Code Blues

by Melissa Yi

She paused. "How are you?"

  I wouldn't admit that I was exhausted and hated Montreal so far. "Just peachy."

  Pause. "I heard that you found Dr. Radshaw this morning. It must have been very...traumatic."

  "Kind of. They called a code, and Dr. Dupuis and I ran up from emerg, but a second year on ICU found him first."

  Her voice hushed. "It was definitely Dr. Radshaw?"

  The face reared in my mind again, with its open mouth and filmy eyes. I focused on the beige plastic telephone cradle, trying to propel the image away. "Yeah. It was him."

  "But you didn't know him. You only met him once."

  "That's true, but it looked like him. Dr. Dupuis, the nurses, the other resident—everyone else said it was him. You can talk to them if you want."

  There was a long silence. At last she said, "That sounds definitive."

  I felt bad. It wasn't Mireille's fault that I'd had a rotten day. "Yeah. Sorry. I know it's hard to believe. He seemed like a nice guy."

  Another pause. "Yes." Pause. "What an experience for you."

  "Yes. Well."

  "It must have been horrible. Just terrible. We must do something. I was speaking to the other residents and everyone is in shock. In shock," she repeated. "No one should be alone tonight. It would be cruel. I am inviting everyone to my house for a potluck dinner, so that we can support each other."

  Eesh. Tonight, I needed that support like I needed control top pantyhose. "Well, that's very kind of you. I'm sure everyone will appreciate it, and you'll feel better afterward. But it's been a long day for me—"

  "Hope." When she said my name, she nearly dropped the H, shortened the O, and emphasized the P. Not Ope, as it Grand Ol' Opry, but close enough. "Please. It will be for your own good. You need to process the experience. I think it would be very healthy for you."

  I should have pleaded exhaustion from the very beginning, setting up a graceful exit. "Thank you, Mireille, but—"

  "Have you eaten yet?"

  I hate to lie. I closed my eyes. "No, but—"

  "There you go. You have to eat. Come and eat with us. Of course, I do not expect you to bring anything to the potluck. You will be our guest. I am making pasta for everybody, and Alex will probably bring a cake from La Première Moisson—he always does, it's an excellent bakery—and I asked Tucker to bring appetizers, but he will probably bring beer."

  My hand tightened on the receiver. "Alex is coming?"

  "Oh, yes. I just spoke to him. He said he wanted to see you." She paused to let that sink in. I remembered his phone message. I'll make it up to you. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow had arrived.

  Mireille was still talking. "Tori is making a Greek salad and garlic bread. Anu was not home. Neither was Robin, but his wife promised to give him the message. I hope they will come."

  My stomach twisted with longing. I adore good food. All Chinese people do. This potluck sounded a lot better than Cheerios. And Alex—well, I was still mad, but the fact was, Dr. Radshaw had appeared hale and hearty yesterday, and today he was dead. That shook my anger a little. In high school, we'd studied that poem, "To His Coy Mistress," which began, "Had we but world enough, and time,/This coyness, lady, were no crime." Back then, I thought that poem was pathetic blackmail. But today, I thought he might have a point. Alex was the first guy I'd dated in two years who gave me some zing. I could stave off sleep for a few more hours and delay my grudge long enough to hear him out.

  I cleared my throat. "I don't have anything to bring." Except the econo spaghetti sauce.

  "No, no, no! Don't bring anything! I will be very angry if you bring something. I will give it back to you. You should rest. We will take care of you."

  Another of my secret weaknesses is that, although medicine is very take-charge and kick butt, deep down, when I go home, I like to be cosseted. "Well..."

  "Seven o'clock. I am on Côte-des-Neiges, near the corner of Queen Mary. Across from the cemetery. You know the two apartment towers covered in black glass?"

  I found myself agreeing to drive over. Have stomach, will travel.

  Chapter 6

  Refreshed by a mini nap, I landed on Mireille's doorstep and compared her building to mine.

  My three-story apartment building was built in the 1930's, and its security consists of a buzzer above each mailbox, with everyone's box clearly labeled according to apartment. The outer door was unlocked and the inner door has a single key lock. Windows made of Art Deco glass rimmed the outer door, and plain glass bordered the inner doors, so a thief could easily smash a way in. But he or she wouldn't bother, because half the time, both building doors were propped wide open. The easier for people to move in and out, my dear. It hadn't bothered me, except that I'd wished they'd left them open for me and my groceries this afternoon. Alex's warnings about my neighborhood seemed much more ludicrous in the daytime.

