Code Blues

by Melissa Yi

  At least there were windows on each landing as I climbed the four short flights of stairs. I pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and glanced to my left and right. The hall was lined with seemingly identical navy doors, all of them closed. Which way would I find Vicki?

  I flipped a mental coin and turned left, following the mustard-yellow, '70s halls until I heard a woman groan. I was walking toward the deliveries. The case room.

  I paused. Maybe I should go the other way, toward the ward, instead of invading these people's privacy. On the other hand, I'd be doing OB soon enough. It looked more suspicious to loiter, so I lifted my chin and carried on.

  I passed two empty rooms on my right. In the third room, I heard the same woman groan, and another woman saying, "That's it. Keep going. You're doing a great job, Cecelia." I walked faster, head averted.

  A man stood in the hall with a Styrofoam cup in his hand, scooping up ice chips from a cooler against the wall, but he paid no attention to me.

  I arrived at the nursing desk on my left. It was a long blue counter that paralleled the hallway, and separated me from a giant wooden table and some monitors.

  "Can I help you?" asked a woman at the desk. She had long, fuchsia, acrylic nails and wore black glasses on the tip of her nose.

  I doubted she was an OB nurse. Those nails would really hurt on a vaginal exam. "Hi, my name is Hope Sze. I'm an R1." Now the tricky part. "I'm working in the emergency room. Yesterday, I was called for a code. It was Dr. Kurt Radshaw."

  "Oh, yes," whispered the clerk. She leaned forward with wide, avid eyes. "Poor Dr. Radshaw. What happened?"

  I was getting to be a pro at this. Briefly, I described finding him, throwing her a gossip bone. I touched my hand to my chest. "It was kind of shocking, to be interviewed by the police. And on my first day!"

  The clerk waved me in past the desk. "Sit down, sit down." She pulled out a chair at the table and introduced me to the two nurses sitting there. One had a chart, the other a fetal heart strip, but both items lay spread out on the table, temporarily forgotten.

  I said, "After we found Dr. Radshaw, a nurse came in, very upset. I understand that she was Kurt's girlfriend."

  The clerk nodded so vigorously that I thought her glasses might slide off her nose. "His fiancée. Vicki. She works here."

  Interesting. No one else had said they were engaged. "Is she here? She seemed very upset. I just wanted to make sure that she was okay."

  The younger nurse, with the fetal tracing, said, "Well, I think she's all right. I talked to her on the phone yesterday. But she's not here. She's not coming in this week."

  The older, white-haired nurse cleared her throat. The younger one glanced at her and fell silent.

  The older nurse said, "What is your name, dear?"

  "Hope Sze."

  "I see." She let that float in the air. "Well, we'll tell Vicki you came by. It was nice of you to ask after her."

  Ding, dong, the investigation is dead. I had laid all my cards out at once, inviting confidence. I wouldn't make that mistake again. I tried to salvage what I could, with a sweet smile. "That's too bad. She seemed very shaken. I wanted to give her my condolences."

  Silence again. No one except the older nurse would meet my eye.

  I scrawled my name, number, and e-mail address on a scrap piece of paper. "If—when—she comes back, could you give her this for me?"

  The receptionist took it, folding the paper in half. "I'll make sure she gets it, dear." She avoided the older nurse's eye.

  Everywhere I looked, I found politics. Too bad I couldn't make it work for me. I smiled at all three of them. With a little luck, Vicki would get back to me. It was a long shot, but still a shot.

  On my way out, the woman in labour was taking deep breaths, while the nurse yelled, "Push! Push! Pushpushpushpush..."

  I practically ran down the stairs.

  The moving van was supposed to bring my stuff today. It was Monday, July fourth, so they'd avoided the Canada Day crunch and should sail up to my apartment. I imagined good-looking men flexing their muscles as they moved my boxes into the Mimosa Manor. I'd called them this morning and left my pager number, just to be sure.

  On cue, my pager went off. I ran to the quiet, green-carpeted library to dial the 1-800 number of my moving company.

  A woman asked, "Is this Hope, ah, Zzzz—"

  "Sze. Yes."

  "This is the Zippy Moving Company."

  "Great. When is your van coming?" I hoped I wouldn't have to miss lunch with Alex, but if I did, it would make us even.

