by Julie Cross
“I’m not,” he says. “Holloway just likes to pretend, I guess.”
I poke my elbow into his side. “Some would view that as abnormal behavior.”
“We should ask Kelsey. I know how much you love analytical conversations with psych majors.” Marshall flashes me a grin, and I reply by sticking out my tongue at him.
“Private Collins will be assisting at the wall to make sure none of you try anything stupid,” Hollow shouts.
Two girls behind me start laughing, and one says, “I’m totally sacrificing my body so that hot piece of ass can catch me.”
Oh, lord.
The whistle is blown a few more times, each sharp eruption causing a pain right between my eyes. I wonder how many decibels that thing puts out. Might be causing some minor eardrum damage. We line up in front of the tires as instructed, and I catch Marshall’s arm and whisper, “Watch out for falling girls.”
He gives me a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
Before I can reply with some unintelligent but choice words, my gaze zooms in on Sergeant Holloway’s left leg. There’s a scar from a transverse incision. “He’s had a knee replacement, hasn’t he?”
Marshall’s eyes follow where mine have landed. “Yeah, he has. How did you know?”
“That’s why he needs a TA,” I say, more to myself than to him. “He can’t be more than thirty-five. What happened?”
“Iraq,” Marshall says. “But he’s still living the life, you know?”
Or bitter and unable to accept his injury and move on to something non-military. I guess being a college PE teacher would fall under non-military, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like that right now. The other day, he used the phrase “This is war, people!” at least three times. What war are we preparing for, exactly? Final exams at a mediocre university? Petrifying.
“You!” Holloway blows the whistle right in my face. “Go first!”
Great.
I don’t consider myself an unfit person. I participate in rigorous exercise at least five days per week. (Though I missed days here and there during my internship because we’d sometimes work twenty-four-hour shifts.) And I always make sure to choose a variety of forms—cardio, strength, and yoga. The hospital has an excellent facility for employees and plenty of classes as well, but I’m not even close to prepared for this level of strength and agility. Not with that big wall waiting for me at the last station.
Despite my efforts to focus on the positive and envision the different muscle groups I’m strengthening, I can’t help thinking, as I’m spitting out sand while crawling on my belly under wires, How the hell is this going to help me get into Johns Hopkins’s residency program? How the hell is this going to make me a fully qualified doctor?
Holloway keeps blowing his whistle and shouting, “Move it!” But I can’t tell if it’s directed to me or to the students who follow me at thirty-second intervals. The rope for the possum climb cuts into my wrists and ankles, leaving more than a dozen scrapes. By the time I get to the wall where Marshall is poised to assist falling girls, two students have passed me and I’m bent over, clutching my side.
There are actually two ropes in front of this wall; one has knots and one is smooth. Marshall hands me the knotted one while I’m still hunched over. “It’s easier to climb this one.”
A guy zooms up and grabs the rope beside me, flying up the wall in only a few seconds. I shake out my arms. They’re trembling and weak from the possum crawl. I grip the rope with as much strength as I can muster, but when I place my feet on the wall, they just slide right off again, landing in the gravel.
“You have to lean back and put your feet flat against the wall,” Marshall instructs.
I try his way and end up swinging side to side out of control.
“Bend your knees,” he adds.
His technique works fairly well, and I’m able to make it about halfway, but then my arms give out and I’m falling fast. “Shit!”
But of course Mr. TA Extraordinaire (or should I say Private Collins?) is there to catch me. He moves quickly, grabbing me around the waist and allowing my feet to hit the ground first. Holloway blows his whistle again and stomps over to us. He nods toward the other side of the wall. “Go around, Jenkins!”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I thought the point was to go over the wall.”
Marshall pulls me back while another girl takes the rope and struggles but manages to climb to the top.
Holloway rolls his eyes. “If you fall and break your neck, my ass is on the line. Go around!”
