Until I Fall

by Claudia Burgoa

  Before turning off the lights, I walk to the coat closet grabbing a thick sweater and fishing out my iPad from my purse. The weather in Tacoma during summer is nice enough to be outside, inviting me to use the backyard as my second living room—after lighting the fire pit. Unfortunately, for most of the year this area is like the coast of Maine, where I was born, or Boston, where I grew up. The breeze only switches during winter to freezing winds. Staying in bed wasn’t an option; plus, I love the idea of fresh air and a good book. Tonight, I’m in the mood for something romantic. A good love story where they serve me a tall order of happily ever after.

  Anxiety’s followed me ever since I can remember; the panic clustering in my abdomen, the rapid breathing, and the hammering of my heart against my ribcage. I’m feeling sick as my throat tightens, asphyxiating me. Mom blames my father for it. At the age of six, he moved us from Rangely, Maine to Boston. Everything I knew for the first years of my life disappeared within days, without explanation. New school, new neighborhood, new friends. Austin, my older brother, adjusted quickly, but I didn’t. It was hard for me to make new friends, keep up with the rhythm of a new Catholic school and understand why Daddy wasn’t home as often as he used to be.

  I could blame my mother and her loud voice. She’s part Greek and part Puerto Rican. Unfortunately, her entire family lacks volume control. They scream “how was your day, sweetie?” the same way they yell, “pick up your room before I turn your hide red with my belt.” Needless to say, my room was always clean, my closet tidy, and I tried to make sure that her voice remained leveled. Not that it happened. Mom can’t control her tone just like I can’t control my nerves.

  Air, I gasp for air. I switch off the lights, tiptoeing toward the backyard. Control yourself, Aspen. As enticing as tea and a book sound, running might burn the built-up anxiety I have streaming through my veins. There’s a need for me to jump out of my skin, drift away, numb the pain and sadness. I’d go for a run if I didn’t hate running. Think of something good, something happy.

  The summer before college, we received our roommate assignments. Brooklyn, Scarlett, and I would share a room for the next year. I emailed them both, we met over Skype, and Scarlett invited us to her ranch in Texas. Mike came home, he’d just graduated from the Naval Academy. To celebrate he threw a party in the barnyard. We had square dancing, country music, and even an electric bull.

  “City girl doesn’t know how to dance?” This tall, blond man with sparkling blue eyes teased as I stood in a corner watching my friends square dancing.

  “Nope, I have two left feet.” Telling Michael that I wanted to crawl under the table and hide from strangers sounded lame. He rolled his eyes. “Laugh at me all you want, but my mother can attest to the fact that I have no coordination. They kindly advised her to pull me out of ballet after the first month. My eye, hand coordination wasn’t up to their standards.”

  “I can teach you.” He tilted his head, smiling as he lifted his hand, and caressed my cheek. I jolted by the surge of electricity it provoked, a spark that hit me right in the chest and made me giddy.

  “What are you planning on teaching me?” My limbs tremble as his index finger held my chin, as he leaned forward and brushed my lips with his. “To dance? It might take you a lifetime.”

  “Yeah. It might take a lifetime. It’s all good. I like long-term challenges.” His husky voice promised more than stolen kisses.

  Forever.

  Why is it that remembering the good times brings back the agony of his absence?

  Move on, just move on.

  The house is dark, but the full moon allows me to march to the backyard without tripping on the nook chairs or the big plant next to the glass door. Ah, there he is, crazy dog. Hugo lays inside his dog house. Silly boy, he didn’t come home before we went to bed. When I slide the door open his pointy ears perk. As I step outside the floodlights turn on, and he sits up watching me.

  “Hugo,” I call him after turning on the switch of the gas fire pit.

  “Hey there, handsome,” I greet him, setting my tablet and mug on top of the table. Reaching down to scratch behind his ears, I bend to kiss the top of his head. “When did you get here?”

  “I’ve been here all along.” A deep male voice startles me, the baritone of his voice reverberating through my bones. “The question is where have you been all this time, beautiful?”

