Pulse

by Hayes, Liv

  But I felt her hand against my shoulder-blade. I heard her sigh.

  “You’ve got just slightly over a month until you’re leaving here for good,” she said. “And here you are, drunk on the devastation of losing someone who was never yours to begin with.”

  She peeled back the blanket, and I groaned.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You’re completely gaunt. When was the last time you ate?”

  “I don’t remember,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Let me make you something,” she insisted. “You need to eat, Mia.”

  “I can’t eat,” I told her. “I can’t make myself do anything.”

  I could feel her rise to her feet, walk over to the drapes, and adjust them so that even the sliver of sunlight was gone. There was the sound of her kicking up laundry, her exacerbated, over-drawn sigh.

  “Have you given Cambridge your answer?”

  “Yes. No. Not applicable,” and then, decidedly, I peeked my head out of the covers. “Yes. It’s the one thing I’ve been able to muster up doing. It’s in the post.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now I’m going to make you something. You have soup, right?”

  “In the pantry,” I told her. “Campbell’s something. Tomato, I think.”

  And like magic, my phone sounded.

  I sat up, slowly, weakly, and turned in the direction of the little lit-up, noise-making rectangle. Science. It was all so crazy. And I was so starved, my bones all chalk and dust, that when I started to stand, a rush of dizziness overthrew me.

  The room began to flicker, like static on a screen.

  Aimee grabbed my arm.

  “Mia,” she said. “Mia, sit back down.”

  “I need to get that…” I said. “It could be him.”

  I never found out, of course. I hit the ground, and the room when dark, before I even had a chance to answer.

  I regained consciousness as two EMTs were loading me into an ambulance. Aimee was right next to me, holding my hand.

  “No,” I said, trying to sit up. The blinding strike of a headache sent me straight back down. “I’m fine. I can’t go to the hospital. This is too much.”

  They took my pulse. Listened to my heart.

  “We’d like to have you checked out,” the EMT insisted. “Your pulse is high, Miss Holloway.”

  Not so unusual, I thought.

  I let my head fall against the gurney, and turned to Aimee.

  “Did you pick up the phone?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “And who was it?”

  “It was who you had likely anticipated it to be,” she said mildly. “He told me to call for an ambulance.”

  Aimee brushed a bit of hair away from my forehead; her palms were cool, her fingers dry. Neither of us spoke for the whole ride. It wasn’t until we were alone, in a room divided only by flimsy curtains, that I said.

  “You know, I’m not some scorned girl. I left him. I walked out.”

  Aimee made no motion, said no words.

  “What happened?” she asked. “When you two saw each other?”

  I didn’t want to tell her. We had sex. Cried. I left him in a puddle of his own tears.

  I glanced at the tape wound around my wrist, at the needle where, through an IV, fluids were being pumped through blue veins.

  “It went too far, is all.”

  Aimee couldn’t stay, but Eric popped in briefly for a visit before collecting her. He brought yellow roses that smelled like those from the hospital gift shop. I thanked him, staring at the flashy-colored flowers in the bright pink, plastic vase. A temporary distraction, if nothing else.

  It felt like a solid century before someone actually showed up. Most of my time spent in the ER was listening to the ugly sounds of pained moans and wet coughs. The wheels of wheelchairs or beds against the uneven floors. The sounds of fingers against keyboards.

  I wanted to go home. But I was also, deep down, hoping he would show up.

  And he did, because of course he would.

  When he drew back the curtain, he looked as I was partly expecting: worried, shaken. He tried to keep the facade of the mild-mannered, pleasant (but not too pleasant) doctor going, but when he touched my hand, I saw his expression fall.

  “Little fox,” he said gently. “You have someone looking out for you, it seems.”

  He approached me warily, seating himself down on the fold-out chair beside my bed. Adjusting his stethoscope, his lips fell to a straight line as he listened to my heart.

  “Your heart-rate is all over the place,” he said quietly.

  “So everyone has said,” I told him. “Normal occurrence. You’ve said there’s nothing wrong with my heart, so…”

  He was balancing my file on his knees, his legs wobbling anxiously. He flipped it open, glancing at results from the ordered lab-work.

  “Well, you haven’t been eating,” he said. “And you have a low-grade fever.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  His eyes met mine, and it felt like a blow to chest. How could looking at someone, such a simple thing, feel so impossible.

  He had told me that he loved me.

  I had seen him cry.

  I had seen him collapse, like a mannequin, to the floor.

  But I don’t want anyone else, he’d said.

  “It means I’m having you kept overnight for observation,” he answered. “Get your fluids up, get your levels right. You’re malnourished. And once you’ve eaten, and can keep it down, we’ll let you go.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Tomorrow morning, most likely,” he said. Standing, he stood awkwardly until finally settling on his parting remark: “I’ll let nurses know you’ve been assigned a room. Expect your chariot to arrive soon, milady.”

  I gave a small smile. Which was nice in the mix of all the terrible things I was feeling.

  “Could you take me?” I asked. “To my room, I mean. Or are you busy?”

  His hand brushed against the fabric siding. I was suddenly all too aware of the fact that there weren’t actually walls around us. Every little thing just shy of whispers could be heard.

