Code Blues

by Melissa Yi

  I whispered, "Alex?"

  He lifted a hand at me. He clutched a brown beer bottle between his legs.

  I leaned against the door frame, pressing the wooden ridge into my triceps to try and make this seem more real. This was not how I'd pictured our grand reunion. He was supposed to come up with a good excuse, beg my forgiveness, and whirl me off to Paris to make it up to me. Not get drunk at Mireille's makeshift wake.

  Alex lifted the bottle at me in a mock toast. "Hope. I'm really sorry."

  About taking off on me? About drinking? I stayed at the doorway.

  "Really, really sorry. Totally sorry. I suck. I'm worthless." He took a swig out of the bottle. I could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Even in the warm glow of the lamp, he looked strained and exhausted.

  I took two steps toward him, stopping short of the bed. "Alex. I don't think you should be in here."

  "Is that something else I've done wrong?" He lifted his eyes to the white ceiling. "Help me."

  He was wasted. I held out my hand. "You've had enough, Alex. Why don't you give me the bottle?"

  He stared at the amber bottle in his hand as if he was seeing it for the first time. "Yeah. Why don't I?" Clumsily, he brought it to his lips and guzzled the last of the beer. "Here." He handed me the empty. The beer was named Maudite. Appropriate.

  I didn't take the bottle. I stared at him and turned on my heel. "You can do your own recycling."

  "Wait!"

  The raw pain in his voice stopped me. I stopped, but didn't turn around.

  Bang! I whipped around, only to see Mireille's pine, Ikea table wobbling slightly on its spindly legs after Alex had whacked his bottle down on it.

  "I'm fucked up," he said. "I know it. I have no right to talk to you, even. But God damn it, someone killed him."

  He was in mourning. He didn't know his own head right now. I played the devil's advocate. "Well, it could be that, or it could have been suicide, or an accident—"

  "Bullshit!" Alex lunged across the bed at me and fell on his stomach. He belched into the quilt.

  I backed up. "If you're going to throw up, do it in the bathroom."

  He sat up and wiped his mouth and tried to steady his hands. His bloodshot eyes beseeched me. "Someone killed Kurt."

  I paused.

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "You don't believe me."

  "Look. It doesn't matter whether I do or not. The police are on it. They interviewed me today. If he was murdered, they'll find him. Don't worry about it."

  "The police. Ha. They won't find anything. Kurt was the one who listened. Kurt was the one who cared." He lay down on the bed, his feet dangling off the edge. He was still wearing his leather sandals. Somehow, it made it more poignant, that he was trying not to dirty Mireille's bed. He mumbled something like, "We killed him."

  "What?" I said sharply.

  He closed his eyes. His whole body seemed to go limp. His lips were still parted, but he didn't speak.

  I marched over to the bed and shook his shoulder. "Oh, no you don't. You bring it up, you finish this. What are you talking about? Who killed him?"

  His eyes stayed closed, even though I used both hands to shake him so hard that his head jogged up and down, like he was an agreeable rag doll. "Alex. Wake up!"

  His lips curved in a smile.

  He was like a willful teenager in the emerg. A drunk, willful teenager. It pissed me off. "Alex, goddamn it, talk to me, or forget it. I'm not playing games with you anymore." I let go of his shoulders and stood up. His eyes remained closed.

  I slammed the door so hard that I felt the apartment walls rattle.

  The air smelled fresher in the hall. I'd probably been absorbing Alex's beer-mouth fumes second-hand. Lovely.

  I took three righteous steps, before my conscience started to irritate me. What if he was really drunk? What if I left him there, and in ten minutes, he couldn't protect his airway? In the emerg, we try to keep an eye on drunks while they sober up. We don't leave them shut up in a room at the end of the hall.

  I swiped my bangs out of my eyes. Fine. I'd send another doctor in here. Or, better yet, they could drag him out into the living room and make fun of him until he woke up. Paint his genitals blue, that sort of thing.

  But my conscience wouldn't shut up. What if this wasn't just alcohol? What if he aspirated his own vomit, or started to seize?

  The problem with medicine is that you get to know a lot of worst-case scenarios, and they tend to play out in your head, even if they're not very likely. Paranoia with textbooks to back it up.

