Code Blues

by Melissa Yi

  I cackled a little laugh. I could speak now, but preferred to conserve my voice. I had typed out a statement for the police. It was nothing solid, nothing a linear mind might have pieced together, just a confluence of clues. One, the absence of the pager and cell phone meant the killer was trying to hide Kurt's pages, although it turned out Robin had been canny enough to call from within the hospital most of the time. We all knew Robin was the most intelligent person in our year.

  Two, the lack of abuse articles told me the killer was an abuser.

  Three, Robin talked about Kurt in a depersonalized way, still minimizing, still denying.

  Four, Robin's wife was pretty classic, if you knew what to look for, but none of us had been looking, except Kurt. Probably he'd stepped it up when he was researching the Grand Rounds presentation. Maybe he'd even reached out to Robin's wife.

  Tori shook her head. "We had no idea Robin was...unbalanced."

  "The guy was a complete wing nut," said Tucker. "I hear he planned to take away the pager and cell phone. He even came in on Monday and wiped out Kurt's hard drive, just in case the abuse articles tipped anyone off."

  Ah. Just as I thought.

  Robin must've confessed in great detail, meticulous to enumerate each point. I wondered if he finally smiled while doing so. If he was going to be convicted, it would have to be evidence-based. It was only fitting.

  My neck seized up. I still hated him.

  Tucker sighed and stretched out his long legs. "He was always such a smart guy. The gold medalist in our class. So when he planned to kill Kurt...I heard he brought his own pair of gloves and two paper cups of coffee." Anger and admiration warred in Tucker's voice. "He called Kurt to meet him in the OR lounge and spiked Kurt's cup with GHB. When Kurt went unconscious, Robin dragged him into the men's change room to inject him with succ and insulin."

  I shuddered.

  "Then Robin put Kurt's empty coffee cup in his own, tucked the gloves and the needle in the top cup, and walked to another floor so he could throw the gloves away and toss the needles in a sharps container. He walked out wearing Kurt's pager and cell phone and junked them later. He was only gone from the party for thirty minutes. It was genius." Tucker glanced at my throat again. "Evil genius."

  "Do you think he could get out on a medical defense? Criminally insane or, what is it called now—" Tori tipped her head thoughtfully to one side. Her shiny black hair traced the line of her jaw. I mouthed the answer, but she already remembered. "Not criminally responsible. Robin's wife was planning to leave him, and now Kurt was telling him to get help, threatening to ruin his career, well—"

  "No," I croaked. I evaded Tori's touch. My body was as taut as a piano wire. I could not feel compassion for Robin now. I wasn't big enough.

  Tucker shifted, denting the mattress. "Yeah, I know what you're saying. Both of you. It sucks for Robin, but he was a murdering bastard. He should rot in jail."

  Tori closed her mouth and nodded. "I'm sorry."

  I relaxed a smidge. I wrote, "Sorry. I'm uptight."

  "Yeah," said Tucker. "I wish I could help."

  I patted his hand. He squeezed mine back. I thanked Tori with my eyes.

  I was so glad they were here. But I still wanted to see Alex.

  He'd shoved a card under my door while I stayed in the emerg overnight. The front was a picture of flowers spelling out "Get Well Soon." Inside, he'd scrawled "Alex." Nothing else.

  Three days later, when my throat felt decent, I chose to come back to work. I could talk again. I was tired of my apartment, which was still only half-unpacked. I didn't want to take any more sick days. And I wanted to see the guy with the messy chestnut hair.

  I was eight minutes early for the FMC clinic. I beat Dr. Callendar there, but not Tori. She greeted me with a loose hug. "Are you sure?"

  I nodded. My motto: do what you're afraid to do.

  Her brown eyes were troubled when she released me. "You're the first one back. Mireille is still away. So is Alex. Sheilagh said she doesn't know when he'll be back. Stress leave."

  My stomach plummeted. I tried not to show it, but I must have, because she hugged me again, wordless.

  Physically, Alex must be okay if he slid a card under my door. But he never called or texted or even e-mailed after that first night in the hospital.

  I hugged her back. I was glad to have at least one uncomplicated friend in Montreal.

