Code Blues

by Melissa Yi

  I stopped short at the end of the block. What I needed to do was take the bus home, not the metro. Tori had mentioned the 129 bus stop near the Air Transat building. I scouted for the high-rise with the tell-tale navy sign and aimed toward it. Ten minutes later, I had zigzagged my way to its side, right on Parc.

  A blue and white STCUM bus barreled north. Its pixilated yellow sign in the back said 129 Côte-Ste-Catherine.

  I scampered toward the bus's rear end, waving. It didn't stop. In fact, it might have sped up. A passenger in the back seat gaped at me through the window, making no apparent effort to call to the driver.

  The more things change...

  My hands curled into fists at my side. Goddamn this city. Goddamn everything.

  According to the schedule posted on the streetlamp, the next bus wasn't for another half hour. I was tempted to walk home in that time, but I knew I was being ridiculous.

  One block south, there was a little green-roofed mall with a sign for Cinéma du Parc. I rushed inside its glass doors to call Tori. Unshed tears were a pendulous weight in my chest.

  The phone rang and rang.

  "Bonjour. Vous avez bien rejoint la boîte vocale de Tori."

  One thing I never understood is why so many anglophones started off in French on their machines. My parents would be confused if I did that. A smile touched my lips. I was able to say in a quasi-normal tone, "Uh, meltdown with Alex. Can you call me? I have my pager, but I'm on my way home. Just waiting for the 129—" My voice broke. I struggled to contain it. "Next to Air Transat—"

  I was going to cry. So I hung up.

  I poked around in the boutique near the main entrance. I admired a pair of chopsticks in a cloth case with a wooden clasp carved in the shape of an elephant.

  Even as I did this, rubbing the soft navy cloth, running my finger along the sanded wooden chopsticks, smiling at the elephant—it hit me again.

  Rage, so strong it seemed to burn through my sternum and boil up my throat. And not just at Robin and Alex, but at myself.

  I'd been so fucking stupid. I'd almost died.

  I'd poked my nose into their nasty, incestuous business. I'd slept with a user. Yes, I'd saved Mireille's life and been lucky, but I despised myself more than anyone else.

  All my life, I'd played it safe, worked hard, made my parents proud. I'd built myself a charmed life.

  I'd almost torched it in less than three weeks.

  And for what? For Alex? No guy was worth that much.

  For my pride? Probably closer to truth.

  Plus some anemic sense of justice for a man I hardly knew.

  I forced myself to lay the elephant chopsticks back down, but in my head, I saw myself taking a broken piece of glass and carving bloody wounds into my face. Then everyone could see what I was feeling.

  No! I must be more unhinged than I realized. I shouldn't have come back to work so soon. I shouldn't have gone to see Alex. I shouldn't—

  The breath seemed to get vacuumed out of my lungs. My hands fluttered helplessly in front of my chest. My heart beat against my ribs like it wanted to kick its way free. My ears roared in one solid ocean wave. A black veil settled over the periphery of my vision.

  It felt like Robin was strangling me here. Now. Again.

  People walked by with shopping bags looped over their wrists. Their eyes slid past me. One woman was so close that I could smell the coffee in her paper cup. She checked her watch and strode on.

  I

  can't

  breathe

  !

  I closed my eyes and grabbed the edge of the display box. Its smooth, painted MDF surface was soothing. I ran my thumb the length of the box and pushed on the outer corner so it dented my thumb pad.

  Pain. A blunt sort of pain.

  Good. Anything was better than my own thoughts.

  Focus. You have to get out of here.

  You survived Robin. And Alex. You will not break down in front of the elephant chopsticks.

  "Hope?"

  A quiet voice. A familiar baritone.

  Alex? My heart leapt, even as I whirled around to see a wheat- blond flattop and sympathetic brown eyes shaded by long lashes.

  Tucker. I covered my face with both hands.

  "Hope." He laid his hand just above my elbow with a light pressure. A "good doctor" pressure, empathetic but not cloying. "Are you okay?"