  I heard a toilet flush and water running behind me. I turned around to see Anu emerging from the bathroom. Her brown eyes twinkled. She gestured at Mireille's bedroom. "What's going on in there?"

  Had she heard anything? In my limited experience of Montreal apartments, soundproofing was an unnecessary luxury. So far, I'd heard my neighbours' phones ring, their kids scream, even someone playing Mozart on the piano. "Alex had a lot to drink," I whispered, as if I was belatedly trying to maintain patient confidentiality. "Someone should keep an eye on him and his airway."

  "Okay." She rapped at the door. "Alex?" She twisted the doorknob.

  I left. Maybe when he was drunk, he liked to accuse people of all sorts of crimes. Murder. Police inefficiency. Next stop, infidelity and white shoes after Labour Day.

  But I didn't really believe it. Everyone said the pager was practically Dr. Radshaw's third hand. He wouldn't have left home without it. I thought the murderer had taken it. But homicide hadn't contacted me, so they probably weren't going to investigate it.

  Well, it wasn't my job to figure it out. Heal the sick, tend the wounded, run the wards, minimize scut—that was my job description. No one said anything about solving murders.

  But if Dr. Radshaw had been murdered, I'd want to know about it. Especially if the killer was somebody I knew and worked with.

  "Just leave him there. Let him sleep it off," Tucker called from the living room.

  Anu re-entered the hall and shook her head. "He's drunk. We have to look after his airway. Hope thinks so too, right, Hope?"

  I did not want to get involved, but I nodded.

  Tucker snorted. "Put him in the recovery position. He won't aspirate."

  Anu placed her hands on her hips. "That's not guaranteed and you know it."

  "But if we carry him out to the living room and watch him aspirate, it'll be so much better." Tucker snorted and glanced at me.

  Mireille darted toward Anu. "What's going on?"

  "Alex hit the sauce too hard, and Anu wants me to carry him to the living room, so we can observe him." Tucker gestured at the bedroom door. "I say we just leave the door open and put him in recovery—"

  Mireille had already shouldered past him and shoved open the door. "Ostille," she swore.

  Tucker and Anu ran in, with me right on their heels, but all I saw was that Alex lying diagonally across the bed, on his back, snoring. His left arm was flung outward, his right arm across his chest.

  "I did try to put him in the recovery position, but he kept rolling back," said Anu. "That's why I wanted to keep an eye on him."

  Mireille lifted steady green eyes to Tucker. "I've seen Alex drunk before, but this is worse. We'd better keep an eye on him, and if he doesn't come out of this, I'm calling an ambulance."

  Anu bit her lip, and we exchanged a look. We both thought Mireille was overreacting, but this was her party, and she could call 911 if she wanted to.

  Tucker said, "Mireille—"

  She climbed on the bed, her knees making divots in the mattress as she slid her hands into Alex's armpits and then hooked her elbows through them. Her cheek was about an inch away from Alex's lips, but he didn't stir. Mireille gave Tucker another long look. "Are you helping me, or are you just going to watch?" And she started dragging Alex off the bed.

  Tucker sighed and grabbed Alex's ankles. "On the count of three."

  "Can I help?" I asked, but he shook his head.


  "One good thing I can say about this bastard is, he's not very heavy," he said, expressionless.

  I wished I could master that poker face around Alex. Forget the inscrutable Asian. I'm scrutable.

  Mireille must have been strong, because the top part of a body is quite heavy. In the OR, they usually delegate the small women, like me, to carrying the feet when transporting someone from the OR table to the gurney. But Mireille seemed to have no trouble. She gripped Alex's arms, Tucker held the ankles, and they slid him off the bed and down the hall, Alex's butt not quite touching the floor. They trundled him down the front hall and into the living room while Anu and I followed.

  Robin Huxley leapt to his feet. "What's going on?" He tried to check Alex's carotid pulse, but it was a moving target, and Mireille said, "Move it or lose it, Robin" and dropped Alex on the ground, in front of the sofa. She rubbed her arms.

  Robin knelt by Alex. He bent his head over Alex's nose, surveyed his chest, and announced, "He's breathing." He pressed his index and third finger against his neck. "And he has a pulse."

  Mireille clucked her tongue. "Robin, we know that!"