  Turning to my left to Ms. Hawkins’ house, I spot him. The owner of the intimidating, confident and yet friendly voice saunters toward me. We need to talk to the leaser. We need a fence between homes. Anyone can cross through the backyard. He’s rugged, a little taller than six-feet with broad shoulders. The man has a perfectly fit body. His dark hair hangs over his eyes, loosely framing his face. He has the kind of face that stops you in your tracks. Handsome but not in a pretty boy kind of face. Masculine with chiseled cheeks, a strong chin, and a prominent nose. He sports an arrogant half-smirk and a taunting look in his eyes.

  “Ruff, ruff,” Hugo pounces in front of me peeling his teeth to the uninvited guest.

  The man shoves his hand inside his pants, reaching for . . . a dog treat? “I thought we were friends, Hugo.”

  “You’re acquaintances with this man?” I give a suspicious glance to Hugo who ate the treat and is now licking the hand of a stranger.

  Hugo gives a small bark as if saying, “I know people, and he’s not as bad as he looks.”

  “My mother introduced us yesterday,” the stranger responds.

  His mother?

  “Who are you?” I study the friendly visitor closer. Three-day stubble, worn out jeans, plain white t-shirt accentuating his sculpted body, some ink peeking out of his sleeves, combat boots, and that cocky grin. There’s static in the air, making the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. An obscure sensation rocks my mind. I want to pull away and run inside the house, as much as I want to stay in place losing myself inside his eyes. His gaze reminds me of the forest during dawn—peaceful, vibrant and calm. Just looking at him brings my soul into a sweet, peaceful bliss. My breathing is a silent whisper.

  He wipes his hand with his jeans extending it toward me. “Anderson Hawkins. You must be . . .” Anderson narrows his gaze holding my hand longer than required. Something flickers in his eyes, whatever it is makes him smile widely. The touch of his fingers creeps into my soul, warming my heart. I want to pull my hand away as much as I want him to hold it all night. “Aspen?”

  “You’re Sophia’s youngest son,” I declare. He releases my hand. I step back, trying to find my footing and shake the giddiness away; mask how affected I am by his touch and his presence.

  “That’s me,” he confirms smoothly, his thick brow raises. “Should I be worried that you know about me?”

  “No. Your mom talks plenty about you. We’ve met Carter.” I can’t help but scrunch my nose and roll my eyes. The smile disappears, his face casting a deadpan glare. “Sorry, not a fan.”

  His brother is a sleazy snob who hits on any woman who crosses his path—in front of his wife. The resemblance between them is minimal, except for the dark hair. Glancing at him one more time, I confirm the fact that they have zero in common. We haven’t seen any pictures of the boys, as she calls them, as adults. Well, no. There’re a few of Carter’s wedding photos. I laugh, remembering the candid pictures Sophia has of both boys around her house. Most of them from when they were very young. Although, there are a few of their teenage years.

  “What’s so funny?” Unfazed, he crosses his arms.

  Well, I’m not making any new friends today. I look from Hugo to him and laugh again. “You don’t resemble the pictures of you that Sophia has around the house.”

  His frown, turning upward to one cheek. It’s not a smile, but progress. “Well, I’m thirty-eight, what did you expect, lady?”

  “My favorite is the one where you’re seven and eating an entire cake with your dog.” I hold my stomach unable to stop chuckling. “It’s adorable.”

 
; “Mom didn’t think so at the time.” The corner of his mouth twitches into his cheek, his eyes brighten, and the smirk appears. “What brings you here?”

  “I live here?” I move to pull out the chair to take a seat, but he reaches faster.

  “My lady.” The rough looking man pushes it lightly after I sit, taking a seat right in front of me.

  Hmm, a gentleman. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

  Grabbing my mug from the table, he smiles. “I’m a doctor because superhero isn’t an official title?” He reads.

  I shrug, sighing at the goofy mug Dad gifted me. One of the last presents he gave me before we lost him, fucking cancer. A pang hits me, how is Anderson’s mom doing? I haven’t seen her all day. “Why are you here? Is Sophia back?”

