Code Blues

by Melissa Yi

  "Good. The clinics are easy, but we do a lot of emerg. When you do the noon to ten p.m. shift on the weekend, it doesn't leave much time to do anything else."

  "I'll say!" I noticed a book peeking out of her straw tote bag. "What are you reading?"

  She showed me. "It's on the history of Japanese art."

  "Are you an artist?" I've always wanted to draw, but never managed more than crude cartoons. Henry is my only significant legacy.

  She shook her head. "I like to paint. I wouldn't call myself an artist."

  She was pretty modest. "Are you more interested in the cultural history?"

  She nodded. "My parents brought me to Canada when I was five years old. I don't remember Japan very well, but I've visited three times."

  "You speak the language?"

  She nodded.

  "Well, I don't speak Chinese. My parents thought it was more important for me to learn French."

  She wrinkled her nose. "That's too bad."

  "I guess. But if I really wanted to, I could learn. I just haven't bothered yet." My mind flitted to Dr. Kurt. I wanted to bring up the autopsy report, but couldn't think of a good segue. "I'm glad that we're going out tonight. It'll be fun."

  She smiled and touched her glow stick.

  "Maybe we'll run into other residents." I glanced around the subway car. I could see my own reflection in the windows, but no St. Joe's people.

  She nodded. "I'm always running into people I know downtown."

  Time to ease delicately into investigation mode. "That's cool. Our class seems pretty tight."

  She shrugged, a lift of her slim shoulders. I've always been small-boned, but Tori made me feel almost oafish.

  I flashed her a smile. "Like you said, at lunch, there's a lot of history I don't know about. Life in the big city." This was her cue to start gossiping.

  She studied me from under slightly raised eyebrows. "Be careful, Hope."

  Guilt stabbed my stomach. "What do you mean?"

  Her dark eyes didn't waver. "Alex."

  I countered, "What about him?"

  She shrugged.

  The subway screeched to a stop and jerked open its doors. Tori stayed mute until we started up again and the recorded voice announced the next stop. Then she shook her head. "I don't know either of you very well."

  So? But I bit my tongue.

  She said, "It's none of my business. Let's talk about something else."

  I shook my head. "Let's finish this. What do I have to be careful about?"

  Her eyes creased in thought. "You seem like someone who is very...passionate."

  Blood rose into my cheeks. "And Alex isn't?"

  "I don't know him very well. Really." She glanced around the subway car.

  I was making her uncomfortable. I'd never get another word out of her. "Okay. Forget it. What bands are we going to see tonight?"

  Her shoulders relaxed. "I haven't seen the program, but it's usually a Latin American band at the main stage. You know, like the Buena Vista Social Club?"

  "Sweet. I like them."

  We got off at Place-d'Armes, along with a third of our subway car. In Montreal, the people waiting for the metro didn't stand aside to let you off as polite Torontonians did. Montrealers just stood there, blocking you, and tried to shove on as soon as possible, jamming the doors. Kind of a barometer of the city.

  Otherwise, the July night felt just about perfect. After the heat of the day, the evening bathed us in breezes and the last of the sun's warmth. We walked past the Holiday Inn, which was topped by an ornate, Chinese pagoda-style roof. Otherwise, Chinatown seemed to consist of restaurants and some stores selling teapots and Hello Kitty.

  The Jazz Festival was set in the heart of downtown, along Ste-Catherine. It took us only minutes to walk to Place-des-Arts. The road had been closed to traffic. White tents lined Ste-Catherine, and fellow pedestrians streamed alongside us. We could hear the music already, a trumpet punctuating the air.

  Tori darted to one of the first tents and grabbed us a program. "Want to go to the main stage?"

  "Wherever the action is." I grinned at her. She smiled back.

  People emerged from the beer tents with armfuls of plastic tumblers. One lucky café was only about a block away from the action. Its térrasse bulged into the street, allowing people to eat and listen to music.

  As we swam upstream through an increasingly thick crowd, Tori grabbed my hand. Even with the glow sticks, she wasn't risking separation. I had to turn sideways and twist through the mob. One guy, who held four tumblers of beer above his head, two in each fist, accidentally dripped brew on my hair. I squealed.

  The guy yelled, "Pardon!" and escaped.