  I nodded. My chest was still heaving, but I was getting some air in. I released the display box, to the relief of the East Indian storekeeper who had come to stare at me. My heart downgraded from jackhammering to hammering. I could feel a sheen of sweat on my forehead.

  So stupid. A panic attack. That was what psych people got. I answered Tucker through chattering teeth, "Need—fresh air."

  Tucker steered me outside the glass doors, through the paving stone patio, and up to a thigh-high concrete wall bordering the sidewalk.

  The sun felt good on my arms, even though I could smell the cigarette smoke drifting from the restaurant térrasse around the corner. People sauntered by, hardly glancing at me, but this time, I found their indifference comforting. Nothing to see, folks. Keep moving, keep moving. I took a stab at normalcy. "So what are you doing he-here?" I choked back a sob, but tears welled in my eyes. I rubbed them back. They still spilled over my eyelashes.

  No. Do not cry. I tried to concentrate on something else—the pits in the concrete sidewalk, the laughter of the people on the térrasse, Tucker's hand resting on the wall beside my leg.

  His hands were tanned a light gold. His fingers were long, with endearingly knobby knuckles. No rings, just light cover of blond hair that gleamed in the fading sunlight.

  His hand clenched the wall before he forced it to relax. He said, "It doesn't matter. You're okay."

  It was such a humane thing to say, I sobbed.

  I did not want to cry. But I couldn't hold it back any more.

  I wanted to launch myself at his chest and weep against his shoulder while his hands caressed my hair.

  I wanted him to fly away so he wouldn't witness my humiliation.

  I didn't know what I wanted anymore.

  I stood up. "I have to go. Thank you," I said, even though tears were still spilling down my face like they wanted to supply a water bottling plant. "I'm better now."

  "No, you're not." Tucker's hands reached forward, as if to hold me back, but stopped an inch short of my shoulders. "Just stay here. You don't have to talk to me."

  It was exactly the right thing to say. No judgment, no questions. He was just there for me. So there for me, in a way that Alex had never been and never would be. Tucker was so great, but every compassionate move felt like a vice around my chest. More evidence of my idiocy, that I didn't even like Tucker.

  I started to bawl. My shoulders shook. My hands grew slick with mucous and tears as I covered my face.

  I heard Tucker stir. So he wasn't so enlightened after all. He was ditching me for being the weeping wall. I felt something detach inside my chest. Fine. This was what I learned, after all. I had no one to count on but myself.

  His hand brushed the side of my shoulder. "It's okay, Hope. Sit down. Please."

  He waited until I sank back down on the wall.

  "Back in a minute. Okay, Hope?"

  What else could I say? I nodded from behind my hands. All told, it was a relief to cry. I'd always avoided blubbering in public, even when I was younger. Now I was doing it in full Technicolor and yet I would survive.

  His shoes padded away. I allowed myself some full-frontal sobbing. A mother towed her two kids past me while they craned their necks, hanging back to goggle at me. I swung myself around so my back was to the sidewalk. Now the guy cleaning out the garbage cans outside the mall cast me nervous looks. Maybe they'd arrest me for disturbing the peace.

  The thought made me smile a little. There is some comfort in hitting rock bottom. You know it can't get any worse.

  The green glass doors punched outward. Tucker's face cleared w
hen he saw me still perched on the wall. He flew toward me. When he skidded to a halt, his leather sneakers kicked up a stray piece of gravel. He was slightly breathless as he shoved some white paper Subway napkins under my nose. "Here."

  Jesus. I grabbed one with a watery smile. I blew my nose. It was so clogged, I had to blow twice. I searched for a dry corner to wipe my face.

  Tucker plucked the napkin out of my hand without wincing at its condition and pressed some new ones on me. He wadded the used one up in his fist and held slightly behind his back, out of sight.

  Wow. He didn't even run to the garbage with it. He held on to it because he'd rather stay by me. And he didn't say a word.

