Pulse

by Hayes, Liv

I was still dreaming. I couldn’t stop it.

  Three weeks went by, and I never received a return letter. It all felt strangely odd, and for the first time it made me pause before picking up my phone and shooting her a text, or calling her.

  I wanted her to answer. I wanted the written word, not pixels on a screen.

  At night, I gazed at her photo, my blood simmering with longing. My veins were full of a twisted yearning.

  In the daytime, I was the everyday doctor again; slowly acclimating to life without her, learning to accept that things would continue as they would, and so it goes.

  To be honest, the adjustment all seemed to fall into place pretty quickly. Maybe even moreso than I wanted it to.

  But I still thought about her every day.

  Another two weeks passed, another month came and went. But what options did I have, really?

  And then, one afternoon, during my spare hour between hospital and office, Dr. Weisman approached me. I was drinking Gatorade, of all things, straight from the bottle.

  “Electrolytes,” he said. “You’ve been drinking more.”

  “Hm,” I shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”

  He took a sip of coffee, eyes scanning the sea of people that filled the area; all chattering families and exhausted staff.

  “You miss her,” he said. “She’s all over your face.”

  “She’s a plane-ride away,” I told him. “Studying in the UK. So whatever I get the feeling you’re about to say, please refrain.”

  Dr. Weisman smiled smugly.

  “All I’m getting at,” he said. “Is that you have an opening now. Whatever you choose to do, make use of it. You only get one, Al. You’d be an idiot to spend it wasting away in that swank apartment of yours. And by the looks of it, your liver probably won’t last much longer.”

  I laughed lightly.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Probably.”

  I was growing to appreciate Weisman. He was still a bastard, and full of imperfections – but if it weren’t for his own slew of mishaps, I didn’t know where I’d be. And even in the agony, I was feeling something. She had managed to scratch through the surface.

  If only I could find the salve.

  At home, I tore apart my office until I located my passport; it was long-expired, but I took a long look at the photo of the twenty-one-year-old boy in the photo. He was younger, and thinner in a slightly scrawny kind of way. His eyes were maybe slightly brighter.

  I imagined, briefly, Mia and I meeting when we were both at that same place in life. In our twenties, in college; young and able to pursue whatever the hell we wanted without the fear, anxiety, ramifications. Without the grief.

  I pulled out her letter, acknowledging silently how much I fucking missed her.

  And the worst part of it all?

  I knew, deep down, that if we’d met when we were young and untethered, we would have likely walked straight past each other. I knew, as much as I knew that I would eventually die, and all the months of time spent wallowing in defeat would wither and and rot, that it was the dynamic that had brought us together.

  The doctor. The patient.

  The click of my pen, and her wide eyes. The way she looked at my clipboard, at my face, as if I had all the answers right there.

  The way I looked at her as if I’d never again see something, or someone, quite like her – and I wouldn’t.

  The next afternoon, when Rebecca asked if I was alright, for the first time, I gave a member of my staff the straight answer.

  “Honestly? No. I’m shit, Rebecca. But I appreciate the concern.”

  She was shocked. Her eyes widened as she set the file she was holding carefully aside.

  “What’s wrong, Dr. Greene?”

  I looked at her, dropped my pen, and stood.

  “For the longest time, I couldn’t answer that,” I told her, walking over to the wall and picking up one of my diplomas. I studied it with a heavy understanding. “Honestly? Knowledge, Rebecca. Knowledge and hindsight. And all I’ve come to know, all I’ve come to understand, has made me sick.”

  Three Months Later

  MIA

  The Skype call came in while I was sitting on the outside terrace of some cafe, sipping coffee from a pretentiously small cup and trying to tame my flurried thoughts.

  I answered. Aimee’s face lit up the screen.

  “I MISS YOU SO MUCH ALREADY!” she exclaimed. “God, wherever you are looks beautiful. Give me a look around.”

  I could spy Eric in the background, tying his shoes or something. I gave him a shy wave as I picked my tablet up, giving it a spin around the perimeter: glittering streets and smiles. Fashionably-clad teens and staggering buildings all under a gauzy-gray sky.

  “Glorious,” she said, then: “You look great, by the way. You’ve got some color back in your cheeks. You’re glowing.”

  “Oh, that’s just the ambient lighting,” I told her. “But I am feeling good. A little chilly, but good.”

  “What are you working on there?” she asked. She pressed her nose to the camera, and I laughed. As if that could help her see what I was writing. “Writing letters to yours truly?”

  I smirked.