  Tori squeezed my hand, threw me a sympathetic look, and tried to pull me ahead.

  I brushed my hair off as best I could one-handed. My hand, hair, and neck felt stickier by the second. I now smelled like Labatt's Blue.

  I don't even like beer.

  As far as I could see, not one drop had fallen on Tori. When we were out of range, she called, "Are you okay?"

  I nodded. There are naturally neat girls, the ones whose hair always looks freshly combed, the ones who eat spaghetti while wearing white linen dresses without any fear of spillage. That was Tori. And then there were girls like me. We're not slobs, but we have to work at looking polished. We're more likely to attract beauty disasters, like smudged mascara when it's not '80s night. Or beer in the hair.

  A wasp dive-bombed my head. I ducked and hollered.

  Tori tugged me through the horde. I think I helped part the crowd because I waved madly at the hornet, my glow stick jerking through the air.

  At any rate, we got reasonably close to the stage and far away from the wasp. I relaxed into the music. A dozen band members dominated the black-draped stage. The drummer played a steady rhythm. The saxophonist wailed. Three trumpeters tooted an answer. Then a man playing the pan flute dropped to his knees, piping his heart out.

  I cheered. Tori gave a sharp whistle and we grinned at each other.

  A grandmotherly woman in front of us, complete with white curls, raised her hands above her head like she was praying to Jesus.

  By the time the drummer rattled out his five-minute solo, I had forgotten the smell and press of the crowd and the beer in my hair. I started to sway and air drum. Before the solo broke, I was out and out dancing.

  I was outdoing the Jesus lady. This was what I wanted from Montreal. A party in the street.

  A black guy grabbed my hand. I hesitated, startled, but he smiled and lifted our hands above our heads, gesturing for me to twirl. So I did, laughing. He took both my hands in his and hummed under his breath, leading me through a few more turns. The crowd moved aside a little, giving us room to move.

  I hesitated, but he loved it. He tried to count me through some swing moves, including kicks. I wasn't half as good as he was, but for once, I didn't care if I made a fool of myself.

  My dance partner had a round, fine-boned ebony face and long, lean limbs. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw his friends alternating between laughing at us and breaking into dance themselves.

  The guy spun me into an embrace. I could smell him, dusky, in a pleasant, mysterious way, my face close to his neck, and then he spun me away and bowed. His friends clapped him on the back and pulled him off. Within a minute, he'd completely disappeared in the throng.

  I wiped my forehead. The crowd turned back to the band, swaying to the beat. A black man in sunglasses was now singing in rapid-fire Spanish, one hand on the mike, the other raised in the air. The Jesus woman closed her eyes and hummed along.

  If I hadn't been still been breathing hard, my dance with a stranger might have been a dream. I searched for Tori and found her off to the right. She was chatting with a petite woman with short, tousled brown hair. I said, "Hey there."

  The woman turned. She looked strangely familiar. I couldn't quite place her, though. She had a tiny nose, like a bump with nostrils, and hollow cheeks.
Her eyes didn't quite meet mine.

  Tori stepped in. "Oh, Vicki. I don't think you've met Hope Sze. She's one of the new R1's. Hope, Vicki."

  "Pleased to meet you?" said Vicki. She had a wispy voice that curled up on the end.

  I stared at her. Vicki. Could it be Kurt's fiancée? She was wearing black, head-to-toe, but that wasn't so unusual in Montreal. "Hi, Vicki. Did I just talk to you on the phone?"

  The woman glanced around uneasily. "I don't think so?"

  Her voice didn't match my caller's. This woman's was wispy, more child-like. Tori cut in. "Vicki's been in mourning after...the incident at our hospital." She turned back to Vicki. "We're so sorry. I'll call you."

  Vicki gave me a wide-eyed look before she allowed a middle-aged woman to draw her away.

  Tori cocked an eyebrow at me as a sax solo speared the night. I had to yell above it. "Someone called me this afternoon. She said she was Vicki."

  Tori shook her head. "Why would she call you?"

  "I left my number on the OB/gyn ward." That sounded pretty nuts, so I added, "I wanted to give her my condolences. You know. After Kurt died. She was, uh, screaming."

  Tori's eyebrows knit. She stared at me and shook her head again before turning back to the music.