  Stan called from the doorway, "What are you doing here? You should be at home eating bon-bons! I was going to bring you some!"

  I laughed and broke away from Tori. He gave me a big bear hug, reaching down to envelop me. "Good to see you. Glad you're okay."

  I hugged him back, and he said, "I guess my wife and I will eat the bon-bons then."

  Some things were back to normal.

  Omar pulled my chair out for me. "You were very brave," he said simply, but it sounded like a benediction. I smiled at him.

  Dr. Callendar dragged his chair across the linoleum floor. "All right, everybody. Glad you're all here." He didn't quite look at me. "I saw some patients waiting already."

  My face flushed. What a bastard. Couldn't even manage a "well done." And where was he, after I got choked? Running home? Doing his billing in the staff room?

  I turned on my heel and called in my 18-year-old patient with panic attacks.

  I decided to write some Ativan for my patient. He only got panic attacks a few times per month. It didn't seem worthwhile starting him on a daily medication. When I reviewed the case with Dr. Callendar, my eyes dared him to contradict me.

  His Adam's apple bobbed. He looked away first. "Fine, good," he said. Paused. Muttered, "You all right?"

  I nodded, hiding a smile. It was like not finding the abuse articles in Kurt's office. The absence of criticism was significant.

  Dr. Callendar turned to the doorway and beckoned Omar to his side. "What do you have for me?...No, no, no! That patient has type ONE diabetes!"

  Omar said, "Yes, sir," but when he glanced up at me, one eye flickered in a wink.

  Yes, things were back to almost normal. A fledgling love and gratitude for my new life in Montreal unfurled in my heart.

  Still, Alex churned at the back of my mind all day. Every brown-haired guy made me jump. The sight of a water bottle, a miniskirt, an Au Pain Doré bag, or a bicycle all reminded me of him.

  It was an obsession.

  I had to talk to him. Sort it out one way or another. If we ended up in a passionate embrace in front of the sunset, great. If not, probably even better.

  Alex and I were on a weird relationship see-saw. Every time I was up, he was down, and vice versa. We could never find an equilibrium. Or rather, we only did once, that night at his place.

  I took the 5:35 Côte-des-Neiges bus to his apartment. I had to stand, clinging to the silver rail, pressed between a group of schoolgirls in uniform and a black guy in sunglasses. I rested my backpack on my feet so it wouldn't abrade someone's face. I peered through the forest of arms, trying to figure out the closest stop.

  Alex was right about one thing. The bus was a lot faster than the metro. I didn't have time to change my mind. I strode down the remaining slope of the mountain and turned east along Sherbrooke. With half a mind, I enjoyed the "Golden Mile" stores of Versace and Holt Renfrew, with their elegantly-dressed, beheaded mannequins. Several limos had pulled up in front of the Ritz Carleton, so the white-gloved, navy-uniformed and -capped butler types at the brass and glass doors didn't so much as glance at me.

  I probably looked like a tramp in my knee-length hemp shorts, white tank top and ginormous backpack. Maybe this wasn't the best look for a truth and (possible) reconciliation commission. Ryan once said my Mountain Equipment Co-op bookbag weighed more than I did. Not sexy.

  Of course, my backpack didn't stop Alex the last time. I had to smile.

  I turned south on Peel and headed through the McGill ghetto. All the lampposts sported new signs. More waves of packing tape and photocopying. "For
sale: Ikea bed. Like new!"

  "Roommate wanted. Large apartment in 5 1/2."

  "Le plus gros party de l'été!"

  I barely registered the passers-by except to check if they were Alex. I hadn't called. Hadn't paged. I just wanted to know if we could try again. If he wasn't home, well, that was another sign.

  Not that I'd give up if he was out, but I'd give it a rest for tonight.

  I found myself standing outside Alex's duplex. The pizza boxes were gone, but the wrought iron gate was crooked and the lawn ever-weedier. I was glad to see the bike still chained to the fence. Maybe he was home.

  I picked my way along the cracked concrete path and knocked on his wooden door. A small circle of a window was inset at head-level, but it was too dim for me to see inside. A white plastic Ad-Bag hung on his doorknob.

  I heard no footsteps. Belatedly, I spotted the doorbell on the left. Its one-note electric tone echoed down his halls.