  “Just something personal I’m working on. It’s…”

  I stopped. Did I want to have this conversation? When I was feeling – all things said – at peace with everything. Surrounded by beautiful architecture and beautiful, friendly people and currently enjoying the best cup of coffee I’d ever tasted in my young American life.

  No. No, I didn’t.

  “It’s just something for class,” I said. “An essay.”

  “Oh,” Aimee said. She then shouted something to Eric in the background, and he shouted back, but I couldn’t quite understand. “Guess what? I’ll be doing some traveling soon, too.”

  “Where to?”

  “Chicago. Eric’s parents are out there. We’re going to pay them a visit.”

  “How long will you be staying, you think?”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “Indefinitely,” she answered. “Eric wants to go back to school. Open up his own store, eventually. And I think I’d like a new change of pace.”

  Everything’s changing, I thought. But I guess this was to be expected at some point. A part of growing up, a part of growing older.

  So I smiled, and she swore that we’d see each other as soon as humanly possible, and that she loved me times infinity.

  “I love you more, Aimee.”

  The video began lagging – then, with the frame frozen on Aimee’s goodbye wave – blip. Call ended.

  I sighed, took a sip of coffee, and returned to my letter.

  My mind was blank. There was nothing – no words, not even idle small-talk – that I could summon. Even the thought of a text or phone call was daunting.

  I guess I just had nothing left to add to the ashes. I still hurt, and I still wasn’t over him, and I still half-wished that we could see one another again. But I was ready to start sweeping up the remains.

  Rummaging through my bag, I pulled out the envelope. It had weathered some wear over the past few weeks after my spilling a cup of tea all over my desk, but the letter was still in tact.

  Unfolding the paper, I reread his words:

  Mia,

  I’ve been thinking about our first meeting, and how there was no way I could have ever anticipated that I would have fallen in love with a patient. In all of my schooling, treating patients kindly, considerately, and above all, professionally, has been drilled into my head. I’ve spent years understanding what never to do, and how to handle the grayer moments. Like when a patient sends you flowers, or cookies, or a Birthday card. You know, we’re not supposed to accept these things.

  I accepted too much from you. I lost myself with you. I behaved inexcusably – deplorably, some could say – for a man of my profession.

  But when I first saw you, Mia, I hope you know it was real. I couldn’t help it. And the first time I heard the soun
d of your heartbeat, I knew.

  Please understand that I get where this is going. While I hope that there is a time and place where maybe we can talk and things won’t be awkward, or painful, or impossible, in the ten years I’ve had on this Earth while you were still young and growing and probably toddling around while watching cartoons, I’ve become all too aware that some things simply cease. This is another thing that you learn as a doctor. Some files will close, and the only choice it to accept it.

  I just hope you enjoy your new chapter. I hope you spend these next few years of life living fully. I hope you find someone new to love, and new friends, and new stories to tell.

  I also hope you know that I mean it when I say that I loved you. And for what it’s worth, despite the shattered state of it all, I loved you the best I could.

  But above all, I just hope you know that I’m sorry. I hope you can find it within yourself to pardon this one doctor.

  And I hope you can forgive me.

  Yours,

  Alex

  My face grew warm. I could feel the swelling strings in my throat. But I refused to cry.

  I folded up the letter, slid it back into its envelope, and tucked it away in my bag.

  In the cab, the driver turned to me. He was gray-haired and had a sweet, genuine smile:

  “Is everything alright, Miss?”

  I looked at him, tearing my eyes away from the castle-like structures. God, it was all so beautiful.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “Just taking everything in.”

  Sitting on the steps of King’s Chapel, my phone went off. Once, twice, three times. But I was so preoccupied watching a cluster of students kicking around a soccer ball that I didn’t even notice.

  Above, there were a few clouds in the sky; nothing too ominous, but it looked like it might rain.

  I glanced up, sighed, and stood. When I finally picked up my phone, I glanced at the name across the screen:

  Mom. Three missed calls.

  I smiled, dropped it back into my purse, and began walking towards the river’s edge. I found myself thinking about how the breeze was slightly bitter, and how I wished I’d brought a sweater, and how I was honestly feeling a little bit lonely.

  Looking out towards the water, there were no punters, nor students rowing along in canoes. The river was silent, shimmering.

  I picked up a stone, tossed it in. It made a delightful-sounding plunk.

  Sigh.

  In my purse, Little Fox poked his head out, as if watching the late-summer outstretched over the emerald grass. Maybe it was weird, but I liked to have him with me. It was the only thing I had left of Dr. Alex Greene.