  In contrast, Mireille's building was a sleek, shiny, black skyscraper. She had a real, live security guard, and a call-in buzzer system where the buzzer codes didn't match the apartment numbers. High tech stuff. The lobby had a lounge with a sofa, two loveseats, and a mirrored wall. I bet she had a pool, too. At least my apartment had a mirrored lobby, I consoled myself. And my rent was only $550 a month, whereas hers might hit four digits.

  Mireille buzzed me up, and I rode a swift black elevator to the 23rd floor. The hallways were carpeted in maroon paisley. The wall sconces were dim, imitation candlesticks. Even though the walls were painted white, it felt very somber, like a funeral home. I took two wrong turns before I rapped on apartment 2308.

  Mireille threw open the door almost before my knuckles had left the wood. "I'm so glad you came!" She bent forward, pushing her face in mine, her burgundy lips pursed.

  I froze. She was so close, I could see the pores on her face. She pecked me on each cheek before she drew away, her curls bouncing. Her perfume left a light citrus scent in the air.

  In Ontario, we hug. And I only hug my friends. So I didn't clue in before she had already pulled back. "This is for you," I said, covering my awkwardness with a bottle of wine wrapped in a brown paper bag.

  "No, no, no!" She flushed a dark red, like her lipstick, very noticeable against her simple black T-shirt and matching knee-length skirt. "I told you not to bring anything. And Tucker brought beer, as I said he would."

  I wondered if she'd been dipping into it. She was so animated and bright, almost careless, compared to the tightly-wound woman from orientation. I liked this version better. "It's okay. The Metro was on the way."

  The Metro is a grocery store chain with the same name as the subway. The grocery and corner stores here sell wine and beer, which makes it pretty convenient. I didn't want to show up empty-handed. Bad enough that I'd donned a pair of jean shorts and a white tank top while the hostess had picked funeral black.

  Mireille accepted the bottle, but said, "I'll give it back to you when you leave!" She headed down the narrow white hallway.

  "Hi, Hope," said a guy's voice, as I kicked my shoes into the pile by the door.

  My heart thudded. I looked up, only to see Tucker dressed in a white shirt with aquamarine pinstripes, sleeves rolled up to reveal lightly tanned forearms.

  At least he wasn't dressed in mourning, except for his black pants. And he held a beer in his right hand. I gave him a half-smile.

  He returned it with a sly grin. Then he swooped down so close that his stubble brushed my cheek.

  I tipped back on my heels.

  Undeterred, he pressed a hearty, wet, smacking kiss on my left cheek. I ducked away from contact on my right.

  He laughed and backed off, saluting me with his beer. "You're from Ontario, right?"

  "Yeah." I glowered at him.

  "You'll get used to it." Still laughing, he shook his head and strode into the next room.

  I wiped my left cheek. Mireille swept back in, rolling her eyes. "Oh, that John. He thinks he's something."

  "He's something, all right." I didn't know her well enough to say
what I really thought of him, but I hoped that the food made up for him.

  She towed me by the arm to the living room on the right. A bunch of residents on the sofa yelled, "Hi, Hope!" while Tucker leered at me from a bright red La-Z-Boy by the window. No one else was wearing all black, and I relaxed slightly. Pachelbel's Canon tinkled on the stereo. I started to reach for a handful of chips from a robin-egg-blue bowl on the low, black coffee table, but Mireille's hand tightened on my elbow. "You must be thirsty. I'll get you a drink first, all right?"

  I waved goodbye to the people and the chips, and let her haul me to her cheerful yellow kitchen.

  Mireille gestured at the array of bottles on her granite counter. "What would you like? Some of your wine?"

  I winced. My temples throbbed at the mere mention of wine. "No, thanks. Just water."

  She poured some water out of a Brita pitcher on the counter and handed the tumbler to me. "I'll be back in a second. Don't leave."

  Hurry up and wait. I sipped the lukewarm water, grimacing.

  "Hi, Hope," came a quiet, male voice behind me. It was lower than Tucker's voice, and it electrified the skin on my arms.