  His face falls faster than leaves during fall, his jaw twitches and his green eyes sadden. I’ve been in his shoes, doing the impossible to find the cure. It’s a race against the clock. In those moments, there’s no past or future. Every minute is measured by the progress and setbacks, by good news and not so good news. Some patients have a favorable outcome, while others realize that not everyone can escape the fatal end.

  Sophia was diagnosed a couple of months back with stage four pancreatic cancer. Meaning it spread to some of her other organs. She’s been searching for alternative procedures, experimental treatments, and different opinions. As her friends and neighbors, Brynn and I hope she’ll beat it. As doctors, we know the survival rate of pancreatic cancer has been improving, however, is still considered largely incurable.

  “Is there something we can do for her?” I ask while sipping my tea, slightly lowering my eyes. He serves me with a severe glare I don’t understand. “Sorry, it’s part of my profession.”

  “Being nosy?” He half smiles, sadness remains behind his eyes.

  “No, I worry about others. I like finding ways to save lives . . .” I lift a shoulder slightly dropping it as I give him an “I can’t explain” look.

  “Mom mentioned her neighbors are doctors. She never told me what kind.” He pulls out a packet of gum from his front jeans pocket. “Want some.”

  I shake my head, sipping my tea, staring at him. There’s something familiar about this man that feels—different. It’s some kind of connection. Yes, a link pulling us together. Like the combination between comfortable and edgy. I’m not crazy about it. Feelings are on my list of “must never handle”. Searching around I find Hugo observing us. I pat my thigh and he moves closer, laying right beside me. After scratching his ears affectionately, my eyes go back to the stranger.

  Looking closer at him it hits me. Anderson feels like an old friend. There aren’t many people I trust entirely. I have plenty of acquaintances but only a handful of the people I frequent are considered friends. “I’m an ER doctor. Brynn—my roommate and best friend—is a trauma surgeon. We specialized in pediatrics when we started, then we moved into the fast-paced world of the ER.”

  “Like in Code Black or Chicago Med?” His face is dead serious as he compares my career to some television show. I frown, I can’t imagine a guy like him in front of a television watching medical dramas. “You run around blurting words, bossing nurses and sleeping around with other doctors?”

  My eyes go half-mast. I growl. “Those things only add unnecessary drama. A hospital is different.”

  He nods a couple of times. “Same gig, different wording. I’ve seen it all.”

  “You’ve been in an ER or watched the shows?”

  Anderson throws another nod with that cocky grin. I’m starting to dig it. “Both. A hospital and a production studio while they filmed a show about doctors.”

  I sit back, crossing my leg on top of my knee, grabbing my mug as I watch him enthralled by the conversation. “Are you going to explain a little more about your experiences?”

  He pushes his sleeve up showing the scar tissue on his left bicep. “I have a couple of these.”

  What? That’s his explanation. This man with his short answers is killing me. “So they sent you to an ER reality show? That’s how you came up with the comparison?” Leaning, I reach for his bicep looking at the angry looking scar. “Shitty work, I do much cleaner stitching.”

  “Next time I get shot, I’ll make sure to look for you.” He winks at me.

  I chuckle, finishing my tea, avoiding his magnetic gaze and observing the starry night looming above, so beautiful it makes my heart skip. That or Anderson’s presence continues to shift my axis.

  “If you do get shot, make sure you tell them not to kill you and to avoid any major organs.” I chew on my lip, leaning over and whispering, “It’s safer.”

  He chuckles, bobbing his head. “So, why are you out here so late at night?” Checking his phone, he turns it around pointing at the screen. Three twenty-five.

  “I could ask the same thing,” I retort.

  “Late meeting.” He pops another piece of gum inside his mouth.

  “What is it that you do?” I raise an eyebrow wanting to know more, his short answers are a killer. There’s much more there than having a “late meeting”. What does a guy like him do? “Assassin, super-secret agent, or you just went to the gun range and accidentally shot yourself? Never use a gun unless you’re trained to do so.”

  “Another great piece of advice, you’re a wise-ass, aren’t you?” I can’t help but smile at the easy exchange we’re having.