  He ignored her. "Alex. Can you hear me?" He rubbed his knuckles against Alex's sternum and was rewarded with a groan and twitch of the right shoulder. "Well, that's reassuring. He squeezed his eyes shut—I'll give him a four, and a groan, that's two..."

  Dear God. He was calculating the Glasgow Coma Scale. I said, "Robin, it's over eight, you don't have to tube him, okay?" But I felt guilty. I hadn't calculated the GCS, and I probably should have, even though he'd just been talking to me a few minutes ago.

  Robin didn't look up from Alex. He forced Alex's eyelids open, checking the pupils. "Do you have a stethoscope?"

  Mireille gave an exasperated sigh and retrieved hers from the hallway. Robin lifted Alex's shirt and listened to his chest and heart. He even lifted his shirt to examine the abdomen. I was embarrassed to see the brown chest hair that ran to below his belly button, and even worse, his small, pink nipples. Then Robin checked his reflexes.

  It was very weird to see him do a physical exam on one of our colleagues in the middle of a supposed party. Tucker shook his head, but none of us interfered.

  At last, Robin lifted his head. "He seems to be stable. We could probably just observe him. But I'd feel more comfortable if I could check his glucose to make sure it's not an insulin coma."

  I hadn't thought of that, even though it was Dr. Radshaw's presumed cause of death. Guilt hit me again, until Tucker said, "For God's sake, Robin, the guy was just drinking! He has enough sugar on board. And he's not diabetic. He's just drunk."

  "He could have an insulin-secreting tumor," Robin insisted. He turned to Mireille. "Do you have an Accucheck?"

  She rolled her eyes. "No. I am not diabetic. Look, Robin. Let's use some common sense. I know Alex, and he's only ever passed out after drinking. He does not have an insulinoma!" Her French accent was more pronounced now.

  "I'm just saying that I would feel more comfortable," he said evenly. Hmm. I'd worked with guys like this before—very good at the books, can recite recent studies and guidelines until the consultants nearly faint with pleasure, but not very sensible. Still, they tended to get excellent evaluations. Except from their peers.

  Tori and I exchanged a look. She said, "Robin, you did the right thing. We all feel more at ease, after your exam. But like you said, we can probably observe him."

  Robin squinted at her. He was still on the floor with Alex, while the rest of us were looking down on him. He rose to his feet and dusted off his knees. "All right."

  We all relaxed, marginally.

  He said, "I'm going to get some orange juice. We can rub it on the inside of his cheeks. If he wakes up—"

  "He's not going to wake up!" Mireille burst out, but she followed him to the kitchen.

  Tucker and I looked at each other. He sighed, and we grinned at each other for the first time.

  Tori said, "Robin is very...conscientious."

  "You can say that again," I said. Medical robots are very good at following algorithms.

  Tori glanced back toward the kitchen. "Maybe we should take him to St. Joe's. It's not fair to leave him here for Mireille to follow him."

  Tucker grunted assent.

  Anu checked my expression. "Hope? Did you want to take turns observing him?"

  Not really. I hesitated, she went on, "Because it would be really embarrassing for him, if we brought him to St. Joe's."

  "Good," said Tucker. "Maybe that'll teach him to lay off the EtOH."

  Fortunately, Alex chose this moment to stir his legs and snort. As if that was his cue, Robin raced in, nearly spilling his glass of orange juice, while Mireille called at his back, "I said I'd do it!"

  Robin stuck two fingers in the o.j. Then he bent down to lever Alex's mouth open, streaking juice all over his face before finally sticking his fingers in Alex's mouth.

  Alex gargled and jerked his head back. Then he nearly sat up, knocking Robin's arm away.

  Anu screamed.

  Alex thrashed his arms and legs.

  Tucker cursed, and yanked Robin out of the way. Robin started to push back, but in that minute, Alex lay back down and seemed to conk out again.

  We all froze, watching him. My heart rate slowly settled as Alex remained still. Robin lifted his glass of orange juice again, but Mireille grabbed his arm. I could see her fingers denting his flesh.

  Slowly, Robin lowered his arm.

  Mireille said, "Don't you dare. You must have choked him. Just leave him the fuck alone."

  Robin shook off her grip and clanked the glass on the coffee table. "There's no need to swear."

  We all burst out laughing.

