by Natalie Ward
About That Night
By Natalie Ward
Published by Natalie Ward
ISBN-13: 978-0-9874159-5-0
Copyright 2017 Natalie Ward
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect for this is appreciated.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover created by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations.
For more information please come and visit me at http://www.natalieward.com.au
Table of Contents
That Night
The Day After That Night
About A Week After That Night
About A Year And Three Months Before That Night
Back To This Night
About One Year Before That Night
Back To This Night
About Seven Months After That Night
About Eight Months After That Night
Other books by Natalie Ward
I Love You to Death
Stubborn Love
I Love You, Always
Losing Me, Finding You
Waiting For You
Pain /noun/
An unpleasant feeling that is conveyed to the brain by sensory neurons. The discomfort signals actual or potential injury to the body. However pain can be more than just a sensation or the physical awareness of pain. It can also include perception, the subjective interpretation of discomfort.
My silence is just another word for my pain.
That Night…
~ Emma
“Time of death, six-forty-five pm.”
We all pause and look at the clock on the wall, as if to check, even though we know the time is accurate. This isn’t something you mess up and hearing the steady flat line of the heart monitor only confirms what we all knew was inevitable. There was no saving this one, no matter how hard we tried.
Still doesn’t make it any easier though. It never does.
“Shit,” the attending ER doctor says, hanging his head.
He’s one of the good ones, the empathetic ones who always takes the time to properly explain things, to both the patient and their families.
“I’ll tell the family,” I say, letting go of the clamps I was instructed to hang on to and don’t let go. It won’t matter anymore.
Dr Jason Langham lifts his head and looks at me, his face washed with exhaustion. “I’ll do it,” he says, like I knew he would.
I nod and we all silently stop what we’re doing and get the body ready. His family will want to see him, even though it’s not always something we recommend. In this case, it’s okay because from the shoulders up, he looks fine, as though he’s sleeping. It’s everything below that’s a mess, the impact of the collision all but destroying the chest and abdomen.
Blunt force trauma will be the cause of death.
I can’t even imagine what that would feel like, the crushing impact, the feeling of bones breaking, organs collapsing, the life being pushed out of you.
Blunt. Force. Trauma.
Not something I ever want to experience.
Jason and I walk silently out of the cubicle, both of us pulling off our blood soaked aprons. It’s been six months since I joined the ER and I’m still not sure it’s where I want to be. It has its good points, the non-stop adrenaline rush as I get to practice every form of medicine I’ve ever been taught, but it has it’s downsides too.
The death being the obvious one.
It’s far too common and I’m not sure I’m cut out for it. I only have to look at Jason and see how taxing it is. He’s forty-two years old but already he looks closer to sixty.
Death ages you and there are times I think I can already feel it happening to me.
“Emma, you good?”
I look up at him; see the sympathy on his face. I nod once, because even though we both know neither of us is good right now, we both know we somehow have to be. This isn’t just our loss, and for the family, it’s a loss that’s far worse. So we put on a brave face. The face that tells them we did everything we possibly could, and their son didn’t suffer, and we’re very sorry for their loss, but now a social worker is here to help them try to move on with their lives.
It’s all bullshit. They know it and we know it. But it’s what we all have to do. As though all of this is some sort of game or something.
Jason exhales and I follow him down the corridor and out into the waiting room that’s reserved for emergency cases. It’s half full but I instantly know which family belongs to our patient. The mother is crying, wrapped against what I assume is her husband, the deceased man’s father. There are two girls, sisters I guess, who are also crying.
Jason does his thing and I stand silently beside him, watching as the family moves between denial and grief and shock and anger and then back to grief again. What little strength and resolve they had dissolves and by the end of it, they’re all in tears as they thank us profusely for everything we did. Or didn’t do as it turns out.
We turn and leave them with the social worker knowing neither of us will ever see any of them again. It’s cold, the way we work. Hands busy clamping vessels and massaging hearts and trying everything we can to hold on to somebody’s life and at the end, we deliver our verdict, say our condolences and walk away. Done. It always leaves me feeling empty too, cold and empty, as though I’m somehow missing something more in all of this.
After all, how can it be so easy to deal in death the way we do? Surely I should be feeling something more. Surely I should be reacting to this, feeling something, anything after everything I’ve just witnessed, everything I’ve just done.
“You did good tonight,” Jason says, a hand on my shoulder.
I glance up, wonder how it’s possible to do good and still have the patient die.
“You’d make a great ER attending, Emma,” he continues and I know he’s trying to get me to stay. “You should seriously consider making this your specialty.”
I nod, because I’m not sure what else to say. At the moment I’m undecided about what kind of medicine I want to specialise in. I’m undecided about a lot of things, including whether I can handle this…this loss on such a regular basis. But I don’t admit this to Jason, because showing weakness is never a good idea.