  "There has been a problem."

  My hand tightened on the black plastic receiver. "What's that?"

  "All your things were packed in London and scheduled to be driven to Montreal today. However, we had a shortage of trucks over the weekend, so your items are still in storage. In London."

  "What?" Visions of my oh-so-comfortable mattress and blanket promptly evaporated. The ache in my lower back ramped up a notch.

  "The good news is, we should be able to get you a van tomorrow."

  "But I'm sleeping on the ground and I've been wearing the same clothes all weekend!" An exaggeration, but it couldn't hurt. "Do you think that somehow, you might be able to manage—"

  "I'm sorry, Ms., ah, Zee, but if you look in your contract, there is a clause about unforeseen circumstances."

  Forget the honey. Try vinegar. "This is a foreseen circumstance. If you had organized your trucks properly, my stuff would be here today. It's not like a tornado touched down."

  "If you look at your contract, you will find the exception for trucks. I'm sorry, Ms. Zee. There's nothing I can do about it. It's one of those things."

  "I'll post my feedback on Yelp," I said, in my most haughty voice. "I expect that van to arrive tomorrow. At what time should I expect you?"

  "Afternoon."

  Of course, I was working a day shift. "I won't be home until after 5 p.m., more like 5:30 or 6—"

  "Fine." She hung up on me.

  What happened to "the customer is always right"? Ever since I moved here, I'd met so many people who were just plain crazy or rude or both.

  My pager went off again. Not the moving company, a hospital extension. I dialed and Alex promptly picked up. "Don't say there's no such thing as a free lunch."

  "There's no such thing as a free lunch," I replied.

  "Gadzooks! Now you'll have to pay. I hope you brought your wallet. Just kidding. Meet me in the resident's lounge at 11:30."

  "Where are we going?"

  "It's a surprise. Eleven-thirty."

  I wondered if I was dressed right. While awaiting Zippy Moving, I only had three outfits to mix and match, and Montreal was the most fashionable city I'd ever lived in. No one said anything, but just walking down the street, I'd spy a woman in a t-shirt and jeans, somehow looking more chic and fabulous than I'd ever been in my life.

  What was the secret? After three days, I was no expert, but at least part of it was their attention to detail, with their hair upswept in careless but flattering 'dos and their understated makeup. Their clothes were more tailored, neutral pieces with the occasional touch of funk. The pièce de resistance was impeccable shoes, ranging from designer sandals to retro sneakers.

  Which was not to say that you didn't see chubby girls in ripped T-shirts with their bellies hanging over their low-rise jeans. Also, the average man's fashion tended not to be very remarkable. Still, the overriding style was elegance, with a judicious amount of flair.

  I could see all this, but I wasn't able to duplicate it. Walking in Montreal was like being in high school again, studying the girls in the hallway, and trying to imitate their style without falling for the millennial equivalent of acid-washed jeans.

  Today, I was wearing omni-purpose indigo jeans, a red-ribbed top so fitted that it bordered on tarty, a fitted white cardigan to cover the top at work, and beat-up, hand-me-down brown leather boho sandals from my mother. I thought I fit in okay except for my sanda
ls. Montreal style wasn't built in three days.

  I still had almost an hour before lunch, so I hit St. Joe's gym. I'd signed up on the first day. For ten bucks a month, I got a card with 24-hour access. I figured the gym would come in handy between shifts or at lunch time. One of the surgeons once told us during clerkship, "Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, and never lie down when you can sleep." So working out was a bonus.

  The gym was located in a corner of the second-floor cafeteria, its door tucked at the end of the wall lined with drink machines. I ran my card through the reader. It flashed green, permitting me entry to another world. Four TV's blared CNN, A Makeover Story, Much Music, and Musique Plus, the latter two being the English and French Canadian version of MTV. Two women walked on whirring treadmills. A man rowed in one corner, his jaw set and arms flexing. A well-padded woman stretched her legs in the mirrored corner diagonally across from me. The water cooler beside the door glooped as a man filled his water bottle. No one was using the weight machines. The room smelled like rubber and sweat.