  “Deterring a conversation seems to be your strong suit, isn’t it?”

  Glancing at the black ink decorating his left arm, he grins. “I’m a tattoo artist.”

  Lines peek under his t-shirt. Looking closer to the ink of his left forearm I make out the words written De Opresso Liber. There’s no shield or anything distinctive, but I know the words. Mike taught me the different mottos to each Special Unit. That’s Delta Force. Mrs. Hawkins had mentioned that her son was in a select unit of the Army and retired a few years back. She’s vague about Anderson and his whereabouts but adores him.

  “What is it with you and your short answers?”

  “I could say the same about you.” He checks his phone as it beeps. “Fuck. Time to work.”

  “A late tattoo emergency?” I chuckle.

  He shrugs. “Exactly, shouldn’t you be asleep?”

  Yawning and rubbing my eyes I nod, “Probably.”

  Taking the mug from my hands, he walks to the door, sliding it open for me. “Tomorrow I’ll check the perimeter, make sure you have enough flood lights to illuminate the backyard when you’re outside.”

  Rolling my eyes, I walk inside my place, Hugo following behind. Turning around, I copy the contagious smirk drawn on those perfectly sculpted lips. “You can say more than five words at time—impressive.”

  “I have a few skills,” he admits, shrugging. “Lock the door behind me. You need an alarm system too.”

  He scans the house. I’m not sure how much he can appreciate it through the darkness. “It was nice meeting you, Aspen.” Sliding the door closed, he pivots and disappears through the backyard.

  “Thank you for helping avert my crisis,” I whisper. When I was outside in his company, everything went back to normal. My heart rate, my breathing, even . . . No, don’t think again.

  I head to the guest room, where Scarlett will reside for the rest of her stay.

  ASPEN

  AT THE TENDER age of five, I never thought about what it meant to be a doctor. It was all about the cute Band-Aids and kissing the bumps. How hard could it be? Brooklyn, Scarlett, and I decided to become EMTs in college. It turned out to be a big help as we applied to med school. It was accelerating to be the first one on the scene. Assessing the patient, stabilizing them, and trying our best to keep them alive until we reached the hospital. Brooklyn and I loved it and decided to combine pediatrics with the emergency room. I enjoy it, except when I’m called in the middle of my weekend off to cover a shift.

  There’s a deeper reason I do it. Michael. The night that car accident took his life, the EMTs didn’
t arrive fast enough. They didn’t know what to do and just set him on the stretcher driving him to the hospital where instead of stabilizing him, they left him in the hallway waiting for a bed to assess him. Each time I receive a patient, I’m saving Mike. It won’t bring him back, but I try my damn best to go out to the waiting room and say, “your loved one is going to be just fine.”

  Not tonight.

  Tonight, we had an entire family with critical injuries—a bloody car accident on highway forty-five. One idiot who shot himself in the foot. I tended to a boy with a broken ankle; another man had a heart attack. Usually, I do my best with my patients. I stitch them back together, find a specialist who can help them with their long-term recovery. The only part I hate about my job is when someone dies. This time it was a toddler with a head trauma, internal bleeding, and maybe a few broken bones. I tried to stabilize her before we began running tests, but her little body gave up without a fight.

  The mother is crying. I feel her loss. No parent should face this painful moment. However, I am angry at her too. According to the paramedic who brought the kid in, she wasn’t restrained in her car seat. She’s not the first child I’ve lost due to negligence. One minor click would’ve saved her life. Instead, I have to give my condolences to a woman I want to punch in the face. I wish someone could give me some practical advice on how to handle her without facing assault charges and losing my job.

  “Aspen,” Brooklyn grabs my arm. “We’re needed in the OR. Sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  Entering the changing room, I turn around and glare at her. “Why did you do that?”

  “You stared at her for way too long. We explain what happened. Give them our condolences and move on.” I shake my head looking at the floor. “Yes, you’re pissed at her. I am too. There’s nothing we could’ve done. You’re done.”

  “I’m what?” My eyes fix on Brynn, shocked by her words. My fingers touch my parted lips.

  “Remember what we promised?”