  I tried to imagine Alex holding a snotrag for me and I couldn't.

  That meant I was well rid of him.

  Okay.

  I gambled on Alex. I lost. I lived.

  I tried to save Mireille. We won. Robin lost.

  I took a deep breath. Blew my nose one more time. Then I said, "Okay."

  Tucker held out his hand, folding the rest of the napkins under his arm as he helped me up. He still held the soggy one behind his back. I smiled at that.

  A few steps north on Parc, at the glass and red metal bus shelter, we paused by the garbage bin. We both tossed our used napkins. I gave a watery laugh.

  Tucker looked pleased. He handed me the remaining napkins.

  I laughed. "I don't need that many! I'm okay."

  He shook them at me, the white ends fluttering in the breeze. "Just in case. You never know. Someone else might need them."

  "Yeah. Lots of crying jags on the bus."

  He nodded, drawing his eyebrows together in mock seriousness. "Or you could use them as a pressure dressing."

  I laughed some more. "Okay." I slid off my backpack and unzipped it. He tucked the napkins in the front section.

  When we straightened, we were standing quite close together. Only my bag separated us. His brown eyes were very fine, with a golden light in them, reflecting the sun. I could see his chest rising and falling under his black T-shirt. I had the urge to touch the bow of his upper lip.

  But I didn't. I couldn't trust my judgment anymore. Alex was still a third degree burn across my heart. We stepped back at the same moment.

  A faint flush rose in Tucker's neck, but all he said was, "So you were taking the bus?"

  "Yes." I sniffed hard. "The 129."

  "This way."

  We continued north. When there were too many people on the sidewalk, he stepped behind to let me precede him. Then he rejoined me. Our shoulders brushed occasionally. We didn't speak.

  Back in the shadow of the Air Transat building, a lineup of people climbed on the number 80 bus. Mine should get here soon. I sighed and slipped off my backpack to root in the front compartment for my wallet. Tucker cleared his throat and held a paper ticket under my nose.

  I straightened and shook my head. "You've been too nice."

  He shook his head. "It's what, two bucks? I can afford it."

  I hesitated. He shook the ticket at me.

  My fingers closed around it. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  Our eyes locked.

  I heard a buzzing noise. Tucker's hand clapped to his pants pocket and unfolded his vibrating cell phone. "Hi. Yeah. She's right here. Okay. Sure. Meet us at the Mimosa Manor." He smiled at me. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah. No problem. Thanks, Tori."

  Tucker hung up and pocketed his cell phone. "You're on your way to Mama Tori," he said.

  I nodded blankly. That sounded like an Italian restaurant. I knew I should be glad they were taking such good care of me, but it made me feel guilty.

  Tucker lightly grasped my elbow and arm waited with me by the bus stop. Three more number 80 buses rolled by, but no 129's

  At last, a bus pulled up. Its sign flashed "129" and then "Côte-Ste-Catherine."

  I turned to Tucker. For the first time, I noticed that his brown eyes curved down at the corners, giving him a rueful air. He had to raise his voice over the rumble of the bus engine and swishing of passing cars. "Tori will meet you at your stop if she beats you there. Or if you get home first, she'll buzz you." He hesitated.

  The bus doors folded open. An old lady began mounting the steps, her cane digging into the black rubber floor.

  Tucker added awkwardly, "You'll be okay."

  I nodded. I was already better. I closed my eyes.

  I felt a light touch at my forehead. Tucker brushed a stray hair behind my ear, his fingers barely sketching across my skin.

  I opened my eyes. Tucker waved me on to the bus, where two teenaged guys were hopping up the steps, flashing their Opus cards at the bus driver.

  I didn't want to leave him there. I leaned forward. "Aren't you going to—"

  He shook his head.

  I hesitated. I'd imposed on him too much, but it didn't seem right to just cry on his shoulder and run away. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." He smiled down at me.

  Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw the bus doors twitch. I yelled, "Non, non, attendez-moi!" and leapt on, shoving Tucker's ticket in the silver fare box. The bus driver grunted and shot the bus into gear, throwing me off-balance.

  The light had just turned red, but we barreled through on the tails of the car in front of us. Clinging to the hand rail, I swung around for one last glimpse of Tucker through the wide panes of the bus window. He never took his eyes off me.

  THE END

  Copyright 2011, Melissa Yuan-Innes

  Published by Olo Books

  In association with Windtree Press

  Melissa Yi is an emergency doctor who did her residency training in Montreal, minus the murder and male mayhem. She now runs codes in Ontario.

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  Author's Note

  An enormous thank you to everyone who helped me with Code Blues.

  My friends from Montreal to Vancouver got me through medicine and now support my scribblings. Bruce Kahn is a police officer who poked holes in my plot and helped me fix them.

  For edits, I'd like to give a special shout out to Camden Park Press, Andy Rorabeck, and Alberta's Dr. Greg Smith. Much gratitude to the Oregon Writers Network, most especially Kris Rusch and Dean Smith. Couldn't have done it without you. Or actually, I could have, but it wouldn't have been half as fun or look one tenth as good.

  Speaking of fun and looking good, my husband Matt always encouraged my writing. Max and Anastasia are my little wonderwalls. My parents really did call and bring me food.

  Once again, this is a work of fiction. All names and details have been changed or invented. If you are a doctor and want to make fun of the medical errors, bring it on, but remember, Hope's just a resident. Go easy on her and her creator.

  Please note that this book is set in 2011, but I have altered some of the dates as an artistic liberty. The spelling may also seem like a Choose Your Own Adventure (TM), but it's Canadian, which is a luscious hybrid of British and American spelling.

  And now, an excerpt from Hope Sze's next adventure.

  Notorious D.O.C.

  I'd avoided St. Joseph's emergency room for the past week, but it hadn't changed. Stretcher patients lined the wall and spilled into the hallway. Fluorescent lights turned everyone's skin yellow, even though most of them weren't Asian like I was.

  I smiled at a nurse who squeezed my arm and said, "Welcome back, Hope!" just before a patie
nt's wrinkled mother waved me down. "Miss. We need a blanket!"

  Home, sweet home.

  Well, sweet except for the smell of stool drifting from bed 12.

  I nodded at a few fellow medical residents. Officially, we're doctors in our first post-graduate training year, formerly known as interns. Unofficially, we're scut monkeys rotating from service to service. Last month, I'd done emergency medicine and tracked down a murderer; this month, I was on psychiatry and opting out of any drama.

  I just needed to see one scut monkey in particular. A blond dude. A guy who appreciated sausages and beer and me, not necessarily in that order. A guy I'd overlooked when I first came to Montreal for my residency, but I wasn't about to make that mistake again.

  Sadly, no matter how casually I glanced out of the corners of my eyes, John Tucker did not appear.

  Since I was officially starting my psychiatry rotation a week late, duty called first. I perched on the chair in the psych corner of the nurses' station, near the printer, and grabbed the chart lying on the table. Normally the psych nurse would occupy this chair, but she was probably talking to the patient whose chart I was holding: Mrs. Regina Lee.

  I pretended to read the triage note, my skin still electric at the possibility of seeing Tucker. Was that high school or what? I might be 26 years old, with an M.D. behind my name, but I still got rattled thinking about A BOY.

  My favourite emerg nurse, Roxanne, paused beside me and shoved a pen behind her ear. "Hope! Nice to see you. Are you doing okay?”

  I nodded. We hugged. She smelled like Purell and she was built like me, skinny but strong. Once she told me her Italian grandmothers practically cried when they saw her, they found her so emaciated-looking. Of course, that didn't stop me from complaining about my thighs on a bad day.

  Roxanne glanced at the blue plastic card clipped to my chart. "Oh, no. You got Mrs. Lee. Is it Fall already?"