  “I have two other patients to see,” he told me. “I’ll be back.”

  It took an hour, but he returned with a wheelchair in tow. He wheeled me, silently, through the quiet halls that were soaked in twilight. We rode the elevator up four flights, and briefly I felt his fingers – accidentally, I think – brush against my neck as he he moved the wheelchair forward.

  In the room, which was blessedly a single, he watched me with an almost mournful look on his face as I got into bed. He adjusted the IV accordingly, ensuring that I wasn’t too wrangled up in tubes. And when I had the blankets snugly yanked over my legs (because even despite the doctor-patient dynamic, hospital gowns are never sexy), I looked at him.

  “I’m sorry I left like I did,” I said. “The other night. I shouldn’t have just stormed out. It was immature.”

  “It was immature of me to keep things from you,” he said. I felt the creak of the mattress as he sat down on the end of the bed. “It was fucked up. I shouldn’t have done that. I just didn’t know what to do.”

  “But the baby isn’t yours.”

  “No,” he said, and the word fell in such a way that it sounded raw. “It’s not mine.”

  He moved his body away – not directly, but the shift in his unspoken language, the language of limbs, was unmistakable.

  “Did you want the baby?” I asked. “Answer honestly.”

  “I’m not sure what I wanted,” he confessed. “And that is being honest. I think I just got caught up in what I thought was happening, and was trying to do the right thing.”

  “Do you ever want children?”

  He looked so sullen. He touched a finger to the face of his watch.

  “I want everything that most men want,” he confessed. “Something to fill my empty office. Photos of smiles, of memories. Of people I love.”
r />   I said nothing until the only thing I could think to say wasn’t what I wanted to, but rather what only seemed necessary.

  “I couldn’t give you those things,” I told him. “I’m too young.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe if we had met each other at a different place, a different time,” I said. “But not now. I’m not ready.”

  I faltered briefly before adding.

  “I’ve accepted the spot at Cambridge. I’ll be living in England in a little over a month. And I’ve decided, for the time being…” I took a breath. “I’m leaving Orlando. I’m going to spend the rest of summer in Arizona, with my mother.”

  “Arizona,” he repeated, his breath light, pained. “With your mother.”

  My eyes fell. I clutched the woven blanket.

  “I was foolish to fall for you,” I told him. “And you’re foolish to love me. You can’t love me. And if you do, you need to turn it off. Move on.”

  “Impossible,” he said, stubborn.

  “It’s not impossible. You need to,” I stated firmly. “Don’t put me on a pedestal. That’s not fair to either of us.”

  His fingers crawled across the bedding, settling on my hand, soft as snowfall.

  “Do you love me, too?” he asked.

  My throat clenched. Why did he need to do this now?

  “I’ve already told you.”

  “No, not directly,” he said. “And I think you’ve wanted to. Back in my car, in the parking lot, when you were looking at me through pieces of wet hair. I think you wanted to say it, then. But you were afraid.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “Self-indulgent thoughts. Like that fancy watch of yours.”

  My defense was up. I snapped at him like a gator – and for Florida, this was appropriate.

  Dr. Greene shifted closer. My heartbeat, which had been steadied, started running. And he knew it, because the line jumped and fell like one of those amusement park rides. The slow rise, the quick drop.

  “Please,” he begged softly. “Leave. Never speak to me again. God knows I deserve it, Mia. I know I do. But if nothing else, at least leave me with having known.”

  Before I looked at him, I found myself taking another glimpse around the hospital room. Through the wide window, I could see the reflective light belonging to some-hundred other rooms; their respective key-slot windows shining like candles. It bled gently through the glass, making these little golden orbs dance across Dr. Greene’s body.

  That’s how I wanted to remember him. Beautiful. The doctor I fell in love with, as the patient he had never expected to fall for.

  I looked at him, his green eyes full of promise, and swallowed.

  “I love you,” I whispered. “Now goodbye, Dr. Greene.”

  Chapter 28

  ALEX

  No amount of alcohol or lack of food – despite the hazy, hunger-induced hallucinations – was going to bring her back. I knew this. I knew I needed to stop drinking, pick myself up, and continue forward. This was the only logical move; the only move that made sense. I would meet another woman at some point. I’d fall in love once more.

  Staring into the empty glass, I repeated this over and over again. A silent chant.

  Cait had given birth, though I had only found out due to the delivery having taken place at the hospital while I was on shift. Grace told me that she had seen the baby, and that she was beautiful.

  I didn’t doubt it. But I never made a point to visit. The blood still hadn’t dried from that open wound.

  And, like always, I found myself in the room where I had last spoken to Mia. She had already left, but the sheets were still rumpled, and her gown lay in a heap at the foot of the bed.

  I picked up a hair elastic that was left nearby the pillow. It was pink, like the ones she usually wore.

  Slipping it inside my coat pocket, feeling all the more pitiful, I told myself again:

  Move on.

  The rest of the week seemed to slip by as followed:

  Managing to locate some a distant relative of Mr. Moulton, who was then able to locate more local relatives. None of whom had heard from Mr. Moulton in years – and who was, apparently, an uncle, a grandfather – but still agreed to help with funeral arrangements.