  "What?" I yelled.

  She gestured at the stage, but I'd lost my taste for the music. I kept trying to read her face, and finally she got sick of it and hiked her thumb. "Let's get a drink."

  I nodded. She didn't take my hand this time as we burrowed our way back out. After about a block, the music dimmed and flattened, but we could walk side by side and talk at low volume. She said, "There's a lot you don't know about the people here. Everyone is very friendly, but—"

  "Hope!" a guy bellowed.

  I turned automatically. One advantage of an uncommon name, when you hear someone calling, it's for you.

  Tori sighed, but I soon spotted the cause of the commotion. Alex was almost pushing people aside as he tunneled his way out of the mob. "Hooooooope!"

  Tori stood there, silent and expressionless. I said, "We'll talk after, okay?" But she gave a little shrug and watched Alex approach. He was wearing a faded red T-shirt and beaten-up cords.

  I was in a silly mood after dancing with a stranger. Less likely to probe into the past, more "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." Spotting Alex's shaggy, chestnut head still gave me that zing. I put my hands on my hips and called, "What about Tori?"

  "Toriiiiii," he yelled, but turned down the volume as he neared us. Still, a few passers-by shook their heads.

  His eyes were on me. "Fancy meeting you here." He leaned forward. Now wise to Montreal ways, I pursed my lips for the greeting kiss, but he pressed his cheek against mine and started to hum, one hand settling on my waist, the other clasping my hand in the air.

  Wow. I was doing impromptu dancing for the second time in fifteen minutes. I felt like Sleeping Beauty in a very crowded, urban forest. Alex wasn't as skilled a dancer as the previous guy, but I felt more nervous in his arms. I nearly tripped over a tent peg. He caught me, embracing me so tightly that I had to hold my breath, feeling dizzy.

  At last, he loosened his hold. Secretly disappointed, I started to back away. Then his arms tightened again and he stepped forward, tipping me backward. I gasped but kept my balance. At the last second, I even kicked my leg in the air, Hollywood-style.

  He brought me slowly back to earth, his face filling my vision. His grey eyes were suddenly serious. I bit my lip. When I was back on my feet, he pressed his face toward me, nearly nose-to-nose, until I went cross-eyed. "Stop it," I breathed.

  He pressed a long kiss on both my cheeks and released me. I crossed my arms so I wouldn't look like I wanted his touch.

  More formally, he turned to Tori. "Hi."

  "Hello." She just stared at him. He leaned forward from his waist and pecked her on each cheek. She accepted it, but made no move toward him.

  She didn't have to say it out loud. She didn't trust him.

  I was beyond caring. I always wanted a guy who could dance. Ryan never did more than a reluctant, slow-dance shuffle.

  "What are you girls doing here?" he asked, his eyes moving to me.

  Tori waved at the main stage. "The usual."

  "We're getting drinks," I piped up.

  "Well, then, allow me." He made a bow toward the nearest beer tent. "My treat."

  Tori shook her head. Her face was so blank that I told him, "The dance was enough."

  Alex said grandly, "Not nearly enough." He turned his gaze on Tori. "Come on. One drink. I insist." He offered us each an arm, making crooks at his waist.

  I'd never liked those pictures where a tuxedoed man escorting two women, one on each arm. Plus Tori's reserve was starting to trickle through. I was mad at Alex. I was supposed to be making him pay for lying about Mireille.

  I said, with dignity, "Tori and I are having a girls' night out."

  Alex's face fell so comically that I wanted to giggle, but I suppressed it. He was a liar, I reminded myself. Ixnay.

  Tori added, "Who are you with, Alex?"

  Alex spread his arms out, embracing the night, nearly hitting a bald man. "Uh, sorry, man." To us: "The night is my companion!"

  A breeze made me shiver. I said, "Good. Then you won't miss us. Let's go, Tori."

  Now that I was playing hardball, Tori cocked her head to one side and gave him a look. "You can come, Alex. But we'll pay for our own drinks."

  And so we did. As a feminist, I approved. As a poor student, I wished he'd paid for Tori's beer and my bottled water as well as his own Blue. I pointed to Alex's plastic tumbler as we backed away from the tent. "If you want more, you can inhale the fumes off my hair. Some guy dripped it on me." I touched the top of my head, fingering the sticky mess there and the tangled ropes of hair running down the back of my head. Yuck.