I’ve now watched three female students reach the top, and all of them appear to have more body mass than I. I should be able to do this. I’ve lifted hundreds of patients onto gurneys and operating tables.
“I need some help,” one of the girls who ogled Marshall earlier says.
He doesn’t even hesitate, putting his hands all over her and lifting her up the wall.
I wait for a few more students to go over—two get a reprieve, like I did, and are told to walk around the wall—then I grab the rope again. “I can do this,” I tell Marshall, whose mouth has just fallen open in protest.
I plant my feet and bend my knees like he instructed, and this time I get past the halfway point before feeling the sensation of my arms ready to give out again. I release my feet from the wall, hang straight down, then let go of the rope so I can land in the gravel. I come down on my hands and knees, but it’s better than flat on my back, like I would have done the first time if Marshall hadn’t caught me.
“Go around, Jenkins,” Holloway repeats, giving the whistle a sharp toot. “Graduation is in four years. I’d hate for you to miss it.”
“Actually, it’s three years, eight months, and—”
Fweeeee!
I’m going to kidnap, murder, and bury that damn whistle.
Marshall shoves me from behind, toward the other side of the wall, and I have no choice but to concede. For now.
A few minutes later, Holloway has half the group lined up at the start line of the track and the other half inside the track, paired up with a current runner. My partner is a guy who lapped me on the obstacle course, completing three circuits while I attempted and failed to get over the wall just once.
“Four laps around is one mile,” Holloway says, “By the end of this semester, each and every one of you will be running a mile in under nine minutes. Count your partner’s laps and if I catch anyone cheating …” He makes a slicing motion across his neck with his index finger. “And ten bucks for anyone who beats Private Collins’s time.”
Marshall, now poised at the start line, makes an obvious effort to groan, like he hadn’t planned on trying too hard. But right before Holloway starts the first group, I see his muscles tense. He’s ready to pounce. It’s obvious that he loves the challenge. Before eight in the morning, I should note.
My partner moves through the pack quickly to run beside Marshall. Is he going for the ten bucks? This could be an interesting showdown to observe. But I quickly realize that it’s pretty boring counting laps that take over a minute to complete. So it’s not surprising, especially after all the flirting the other night, that my eyes are glued to my RA, studying his stride, the way his calves flex each time his feet meet the ground. And then there are his glutes. Talk about some finely shaped muscles, and I get to stare at them for over half of each lap. Despite the fact that after three laps he’s on a six-minute-mile pace, there’s an ease about him—his shoulders are relaxed and pressed down, his arms swing in this casual manner, and his face is relaxed, too, but it’s also clear that he’s in the zone.
The guy I’m paired with slows down and is now more than half a lap behind Marshall, who easily finishes first, recording a time of six minutes and twenty seconds. When Holloway shouts the time, Marshall shakes his head and says, “Not my best.”
Show-off.
At least he’s finally red-faced and sweaty like the rest of us. The front of his shirt is completely soaked, too. He peels it off
and wipes his face with it. With the sunlight hitting him, his skin looks more bronzed than when I’d seen him shirtless inside our dorm. But soon there’s a sea of shirtless guys to stare at as more students finish the run and remove excess clothing. The last runner finishes in eleven minutes fifteen seconds, and that was one of the girls who made it over the wall. Holloway is clearly disappointed with the small number of nine-minute miles, which is why I’ve got stomach butterflies as I take my place with the second half of the class. The last thing I want is to stand out for being the slowest runner in the class.
All during the first lap, I keep reminding myself that only a month ago I ran a 5K race with my dad. It was a hospital fund-raiser and employees were “strongly encouraged” to participate, so it wasn’t exactly by choice, but I trained for it and finished in twenty-seven minutes and forty seconds. If I could run three miles in that time, then surely I could do one in less than eleven minutes. It’s irrational and illogical to assume I’d be the last one just because the slowest runner so far was able to make it up that damn wall and I wasn’t.