  I wondered what he was doing, and if he was eating enough, and hoped to God his liver wasn’t completely shot.

  I sprawled back against the grass, spending awhile watching the clouds roll by. I listened to the wind as it danced in the leaves. I listened to faraway laughter.

  I listened again to the sound of my own sigh.

  And somewhere, in the distance, footsteps. A stone soaring through the air, dropping into the water with a loud splash.

  Startled, I sat up, my eyes still on the rippling water.

  “I think mine went a bit farther than yours. But it’s a not a contest, is it?”

  I turned, and there he was: a pressed shirt and that perfectly tousled mess of hair; the small, wry smile and a face full of anxiety and pause.

  I still said nothing, completely frozen by shock. All I could do was watch him as he walked towards me, as if in slow-motion, and finally we were face-to-face once more.

  Another dream. Another impossible reality.

  My lips parted, but for a moment, I could make no sound. I could only reach out, touch his hand, and hope this wasn’t some cruel apparition.

  His fingers wrapped around mine, warm and tender. He reached out, pressed me against him, and I could feel that tickle of stubble against my chin.

  And like a channel, like the river in front of me, the tears started flowing.

  “You’re back,” I said quietly.

  More soft laughter from the King’s Chapel steps, a gust of wind, and rustling branches.

  “I’m back,” he said.

  Maybe a little awkwardly, we both sat down beside the tepid current. Neither of said anything for a good while. We just watched the river flow by, and I wiped my face, trying to keep myself composed.

  “I’m sorry I never answered your letter,” I said. “I just – I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what else to say.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to be happy,” I said. “I want to be happy, too.”

  “Are you happy, Mia?”

  I looked at him. Raising his glance, his eyes crinkled in the corners – and there it was: that glimpse of bewilderment. The doctor I had first met, in that sterile-washed room, with his white coat and face so full of unexpected wonder.

  The click of a pen, or the first time he spoke my name.

  Mia Holloway – would that be you?

  And what I had never told him, decidedly wanting to keep those feelings folded away in the locked drawer of my own memories, was that the first time I saw him – those green eyes, that reassuring smile – I already knew. It was the safest I had ever felt.

  Yes, that’s me.

  I wiped my face again, smiling. And after a second, I took my purse, pulled out Little Fox, and set him down on the grass.

  “I am,” I said. “I am happy. But aren’t you scared? What about your job? What about the hospital?”

  He pressed a warm hand to my cheek, leaned in, and kissed me. When he drew away, his fingers grazed my jaw, his bright eyes flickering.

  “Do you remember, back in my apartment, when we were watching the city lights from the windows, and I’d told you how that view – the people, the distant colors – were all I’d ever really wanted?”

  I nodded, and he said:

  “I was wrong,” he said. “And for a doctor, an observer, I was blind.”

  Dr. Greene pulled me into his arms, his mouth pressing against mine. We kissed in the late-afternoon light, wrapped in the sound of breeze-tousled leaves and water bubbling over stone, and I didn’t pay much thought to the underlying layers. Would he stay, would he go? What about the future – future job, hospital, life?

  The present moment was perfectly fine. We’d already broken all the rules. We’d already broken each others hearts, like bone china, and left the pieces at our feet. But I would patiently wait for us to piece them back together.

  “What are you thinking?” he eventually asked, as we walked hand-in-hand back to my apartment. Night had fallen, and the roads were bathed in the yellow light of street lamps.

  Standing by the entrance, both our feet planted on stone steps, I stood on my toes – his arms curling around my waist, pulling me into him – and kissed the corner of his mouth.

  “Do you remember back when I had brought that copy of The Little Prince with me?” I asked him. “And you’d told me how your favorite character was the fox, and how your favorite piece was the dialogue about being tamed?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Well,” I said. “This is it. You’ve tamed me. You’ve tamed me. And I think I’ve found my Rose.”

  He kissed me again under the slanted roof, concealed by shadows and the blanketed night.

  And with that same familiar roughness, he playfully pressed my back against the door, and my heart skipped ten paces. His whisper was hot against my ear.

  “So we’ve broken all the rules, Mia Holloway,” he said. “What do we do now?”

  I laughed. Reaching out, for the first time, I pressed a hand to his heartbeat. I could feel the thick chord strum beneath my fingers, practically leaping into my open palms.

  Somewhere in the sky, a shooting star shot across the wide expanse of night sky, and it reminded me a little of that bright line dancing across a black screen. That first moment.


  “Whatever we want, Dr. Greene.”

  It ended with a pulse.