  I took a deep breath. Okay. Alex wasn't home. I should have called. I turned back to the street and adjusted the straps on my backpack.

  Footsteps padded in the apartment behind me. Heart pounding, I revolved to face him.

  I heard the chain rattle. He threw the bolt and opened the door.

  His bloodshot eyes were slitted against the afternoon light, making them small and bear-like under his overhanging forehead. His stubble had filled out into a straggly beard. He smelled like he'd been lying in a rancid bed all day, and he was only wearing a ripped white undershirt and tan drawstring pajama pants.

  I choked back a gasp.

  He ran a hand through his rumpled hair, his eyes daring me to comment.

  I swallowed hard. My fists were knotted, but I stood my ground. I'd come this far. I'd see it through.

  He stepped aside, wordless.

  He hadn't bothered to switch on the hall light. The entrance was dim and smelled like stale smoke and bedhead. I tried to breathe through my mouth.

  Alex kicked some shoes off the welcome mat, making room for mine. I supposed it was his gentlemanly move of the day. I stepped inside, my toes curling inside my sandals. But I'd been raised to take off my shoes indoors, so after a second, I did. I tried not to grimace when my bare soles made contact with his gritty floor.

  He pulled the door shut behind me, making sure not to touch me as he cut off the last vestige of sunlight.

  Neither of us had said a word.

  This was not at all how I'd imagined our reunion.

  He beckoned me into the room on the left with a white loveseat and battered wooden coffee table. The TV against the wall was playing a Dentyne ad on mute. The fresh-faced, laughing couple seemed at odds with our own mood. Alex clicked it off.

  I perched on the end of the saggy loveseat. Alex glanced at the empty spot beside me but ended up dragging an orange beanbag chair out of the corner and dropping down in front of the TV.

  I stared at the crumb-covered plate and empty glass on the edge of the coffee table. I wasn't about to speak first.

  He did. "Hope."

  Our eyes met over the coffee table. He lowered his gaze to his knuckles. "I'm sorry."

  "For what?"

  He exhaled. "Every fucking thing."

  I tried not to wince. His words seemed to reverberate off his empty walls.

  He grabbed the edge of the coffee table. It was an old '70s number, the wood grain dyed a thick, unflattering black. "Are you okay?"

  I nodded. Take me in your arms. After you take a shower and brush your teeth. "My throat hurts. But I'm okay. How are you?"

  "I'll live." He released the coffee table and began spreading his fingers on the floor, pumping his hands up and down like they were pale spiders doing pushups.

  I cleared my throat. "Thanks for the card."

  His gray eyes shot up. "No."

  I stared at him.

  He jumped to his feet and began pacing around the card table on the opposite side of the room. He faced the opposite wall and said, "Don't."

  I stood and cautiously made my way toward him, but left a meter of space between us. "Alex. What's wrong?"

  His gray eyes burned. He was a lean guy, but his now-puffy face made him look older, more corpulent. "You should go."

  I shook my head, planting my hands on the back of a folding chair. It rocked under my weight. "No way. Not until you talk to me."

  One corner of his mouth twitched. "Why?"

  "Because—because—" I wanted to throw the chair at him. I forced myself to release it. It tipped but stayed standing. "We solved the murder! Mireille and I!"

  "I know," he whispered, gazing at his grotty floor.

  "Isn't that what's been hanging over you? Freaking you out? Robin's gone, okay?" My throat ached, but I wouldn't stop. "So what's with all the...mystery and angst? Let's celebrate!"

  He squeezed his eyes shut. "I wish I could."

  "God!" I stomped back toward the loveseat. "Why? I don't get it, Alex. You told me your sad story about being ostracized. I almost got killed putting Robin away. Drop it already!"

  "I can't," he ground out.

  The pain in his voice halted me. It sounded genuine.

  He picked his way in front of me, blocking the window. "You don't want anything to do with me."

  I met his eyes. "Don't tell me what I want."

  I saw something in his eyes. Sorrow. Stubbornness. And something deeper. Longing.

  My lips parted. I reached for his hand.

  He jerked it away. "No!"

  We stood in silence, breathing at each other. A dog barked outside.

  He muttered, "I'm no good to you. I'm no good to anyone."