I focus all my attention on the facts, the pure calculations to prove what I should be capable of achieving. I match my pace to a blond-haired guy several strides in front of me. I watch his back and measure his breathing, trying to keep my breaths in line with the pace. Right after the third lap, his breathing starts to shift. At first I think he’s running out of gas, slowing up his pace on purpose, but then his head tilts upward like he’s trying to expand his airway.
Something’s wrong.
I speed up until I’m within arm’s reach of him and then grab the back of his T-shirt, halting both our movements. “You need to stop.”
He’s wheezing with such effort, he’s now resorted to clutching his chest and making large movements with his upper back and shoulders, as if that will improve his ability to take in air. It won’t.
Sergeant Holloway crosses the track, walking as quickly as his artificial knee will allow. “He’s hyperventilating.” He rests a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Longfield, put your head between your knees. I swear, you infants would drop like flies if, God forbid, I made you run two miles. Jesus Christ.”
Holloway has this way of sounding pissed off and abusive while at the same time showing obvious concern for our safety (maybe just because he doesn’t want to get in trouble for student injuries happening during his class).
“He’s not hyperventilating,” I say, studying the guy’s chest.
Shirtless Marshall has now joined us with a very concerned look on his face, his cell phone already in his hand. “Is it asthma? Does he have an inhaler?”
“Aha!” I’ve figured out the problem. I grab Longfield’s arm and flip it over. It’s covered in hives. Allergic reaction.
Longfield is panicking now. He can’t speak or respond. That seems to be enough of a clue for Marshall and a couple of other students who have gathered around to all pull out their cell phones to call 911. I tune out the voices and focus on the patient, pulling him down to the ground. I search his ankle first for a bracelet and then ask, even though he’s not likely to answer, “Where is it? Surely you’re not stupid enough to go somewhere without—”
But I don’t have to finish. My hand lands on a small pouch strapped to his waist. If he had run shirtless I would have noticed the pouch even before any symptoms hit and this diagnostic hunt wouldn’t have had to happen at all. I could have saved him the anaphylactic shock.
I snap the end cap off the EpiPen and pull up the leg of his gym shorts.
“What the hell—?” Holloway says just before I press the button sending the needle into Longfield’s thigh.
One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand …
After ten seconds, I remove the auto-injector, toss it aside, and massage the muscle in his thigh, making sure the medicine circulates. He finally pulls in a huge breath of air, gasping loudly. I press my fingers to his wrist and instinctively reach for an imaginary stethoscope around my neck. I have to settle for laying an ear against his chest, listening to his breathing. His heart rate speeds up as a result of the medicine. I lift my head when I hear his teeth chattering.
“Do you feel nauseous?” I ask.
He shakes head and closes his eyes. I decide not to take a chance and roll him slightly on his side. The reddish blue color of his face is quickly fading to pale and his hands and legs are visibly trembling.
“Is it nuts?”
He shakes his head again and his fingers grapple around for the sleeve of his shirt. When he lifts it, I lean closer and see the raised red mark. Immediately I play back our run around the track and try to recall him reacting to an insect sting, but can’t, despite the fact that I’d been staring at his back almost the whole time.
“Bees or wasps?”
“Bees,” he manages to say.
That explains his delayed concerns. Accidental ingestion of food allergens is much more common than being stung by a bee. At least he takes it seriously and carries the EpiPen on him.
“Izzy?”
I finally allow the background noise to reenter my radar. Marshall is kneeling in front of the patient, studying his face. “Why are his teeth chattering? Is he going into shock?”
“He already went into shock. It’s the epinephrine making him feel cold. That’s normal.”
Sirens blare in the background and quickly grow louder and closer. I press my fingers to his wrist again and tune out the noise, counting his beats. When I’m finished, there are two paramedics in front of us. I fight off the instinct to snatch one of their stethoscopes and listen to his chest.
“Pulse is one-eighty, epinephrine four minutes ago. He needs oxygen, albuterol treatment, and antihistamines,” I rattle off.