  I hadn't brought my running shoes, but no one was paying attention to me, so I did some cursory stretches, pulled off my cardigan, and stepped on the elliptical trainer between the treadmills and the rowing machine. A few strides, and I was up to speed. I like the elliptical machine because it's fun. It feels like I'm bouncing on air. Bikes remind me of biking to work. Running on a treadmill just seems like work, period.

  The two women huffing on the treadmills yelled so they could hear each other above the TV's. The one closest to me, a middle-aged lady who was wearing a lot of makeup, called, "Did you hear about Dr. Radshaw?"

  "Yeah, I know! Isn't it terrible!" said her hefty friend.

  Lipstick Lady shuddered. "I was terrified! I almost didn't come to work today!"

  Her friend slowed down her machine. "Why?"

  "Well, it was very suspicious how he died. I heard that he may have been strangled, but it was all hushed up. You never know who might have done it!"

  Strangled. Where did that come from? I stepped faster.

  "Really?" said her friend. "I heard it was drugs. Heroin, actually."

  I made a mental note not to die at St. Joe's. Post-mortem gossip was vicious.

  The made-up woman widened her eyes. "Honestly, Kathy, that's just ridiculous. I knew Kurt. He was as straight as they come. There is no way he would ever do drugs."

  Her friend twitched her shoulders. "I'm just saying what I heard."

  "Well, hear this." Ms. Max Factor on the treadmill was a decade or two older than me, wider, and more sure of herself. She smiled at her own image in the full-length mirror, despite the sweat beading her face and dampening her cleavage. "Kurt would never do drugs. There were other things he'd rather do."

  Her friend almost stopped walking, but her treadmill forced her to start marching again. "Glenda! I never knew that!"

  Glenda shook herself and laughed, running a hand through her spiky hair. "It was a long time ago. When he first came to St. Joseph's. But let me tell you, my dear. He was as straight as they come." She gave her friend a large, mascaraed wink.

  The other woman pursed her lips.

  Glenda laughed again. "Remind me to tell you about it sometime. In private." I felt, more than saw, her glance at me in the mirror. I pretended not to notice.

  They fell silent, lifting their heads to watch the VJ on Musique Plus.

  I checked my watch. It was 11:20. I popped over to the water fountain, gulped some plasticized water, and stretched half-heartedly. My scalp was slightly damp, but I couldn't see any sweat stains. Asian women don't sweat much. It's a genetic thing that's useful in the summer.

  I draped the cardigan over my shoulders and ambled down to the residents' lounge. It was just around the corner from the cafeteria and gym, in a hallway full of offices. It was the only door with a combination lock under the doorknob. I pressed the digits for the secret code and twisted the knob open.

  The first thing that struck me was the sweet, rotting odor of discarded orange peels and spaghetti in the overflowing blue garbage pail immediately to the left of the door. What a romantic place to meet Alex.

  Some other geniuses had left dirty cafeteria plates and plastic glasses on the round table in the corner, near the phone and the computer. Rumpled blankets lay on the two sofas by the TV. Shoes huddled under the mailboxes by the door. Backpacks and shoulder bags were mostly hung on hooks over the garbage can, but had also been abandoned against all four walls and even one on top of the refrigerator.

  At least the coffee table was relatively clear, except for a scattered edition of the Montreal Gazette. I plopped on a sofa, avoiding the blanket, and clicked on the TV, breathing through my mouth instead of my nose.

  Just as I paused at a documentary on whales, the combination on the door went click-click. Pause. Click.

  I propped my feet on the coffee table and pretended to be fascinated by the Right Whale. Normally, I would have been. I donate money to the World Wildlife Fund. But this time, I was finely tuned to the man walking through the door.

  I saw a flash of red out of the corner of my eye and turned to see a tanned male hand beside mine, pushing down on the sofa arm. Then a chestnut head lowered toward my feet.

  I whipped my feet off the table and out of the way. "What are you doing?"

  Alex peeked up at me from under his bangs. "Groveling."

  I had to laugh.

  Alex lunged at my feet again.

  I leaped into the corner, behind the intersection of the two sofas. "Stop it!"

  "I'm trying to kiss your feet, woman! At least let me do it right!"

  I laughed so hard, I practically bent in half. "I've just been exercising. On the elliptical trainer."

  "So? You think Jesus's feet were clean and bright before Mary Magdalene washed them?"