When we pass the on-call room, he nudges me towards it. “Head home,” he says. “Your shift was over two hours ago and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do on a Saturday night.”
“I’m happy to stay longer,” I lie.
Jason smiles and shakes his head. “Go. Go before you burn out completely and we lose you.”
I nod, wondering if it’s not too late for that. Because sometimes, it’s really hard not to feel like I’ve reached that point already.
Shaking my head, I force myself to take a deep breath as I walk towards my locker. I spin the lock, my fingers automatically moving through the combination without my mind having to even think about it. How nice it would be if everything in this place were that easy. To be able to just switch off my brain and not think about what my hands, my fingers were doing.
But it’s impossible, and as I swing open the metal door my brain doesn’t fail to realise what tonight’s loss is.
Number thirteen.
Thirteen in six months.
The realisation actually makes me laugh out loud, the sound harsh, even as it echoes back at me. Thirteen deaths are what
I’ve faced in the six months I’ve worked in the ER. God knows how many Jason’s gone through; god knows how the hell it is he manages to drag himself into work each day, knowing that every new day brings the possibility of another one.
I close my eyes and take another deep breath as I reach for my bag, my other hand automatically wrapping around the phone in the pocket of my scrubs, a habit I can’t ever remember making, let alone breaking. I lift it so I can check for new messages, even though I know nothing has come through and technically I’m off work anyway.
But I’m wrong, because there are two new messages; only these are ones from the outside world. A world I’m supposed to be heading back out into tonight, but a world I’m feeling increasingly removed from with every day I spend in here.
“Shit,” I murmur, sliding the phone into my pocket without bothering to respond.
~ Nick
“Eight cock-sucking cowboys please.”
I force my eyes to focus on the overly made-up face and not the cleavage that’s pressed against the bar and ordering these ridiculous drinks. It’s an effort not to roll my eyes and tell her to order a real drink, but I know I can’t afford to be an arsehole.
Sometimes it’s hard though. Hard to know if they genuinely think they’re the first girl to try and seductively order a suggestive drink like this or they just think it’s that funny when they do and I won’t mind hearing it for the millionth fucking time. I want to tell them they’re not and I do and that it’s really not as sexy as they think it is. But like I said, I can’t afford to be an arsehole.
“Sure thing,” I say, forcing a smile. “Special occasion?” I ask, waving a hand in her general direction as though I actually care.
Her smile widens, her chest pressing a bit harder against the bar as though the sight of her tits, barely contained within her dress, is what I want to see right now. It’s not that I don’t appreciate a nice set of tits; of course I do, but not like this.
“She’s getting married,” she gushes, gesturing to the skinny brunette wearing a red lace veil and sash with the words Bride-To-Be flashing across it.
“Right,” I say, half sarcastically. Too dumb and too drunk.
I turn away and busy myself making the shots, wondering how it is my bar has ended up being a haven for bachelorette parties. This is not how I envisaged things would be when I opened the place and there’s a part of me that would like to ban them. Half the time it’s nothing but screeching, yelling girls, who buy hardly any drinks and somehow walk out of here leaving trails of glitter and other shit in their wake. It’s annoying as fuck. But then the other part of me knows that the sight of half dressed women brings in plenty of other customers too. Ones that not only order real drinks, but pay for them too.
“Here we go,” I say, turning back with the drinks.
The girl smiles at me again, fluttering her eyelashes as she pulls a couple of notes from between her breasts and hands them to me.
I play the game, cocking an eyebrow at her because I know that’s what she expects and when I turn to the cash register, she leans over the bar and smacks me on the arse, the move earning her a round of cheers from her friends. This time I don’t stop the eye roll, shoving the money in the register and not even bothering with her change. She’s too drunk to notice anyway.
“Looks like you’re in, mate,” Tony says.
I shoot him a look that says; don’t encourage them, and he only laughs. He doesn’t hate this stuff as much as I do, mostly because my lack of interest means easy targets for him I guess. These girls throw themselves at bartenders, shamelessly, and I guarantee he’ll finish work tonight with at least a couple of phone numbers, all of which he’ll no doubt use too.
“They’re all yours,” I say, pushing him towards their end of the bar.
Tony laughs as he swaggers towards them and I take the opportunity to duck out the back to my office.
I close the door behind me and sit down at my desk, throwing a half interested look over the piles of orders and bills I have; the framed photo that sits behind them. Reaching into my drawer, I pull out the bottle of eighteen-year-old MacCallan that was a promised gift when I opened this place and pour myself a glass.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you know,” I say to the photo, raising my drink in salute.