Both paramedics pause for a split second to look me over, probably trying to decide if I’m more than a student. “What’s his name?”
Oh. They aren’t jumping to the conclusion that I’m a teenage doctor; they think I’m his girlfriend or a relative. “I don’t know … something Longfield.”
“Joe,” Holloway says, reading off his clipboard. “Joseph Longfield.”
Both paramedics and Holloway are now giving me strange looks.
“Her sister has peanut allergies,” Marshall lies, coming to my rescue.
Okay, Izzy, you’re done. Back away from the patient. Pretend it’s an ER consult that turns out to be non-surgical.
I carefully slide backward, allowing the female paramedic to move into my spot. She’s collecting the used EpiPen, tucking it into her shirt pocket. She glances over at me. “How long ago, did you say?”
“Six now. His airway was completely constricted, so he might only have a few more minutes.”
Joe grabs hold of the girl’s shirt. “Wait, it’s gonna happen again?”
The girl gives him a warm smile. “Nope. Not a chance. We’ll take care of you.”
I finally feel secure enough to stand up and dust off my pants. Holloway shouts that class is over—duh—and then he follows the stretcher to the ambulance. I take my time walking over to the inside of the track to retrieve my water bottle, and on the way a couple of students pat me on the back and say, “Good job,” which is a nice contrast to the glares I got after the last class. The ambulance backs out of the parking lot, and Holloway is nowhere in sight. He must have gone to the hospital with Joe.
As I’m heading toward the dorm, I barely notice Marshall joining me. He holds his hand out in front of me, displaying the obvious tremble. “I’m still freaking out. How are you not?”
“You mean about blowing my cover?”
“I mean about the dude who almost died right in front of us!” Marshall stares at me, this incredulous expression on his face like I’m an alien and he can’t figure out what planet I’ve descended from. “He couldn’t breathe, right? It totally looked like he couldn’t breathe.”
“Probably swelling of the back of the throat and tongue.”
Marshall steps in front of
me, grips my shoulders, and gives them a little shake. “That was fucking scary, wasn’t it? Just appease me and say yes, because I’m feeling like a total wimp right now.”
I laugh and shake myself from his grip. His shirt is tucked under his arm and I don’t want to get caught staring at his chest for too long. “Only scary if he hadn’t been prepared for the allergic reaction.” I do the calculations in my head. “I would have done CPR right away, so he probably would have made it to the hospital alive, since the paramedics responded so quickly—”
Joe Longfield may have been prepared for the bee sting, but I’m not prepared for Marshall to completely invade my personal space by wrapping his arms around me and give me a tight sweaty hug. Kissing, making out—that might not catch me by surprise too much, but hugging … “Please be around if or when I ever almost die, Izzy.”
“There’s so much wrong with that statement, I’m not even going to respond.” My voice is muffled against his skin, but I make an effort to glance around and see if anyone is watching. Marshall doesn’t seem to take this getting-in-trouble-for-getting-frisky-with-a-resident issue seriously. “You’re pretty sneaky about all this accidental touching.”
He releases me and steps back. “What do you mean?”
“Almost kissing me, what, twice now? And at least thirteen incidents of skin-to-skin touching, beginning with the unnecessary blindfold, but usually it’s carefully inserted into our current conversation and very relevant, so … well done, Marsh. You have a gift.” I flash him a grin and wait for him to look flustered or backpedal and make up excuses.
He returns the smile and continues walking toward our building. “Oh … I guess I should have said, ‘What do you mean by accidental?’ ” He leans in, the tip of his nose brushing against the side of my face, causing a shiver to run up my spine. “I assure you that if I get into your personal space, it’s completely intentional.”
My mouth falls open, but I have no words to counter with.
There’s an exuberant bounce to his step, especially for someone who just ran a six-minute-twenty-second mile. “I feel totally high right now. Let’s go find some more victims to rescue. Maybe someone OD’d on beer in one of the frat houses last night—wanna check?”