  Alex surveyed my hair. Then he turned back to the beer tent. "I'll be back in a minute. Hold my beer?"

  Tori took it. We exchanged puzzled glances. Alex definitely had a mercurial temperament. Maybe I'd triggered his need for seconds, because he was leaning over the plywood counter of the makeshift bar, holding out some coins and talking to the server.

  I said, "I guess he really wanted to pay. Or do some two-fisted drinking."

  Tori shook her head. "You can never tell, with him." She raised her glass and sipped her beer, while balancing Alex's in the other hand. Even doing that, she looked like a lady.

  Alex returned with a second bottle of water. "Come here."

  I gave him a weird look. "Thanks, but I haven't finished the first one."

  "Come on." He beckoned me toward a garbage can.

  I'd had my fill of close encounters with hornets. "No, thanks."

  Tori held out his beer. "Do you want this, Alex?"

  "In a minute." He turned back to me. "Come on, Hope. I'm not going to hurt you."

  Tori said nothing. Her eyes moved between us.

  He broke the cap off the water bottle and tossed it in the garbage. "Please?" He lost his smile, and his eyes gave a quick flash of vulnerability.

  He wasn't about to harm me in front of Tori and a few hundred other witnesses. Avoiding Tori's eyes, I made my way over the garbage can. Alex sniffed the mouth of the water bottle. "A fine vintage."

  I started to back away. He grasped my wrist and tugged me to his side. "It's okay. Lean over the can. I'm going to wash your hair."

  Since I reached adulthood, no one has ever offered to wash my hair except a hairdresser. It would never have occurred to Ryan. To be fair, I'd never thought of it either. But it was, abruptly, the most romantic gesture I'd ever conceived. Except for the garbage can.

  I bent over, holding my breath at first. But it actually didn't smell too bad, mostly fermenting beer, the mustard from half-finished hot dogs, and the occasional buzz to remind me this wasn't the smartest idea in my life. But Alex's hands were gentle on my hair, lifting the stickiest locks away from the rest. He poured water, splashing down my neck
and cheek. I bit back a cry. The water felt icy.

  "Sorry," Alex whispered, his lips close to my ear. He tipped the bottle so it spouted into his cupped palm, then dribbled the warmed water over my head.

  I laughed shakily. "That won't work."

  "It will, but we'd be here all night. Are you ready for the second course?"

  "Yes." The trash can caught my whisper and magnified it.

  Alex pressed the bottle opening against my head and tipped a few more spoonfuls as he finger-combed the water through my hair, diluting the beer and smoothing out tangles. On stage, two men sang in harmony together. The throng howled encouragement. It felt like it was for us. My heart drummed. I could hear Alex's breath in my ear. This was as intimate as anything Ryan and I had done.

  A few people strolled by and laughed. One guy yelled, "All right!"

  Alex didn't pause in his work. I could feel the force of his concentration, like washing my hair was his most important task on earth.

  His fingers slowed and stopped. He tipped the bottle and gave me a careful rinse. "It's a good thing you have short hair."

  "Yeah," I lied. I could have stayed here with him all night. His touch was an apology and a benediction and a seduction rolled into one. I wanted to lean into his hand like a cat. I wanted to lick his cheek. I wanted to bury my face in the crook of his shoulder and grind my pelvis over his. I could feel my nails digging into my left palm and the ridges of my water bottle cap imprinting on my right. Alex's breathing had slowed down and his touch pressed deeper, more surely.

  His fingers ran along the back of my neck. I had to close my eyes. I wanted to arch into his hand. I wanted to climb into his bed.

  He backed away. I heard water sloshing in the bottle as he righted it. "Uh, I guess I'm done now."

  "I guess." I straightened.

  His eyes were narrowed, his lips pressed together. I could smell his sweat, see desire in the way he held his rigid posture. And I was glad. More than glad. I wanted him to shred his control and—

  Tori cleared her throat. "You didn't even use the whole water bottle."

  We both started, and looked at the bottle in his hand. It was still about a quarter-full. He held it out to me. "You can have the rest."

  Yeah. Give me the rest. I ran my fingers along his knuckles.