  Cleaning my loft. I had scrubbed the windows at least a dozen times, but they never felt clean enough. I swore, every time, that I could still see a smudge of Mia’s hand-print.

  Throwing out the glass she drank from. I had stooped that low.

  And having lunch with Weisman, who was officially in the process of drafting divorce papers with his (soon to be ex) wife.

  As we talked, I forced myself to eat. The tomato and mushroom risotto sank into my stomach like a lead brick.

  “You know,” I said, swallowing another forkful. “The patient I told you about. If it weren’t for you, we’d never have met.”

  “What?” he scowled. “You’re not blaming me for your mess, are you?”

  “No,” I said hastily. “I’m just saying: if you had come into work that night, I would never have met her. She’d have been assigned to you, not me.”

  He gave a tepid side-nod, but didn’t quite look at me.

  “I’m sorry, Al,” he said. “I mean it.”

  I leaned back in the iron-wrought patio chair. I was wearing a polo and jeans, but the heat was smothering.

  “She’s leaving,” I confessed. “So it’s not like it matters anymore.”

  The art of suppression: arguably one of the best skills a doctor can learn.

  How else do you think we cope?

  Later that night, she called. I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and getting ready to attempt some kind of sleep when the ring-tone – the chorus to Peter Schilling’s “Major Tom” – sounded and startled me.

  My toothbrush clattered into the ceramic sink. I bolted into the bedroom, picked up my phone, and saw her name flash across the screen.

  I picked up.

  “Wait,” I said. I set the phone down, ran into the bathroom to quickly rinse, wipe my mouth, then returned. “I’m sorry. You caught me off guard.”

  “What were you doing?” she asked quietly.

  “Brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed,” I answered. “Nothing particularly interesting.”

  “But it’s only half past seven.”

  “I know,” I told her. “I guess I’m just tired.”

  And I was. The lack of sleep for weeks on end had finally caught up to me. I felt sluggish, lethargic.

  She wavered for a moment before speaking again.

  “I’m a little embarrassed to be calling,” she said. “But I didn’t know who else to call. Aimee is away with her boyfriend, and even if she wasn’t, I don’t think she could help me with this.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “It’s just, I have some boxes that still need to go over to the Salvation army before I leave tomorrow. Some are heavy, though, and I can’t lift them.”

  “Give me five minutes to dress,” I told her. “I’ll be over.”

  Her apartment was the cleanest I had ever seen it. Everything was scrubbed and wiped down. There was no dust, nor any piles of clothes, nor any of her odd nick-knacks hanging from the ceiling or door knobs.

  I glanced around at all the boxes, my heart sinking.

  When Mia appeared, dressed in a tank-top and sweatpants, her hair messily tied back, she looked equally exhausted.

  “Just those over there,” she said. “The rest will get picked up tomorrow and brought to campus for the scavenger students to pick at.”

  “What’s in them?” I asked.

  “Clothes,” she said. “And a few odds and ends.”

  She looked at me, dressed in a simple black T-shirt, jeans, and having left behind the fancy watch.

  “You look terrible,” she said.

  “I’m aware,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” she fumbled. “It’s jus
t, you need to take care of yourself. You have an important job. I hope you’re sleeping.”

  I nodded. It was all I could bring myself to do.

  Mia stepped forward. At first I thought she might run her hand along my forearm, or fall against my chest in an embrace.

  “You’re wearing cologne,” she said, just looking up at me, flustered and desolate. Her eyes were slightly blood-shot, and I wondered if she had been crying. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “Because you like it.”

  “If this was a bad idea…” she paused. “Then you can leave, if you want. I can leave the boxes behind.”

  “Please,” I said. “Don’t. I want to help.”

  She looked hesitant, dubious. But eventually, disappearing to grab a bag that was, to my assumption, full of clothes, we tucked our hesitance away for the time being and got to work.

  I loaded my car full of boxes, she threw the bags into the back seat.

  The car ride was quiet. Mia tapped a finger against the window, curled up in the passenger’s side. She didn’t ask for music, or try to make small talk.

  Maybe this really had run its course.

  And when it was over, and it was just the two of us, sitting in the familiar spot where I had fucked her and she had looked so fucking lonely, I said.

  “Mia,” I stopped short, my insides curling. “Spend the night with me.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But do you want to?”

  I took her hand softly, and she didn’t pull away. She just stared quietly at our joined hands, torn. I could see it all over her face.

  “The beach,” she said. “Let’s go the beach.”

  So we did. I watched her dance on white sand, kicking up the grains like snow. I watched her run into the water, the sound of her laugh so sweet after weeks of silence, dripping IVs, ticking clocks.

  We walked along the pier, barefoot and eating ice cream. As we strolled along side-by-side, our fingers occasionally brushing, Mia eyed the Ferris Wheel.

  She grabbed my hand, pointing.

  “I want to see the top of the world with you.”

  So we did. On the Ferris wheel, we gazed down towards the ocean and sand and scattered people, all bathed in pink-and-blue twilight. The colors of cotton candy.