aimee. That’s what I’m doing. And it worked.”

  I didn’t sit up, or draw the blankets back, so I’m not sure what she actually heard. It could have well been a garbled collection of nonsense.