  I gave him a strange look. "I have no idea. I guess not."

  "You bet your sweet ass not." His gray eyes glowed. "So?"

  I was embarrassed that he'd commented, even peripherally, on my ass. "So what?"

  He laughed. "You should see your face."

  I put my hands on my hips. "I think I liked you better groveling."

  "Your wish is my command." He stuck his head between the chesterfields and kissed my left foot, between the two straps of my sandals. His lips were soft.

  I nearly kicked him in the head as I tried to back away, but I was wedged between the walls, the sofas and Alex.

  He grinned up at me. "Aha. You're mine, all mine." Then he kissed my right foot. And gave it a tiny lick.

  I bit back a yell.

  "Salty," said Alex. He didn't look one bit self-conscious, even though he'd literally kissed my feet and was crouched on the ground, peering up at me from under his bangs. "So. Am I forgiven?"

  "Yes," I hissed, angry and humiliated and turned on at the same time.

  "Do I still have to take you out to lunch?"

  I crossed my arms on my chest. "Do you have to ask?"

  He stood up slowly, eyeing my body along the way. When he met my eyes, my face matched both our shirts. He said, "No. But you're so much fun to tease."

  I wanted to stamp my foot. I refrained only because it might have highlighted recent lip action, and Alex would have enjoyed it too much.

  He extended his hand. I took it and allowed him to assist me out of the corner. His hand was dry and warm.

  We smiled at each other. I felt suddenly shy. He opened the door for me and stepped back, without letting go of my hand.

  As we walked down the stairs together, he pulled my arm in close to his side. I blushed again. It had been a long time since I walked like this with anyone.

  The door at the bottom of the stairs opened. A woman's loud voice declared, "Don't you usually have to fill out a form for that? And he said, 'What form—'"

  I stiffened and tried to pull my hand away, to avoid any PDA, but Alex's clasp tightened. His eyes were amused.

  Mireille and Sheilagh
, the super nice resident coordinator, stared up at us. Mireille's mouth thinned for just an instant. Then it curved upward in a smile, so fast that I wondered if I'd been imagining things. "Hope! Alex! Where are you off to?"

  I hesitated. Should we invite them along? It would be polite, especially since she had just hosted a party at her place.

  But I wanted Alex to myself. We were holding hands for the first time. That was worth some privacy points.

  "Places to go, people to see," Alex cut in, his hand moving to the small of my back. His face was calm, his voice as smooth as Scotch. "See you back in the salt mines." His hand urged me down the hall, toward the emerg doors.

  Seeing Alex like this, assured and sexy, I could totally see him as a doctor, not to mention as a boyfriend. It made me forget the previous, less desirable incarnations. He was a one-man Jeopardy game. I'll take the Foot-Kissing for $100, Alex.

  I felt like a kid playing hooky when we burst out of the automatic black doors. I'd even been holding my breath. I burst out giggling.

  Alex hooked his arm around my shoulders. Our hips were touching. His fingers grazed my bare arm. I took a deep breath and smiled at him.

  It was a fine, bright July day. A few people ate, chatted, and smoked at the picnic tables across from us, next to the human resources building. We wound our way up the paved road and curved past the brick Annex building. No orientation today. Then we ambled through the parking lot between the old, steepled church and the metro station tagged by spray paint. Our feet fell out of step a few times, but for the most part, we walked well together.

  I cast a longing look at the fruit market, but Alex steered me to the right, along Côte-des-Neiges. A storm of people exited a blue-and-white STCUM bus and cut around us.

  He pointed to the store displaying various baguettes and round loaves of bread. The gold leaf sign read "Au Pain Doré." When he pushed open the door, a bell jingled, and a woman squeezed by us with a baguette held protectively against her chest.

  The store smelled like flour and jam. It was so crowded that people grabbed tickets from a red dispenser. A girl in a forest green apron called, "Quarante-huit! Quarante-huit, s'il te plait!" while one of her comrades grabbed bread out of the window and another used silver tongs to pluck a fruit tart out of the display case. I slowed to admire the pains au chocolat, the éclairs, the crèmes brulées, the little round cheesecakes, the tiny chocolate cakes, the palm-sized blueberry tarts...