  Alex. I spun on my heel, ready to tear a strip off his back and another off his testicles, but then I saw his wan face and the dark circles under his eyes. Compared to the charming guy who had treated me to sushi, he looked like the older brother who'd gone to war and ripped his soul on the battlefield.

  He gripped a beer bottle in his left hand. Uneven stubble lined his face. His eyes were red. He was wearing a crumpled, '70s style striped shirt, and corduroys with ripped-out knees. His bare feet looked vulnerable on Mireille's white ceramic floor.

  Pity choked me. I shook my head once, twice. "What happened?" I finally managed.

  "I'm sorry," he said, and added thickly, stumbling on the words, "You wouldn't believe it."

  "Try me," I said, but Tori drifted into the kitchen, passing between us en route to the kitchen counter. "Are you okay, Hope?"

  I nodded. "I'm all right."

  She poured herself some mineral water and sipped it gravely, her dark eyes passing from me to Alex and back again. I waited for her to leave, but she leaned her elbows against the countertop like she planned to set up camp here. She was delicately built, almost bird-like in her slimness. I'm thin too, but in my mind at least, I'm always battling incipient obesity.

  Mireille buzzed in again, like the Energizer Bunny on speed. She stopped when she saw Alex and Tori, but quickly recovered. "Hope. Have you had anything to eat? I made a pesto sauce and a tomato sauce for the pasta, so you can choose. Are you allergic to nuts?" She reached inside a yellow cupboard and forced a plate on me. "Please, help yourself. Don't be shy. We have enough for an army! Tori's garlic bread is excellent. Have some before the men eat it all." She cocked her head, and I heard a faint ringing. "Oh, the phone again. Alex, can you get that? I bet it's Anu. She said she'd come later. Now the gang's all here." She barked a laugh.

  I looked at Alex. He shrugged and reached for the phone.

  He seemed a bit spineless, not like how I'd first thought of him. Plus he still hadn't explained why he'd abandoned me in a café. I turned up my nose and marched to the food table.

  Tori followed me as I loaded up on pasta bows and splatted pesto on them. The pasta glistened like it'd been fried in butter, but I was past caring. I tore off a piece of garlic bread and hesitated at a dish of shredded orange bits.

  "It's some sort of Middle Eastern carrot dish," Tori said. "It's good, actually. I think Robin made it."

  "Does it have raisins in it?" I asked, poking it suspiciously.

  "I think so."

  I wrinkled my nose and grabbed some Greek salad and curried potatoes. At least the food was better than Cheerios, and definitely more interesting than at potlucks in London, Ontario.

  "Hope!" a guy's voice yelled from the living room, and everyone laughed.

  My hands tightened on my dish. I had no idea how my name had come up, but I didn't relish heading in there as the guest of horror. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders.

  Tori's quiet voice stopped me. "They're all right. They're mostly harmless."

  I wasn't expecting a Douglas Adams quote from her. My esteem for her rose a notch. "Good to know."

  I entered the living room, clutching my plate, glass, and a fake smile. Instead of looking people in the eye, I checked out the décor. Mireille was obviously a big believer in black and white. Her black leather furniture, stereo, and coffee table contrasted against the high gloss, all-white walls. The only accents were a red Persian carpet beside the chesterfield, red dinner plates, and the blue chip bowl. She looked ready for a Canadian House & Home magazine shoot, and I didn't even have a bed to sleep on yet.

  Tucker yelled, "Hope!" in the same falling cadence as they used to yell "Norm!" on Cheers. He patted the loveseat. I ignored him, heading for a wooden chair near the kitchen.

  Anu passed me with a grease-stained cardboard box. "I didn't have time to cook. I hope you like samosas."

  "Do I!" The only other time I'd eaten Indian food, I'd devoured those spicy, deep-fried treats.

  Alex rose from the sofa. He smiled at Anu, but muttered at me, "I have to talk to you."

  My temper flared. "Too bad."

  He scowled. He turned and punched a button on the stereo behind the chesterfield. Classical music halted mid-riff.

  Techno started to beat out from the speaker behind my chair. I glowered at him while Anu fled into the kitchen.

  "All right!" someone called.

  Alex stomped away with his beer bottle.