  Robin looked slightly annoyed, but he didn't pull out the o.j. again.

  Mireille said, "I heard you guys. Don't worry about bringing Alex to St. Joe's. He can sleep it off here."

  Robin made a face. She turned on him. "Look. Kurt died today. Alex is going to be fine in a few hours. If you're so worried, Robin, you can stay with him tonight. But we should be talking about Kurt, not Alex. That's the least we owe him, on the day he died." Her voice broke on the last word, but her green eyes were steely and dry as she stared at each of us in the eye.

  Tucker said, "Okay." His voice was calm. "Let's talk about Kurt. Who wants to start?"

  Mireille pointed a finger at me. "I want to know what happened."

  "No one knows what happened yet. But I'll tell you what I saw." I described finding him in the men's change room, the aborted code, the screaming girlfriend, the police officer. My throat tightened. This wasn't just a guy who had spoken to me at orientation. He was a man, a mentor, a teacher, a doctor. What a loss. But I described the scene as best I could. Some people need to see the body, to believe that the person is dead. My description was the best substitute for tonight.

  Mireille pressed her hand to her forehead, but she leaned forward, intent on every word. When I fell silent, she said flatly, "He knew how to use his insulin. He did not overdose on it."

  Tucker tried to touch her shoulder, but she twitched away. "I know this, Tucker." She glared at me. Her hands clenched into fists. "No. It was something else. It's bad enough that he's dead. I don't want anyone to blacken his name."

  Tori said, "No one is accusing him of anything. We all loved him, Mireille."

  "Did you?" Mireille said. "What did you love about him, Tori? I would very much like to hear it."

  Tori met her gaze levelly. "I respected him. He was a good teacher. He cared. He had a sense of humor."

  Tucker took a step forward. "Remember how he'd swing his briefcase down on the conference table and say, 'What have you got for me today, kids?'"

  Anu and Tori laughed, Mireille loosened her arctic look. Tucker grinned, encouraged. "He made me laugh every single time I reviewed a case with him. No one else could do that. Lots of docs want to show off and make you feel stupid."

  I silently remembered Dr. Call
endar from this morning.

  "Kurt was never like that. If I didn't know, he'd say, 'Look it up and tell me about it next time.' He respected us, even though we were just medical students. He encouraged us to go into family medicine. He really was a mentor."

  "Evidence-based," murmured Robin.

  We all ignored him.

  Thinking of Alex, I said, "I heard that Kurt was good at listening to people."

  Anu nodded. "I remember, on my first day at the FMC, he said, if you have any problems, talk to me. I'm always here for you."

  "So did Bob Clarkson," Tucker noted.

  Everyone except me laughed. Bob Clarkson. The putative head of the FMC. I raised an eyebrow at Tucker. "Did anyone talk to Bob?"

  Mireille rolled her eyes.

  Tucker blew his breath out through his nose. "No one in his right mind would talk to Bob about anything important."

  "Why? Is he a dink?"

  They laughed again. Tucker said, "You met him, right? At orientation? Nice guy, but not a whole lot upstairs. Very hung up on protocol."

  Mireille said, "Once I asked him about improving Internet access at the FMC. He said to call his secretary and make an appointment to talk about it. Then I did, but he spent the whole meeting talking about himself and how good the FMC was already, without the Net!"

  "Kurt was kind of the heart of the FMC," said Tori quietly. "We'll all miss him."

  Anu sniffed back a tear. She turned toward the stereo, to hide it, but Tori handed her a napkin. She wiped her eyes. The room got very quiet.

  "There's something else." I hesitated. I didn't want to make a huge deal out of it, but I thought everyone should know. "I, uh, went through Dr. Radshaw's pockets—the police told me I shouldn't have, but I didn't know—and he wasn't wearing his pager."

  Silence. Broken by Mireille's hissed breath. "I knew it!" She threw her head back, eyes squeezed shut. "I knew it, I knew it."

  Tori took a step toward her, but when Mireille opened her eyes, they were exultant. "Someone killed him."

  My thought exactly, but I hadn't appeared so happy about it.

  "Thank you," she said to me.

  I glanced around. Everyone looked confused, except Robin, who looked blank. He was probably sorting through his mental file of articles, figuring out which ones applied for evidence-based treatment of bizarre behaviour.