  "Alex—"

  He shoved his face in mine. I could smell his rank breath, nearly count the hairs on his face, but his charcoal eyes fixed me in place. "Do you know where Robin got the GHB?"

  Suddenly, I didn't want to.

  Alex enunciated at me, "I told him where to get it."

  My mind balked and restarted. "Alex. You couldn't have."

  His mouth shaped a laugh, although his eyes looked like they were on a tour of duty of Vietnam. They told me the answer even as I fumbled to talk. "You gave him a date rape drug? When you knew he was abusing his wife? No way. That would be—" Criminal, my mind whispered.

  Alex finally backed off, laying his hands on his loveseat and staring out the window. Two women jogged by, their laughter muffled by the glass. As if it were an ordinary day. For them, it was.

  Alex said, "I didn't give it to him. About a month ago, I told him where he could get it. I didn't know about his wife. He said he wanted to try it. He was sick of hitting the books. He wanted to try oblivion. Just for one night." His voice dropped.

  I snorted. "He said he wanted to use it on himself? And you bought it? Who would—"

  Alex swung around to face me, unsmiling.

  A chill ran down my arms. His hair curtained his eyes. He smelled fermented. And now I knew he did GHB. He seemed so far from my light-hearted lover, I could hardly believe it was the same person. My T-shirt clung to my sides. His small apartment was suddenly stifling. "Okay. I didn't know—I mean, how did you know about that kind of stuff?"

  Alex's face didn't change.

  I backed up, inching toward the doorway. "Yeah. Okay. Well, I'd better go. Tori's waiting for me." Total lie, but he didn't have to know that. "I'll, uh, see you around."

  "See you in hell," he muttered.

  I chose to believe it was his code for St. Joseph's. My shoulder bumped into the plaster doorway. I felt my way back to the door rather than take my eyes off him.

  Alex reached for me. "I'd never hurt you, Hope."

  I squeaked, evading his touch.

  His hand dropped. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

  If I were a real forgiving type, I could look beyond and say it wasn't exactly his fault. But I did think he shouldered part of the blame. He gave Robin his secret weapon because he didn't know or care enough to check before handing out references to local dealers.
Obviously, Alex agreed, because he was consumed by self-hatred.

  I needed to escape. Fast.

  I stumbled over a stray pair of shoes, caught myself, and shoved my feet into my sandals. The straps snared under my heels, but I didn't bother to pull them up. I just grabbed his doorknob and twisted. "Good-bye, Alex."

  I heard the ring of finality in my own voice. His doorstep was cast in shadow. The early evening air was cooler than I expected.

  In answer, he slammed the door shut. The frame reverberated. He threw the bolt.

  That hurt my feelings more than anything. He didn't have to lock me out.

  But I knew, in a way, he'd locked me out all along.

  I closed my eyes, recalling that afternoon we'd spent, the subway foreplay, the sun through the window blinds, how Alex had kissed me and made me taste myself, musky and sweet.

  For once in my life, I'd taken a risk and gambled on a sexy, shady guy, who made me crave things I'd kept double-locked in the depths of my brain.

  And who inadvertently helped kill his mentor, then asked me to look into it.

  Something was building inside my chest. I took a deep breath and tasted it at the back of my throat.

  Rage.

  I hated Robin. That made sense. He'd tried to kill me.

  But part of me loathed Alex even more. A user in every sense of the word.

  I stepped into the sunshine. The heat was like a caress on my skin. A trio of students with gym bags strode past me. A woman chattered on a cell phone across the street. I started walking south, passing an old man with a very small dog. I'd never liked small dogs, but this Chihuahua, with its round, peaked ears and tiny feet, cranking along at its top speed, was comic relief. I ground out a laugh.

  The man picked up his Chihuahua and hugged it to his chest, glaring at me.

  I laughed harder. My ribs hurt with the force of my giggles. The Chihuahua stared at me with black circles for its eyes.

  Suddenly, it didn't seem so funny anymore. I hurried down the street. I had to get away. Alex was probably watching through his window, judging me.

  I had to get home. I had to lick my wounds in private, before I really did crumble. I tightened the straps on my backpack. The contents jostled with every quick step.