  What a loser. Forget his musculation.

  Robin winced and turned down the volume. Then he caught my eye and, to my surprise, he crossed over to talk to me. He wasn't wearing a tie today, but more preppy casual-does-blah, i.e. a beige golf shirt and Dockers. "Hello, Hope. Did you have a rough day?"

  "Yeah." I speared a forkful of pasta bows so that I wouldn't have to talk. The pesto was pretty good, but not great. My friend Ginger, from med school, did a much better one. A wave of homesickness hit me. I had to close my eyes.

  Robin Huxley regarded me steadily. His blue eyes were slightly protuberant. I wondered if he'd ever been checked for hyperthyroidism, but more likely, he was just naturally pop-eyed. "Dr. Radshaw was a good teacher."

  "Mmm." For some reason, it depressed me to hear about the goodness of Dr. Radshaw. Like I should have done something to save him. I tried the garlic bread, which had little flecks of green, presumably parsley.

  Robin seemed to blink half as much as a normal human being. "He won teacher of the year, a few years back. He was always willing to stay and review cases, no matter how late it got. He wanted us to be evidence-based. He was always bringing articles for us to read." Evidence-based practice meant that you practiced medicine based on solid, current research, instead of tradition and phases of the moon.

  Robin sighed and shook his head. "They were good articles. He was the best teacher at St. Joseph's Family Medicine Center. I don't know if you've heard—"

  I shook my head. He rolled on as if I hadn't stirred.

  "– but a lot of the teachers aren't evidence-based at our center. I wanted to do my residency at the Jewish General Hospital. They do a lot more research there. But I lost the internal match."

  His nose was shiny. I also found myself staring at the small, dark hairs that sprung from the pores on its surface. Did Mireille say she left a message with Robin's wife? Someone had married this robot?

  "Still, Dr. Radshaw was one of the reasons I ranked St. Joseph's above the CLSC." The CLSC was the community health centre affiliated with the Jewish. "I worked with Dr. Radshaw as a student. He was really good, really concerned."

  I ate faster, so I could have a good reason to escape Robin. Fortunately, Anu bore down on us with a platter. "Samosa?"

  "Bless you," I said. I took one. It was still warm.

  "Were you talking about Kurt?" she asked, losing her sm
ile. "I'll miss him. He was cool. He taught, but he also treated you like a human being."

  "What does that mean?" I put the samosa down and wiped my fingers on a napkin.

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot, and dropped her eyes. "Well, a lot of doctors don't care who you are, as long as you can answer questions about hypertension. But Kurt asked how you were doing, and he really listened to your answers." She paused for a second. "He and Alex were friends."

  "They were?" My annoyance with Alex began to evaporate.

  She shrugged. "Alex and I did family medicine together in second year med school, on Dr. Radshaw's team. Alex told me that Dr. Radshaw inspired him to go into family."

  At orientation, Alex said he'd wanted to be a family doctor ever since he was a little kid. But both could be true. I could give him the benefit of the doubt. I stood up. "Excuse me."

  I dropped my plate back in the kitchen, where Mireille was washing dishes. She grinned at me and stuck a fistful of cutlery in the dish rack. "Back for seconds?"

  I rubbed my stomach and laughed. "Maybe in another hour. Have you seen Alex?"

  She made a face. "Not recently. How did you like the pasta?"

  "Delicious." I glanced through the doorway to the living room, to make sure Alex hadn't reappeared. All I saw was that Anu was now edging away from Robin the robot.

  "Are you all right?" Mireille asked, but I waved and said, "Bathroom" and disappeared down the darkened hallway. It was possible that Alex had ditched the place, but I'd give him a chance to plead his case with me. His mentor had died, after all.

  There were three closed doors at the end of the hall. I opened the one on the left and found stacks of neatly folded black-and-white striped towels, labeled cardboard boxes, a package of maxi pads, and a bike helmet.

  I tried door number two, on the right. It was a fair-sized bedroom that felt about five degrees warmer than the rest of the apartment. It smelled like alcohol and sweat. And there was a man sitting on the bed's blue quilt.

  His back was slumped, his head bent in profile to me. A bedside lamp glowed behind him, making a halo out of his hair but leaving his face in darkness. He was so quiet that I could hear his slow, even breaths.