I stare at the image, wondering how differently things could’ve been if they hadn’t ended up the way they are now. We were supposed to do this together, that had always been the dream. But then she’d left and even though she made sure I was all set up to do this alone, that still wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
I exhale hard, throwing back my drink. It doesn’t matter how many times I stare at the picture, looking for answers, I know I’m never going to find them. I also know I need to get back out to the front and help Tony. As much as he might like the drunken girls and their parties, it’s Saturday night and there are plenty of other customers who need drinks.
I push out of my chair, carrying the glass as I head back out to the bar, hoping the party of girls moves on soon.
Wondering if there will ever come a time when I can too.
~ Emma
I know I’m late from the second I arrive home and it has nothing to do with my roommate Owen yelling out, “You’re late,” as soon as I walk in the door. In fact, him yelling it only serves to annoy me more. I don’t care that I’m late because I don’t even want to go. I ignore him as I walk into the kitchen, knowing the look he’ll be giving me as he follows me in there.
“You okay?” he asks, as I throw my bag down and reach into the fridge for a drink. “Em?”
I shrug, grabbing a bottle of water. “Tired.”
“Long day at work?” he asks.
I glance back at him knowing he doesn’t know the half of it. Not that it’s Owen’s fault. I’m not exactly an open book when it comes to talking about the shit I see and deal with. It’s bad enough I go through it, why would I want to subject Owen to that stuff too.
“It was okay,” I say, shrugging as though it was nothing out of the ordinary.
Owen watches me for a second, almost as though he’s debating about whether to ask me more, like he doesn’t believe I’m being honest. I twist the cap off my bottle and take a long sip, hoping he’ll drop it. As long as I can make it to my room without any more questions, I know I’ll be good. And the only way I’ll do that is if I act as normal as possible.
Owen opens his mouth and I immediately cut him off as I ask, “How was your day?”
He stops, closing his mouth before he says, “Fine, same as usual.”
Owen’s a graphic designer, a good one too. He works with another guy in a company they started up together about three years ago. They’re still pretty local but they’ve been slowly building a following, which is why he’s working long hours and weekends at the moment. It fits in with my hours and makes us perfect friends and roommates because we’re both never here and when we are, we are both happy to veg on the couch and do nothing. Still, I know this won’t last for him. Eventually things will settle down and he’ll work more standard nine-to-five hours.
Me on the other hand, who knows.
“Go and take a shower,” he says, taking the bottle from my hand and shutting the fridge door.
“I think I’m just going to skip it,” I say, re-opening the fridge.
“Em,” he says, shutting it again. “You know you have to go.”
“Why?”
He grabs my shoulders, spinning me so that we’re face to face. “She’s your best friend. You have to go.”
I lean forward and rest my head against his chest, my eyes closing. “You’re my best friend, I should just stay here with you.”
Owen chuckles as he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against him. He’s warm, familiar, comforting. “She’s getting married, Em, you’re her bridesmaid, you need to be there for this.”
“The wedding’s not for eight months,” I protest, my eyes closing as I s
ink further against him. “Who the hell has a bachelorette party eight months before their wedding?”
I feel Owen’s kiss against the top of my head even though I’ve just come off a fifteen-hour shift and must stink. I really need to go and take a shower, regardless of whether I’m going out.
“Sarah does,” he says. “And given it’s her wedding, I’m thinking she can pretty much do whatever she wants, including expect her best friend to show up tonight.”
I shrug, knowing he’s partly right.
Sarah is my best friend. The problem is we hardly see each other anymore. It’s not intentional; it’s just that so many other things always seem to get in the way.
Like work.
Being a resident at a major city hospital isn’t exactly conducive to maintaining the lifestyle I had during my days at university. Sarah gets it, mostly, I mean she works too, but I’m starting to wonder if my endless excuses to skip whatever pre-wedding event she’s organised aren’t starting to wear thin.
I do try. But even I can admit my enthusiasm is a bit half arsed at times. It doesn’t help that she actually has three other bridesmaids and doesn’t really need me there.
“Come on,” he says, pulling away as he turns and pushes me in the direction of my bedroom. “You do need a shower,” he says, swatting me on the arse. “Go and get yourself pretty.”
I let out a frustrated groan knowing I’d like nothing more than a shower and a night on the couch watching some mindless TV show that I’ve not been following and have no hope of understanding, despite how much Owen tries to get me up to speed. But I also know Owen’s not going to let me get away with that, so I drag myself into a scalding hot shower and try to wash away all of the crap that happened today.
Afterwards, I walk into my room to find my outfit for the night already laid out on my bed. I can’t help but roll my eyes, knowing that having a gay roommate can have both its perks and its annoyances. Regardless, I pull on the dress he’s chosen for me, knowing he will of course have gotten it right. In the bathroom, I slap on some eyeliner and mascara, a touch of lip-gloss, before quickly running the hair dryer through my hair.