The Perfect Life

by Anderson, Callie

  15

  Past

  Luke

  Four years prior

  I sat in my car debating whether I should spend the next few hours in the on-call room to catch up on sleep or go home. My body, however, begged for my own bed. A forty-eight hour shift, along with an emergency surgery, had pushed me over the fifty-six-hour cap and exhaustion drained me. I’d slept a few hours here and there between surgeries, but I was spent, so I decided to go home.

  I pulled my car out of my usual parking spot and headed toward the highway. I had the windows open and the radio blasting as I forced myself to stay awake. “Ten more miles,” I muttered. “Come on. You can stay awake.” I shook my head.

  Ten more miles.

  Nine miles.

  It was three in the afternoon and traffic was minimal. All I had to do was beat the afternoon rush. The road became fuzzy, and slowly I blinked because instead of two lanes there were four. I should have pulled over. I shouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel of a car, but the decision was already made and I had eight miles to go.

  “Seven,” I remembered myself saying . . . and then everything went dark.

  I nodded off for a split second.

  My eyes were closed for only a moment before I heard the sound of a horn blaring at me.

  I gasped, snapped my eyes open, and gripped the steering wheel. I was no longer in my lane. I’d crossed the median and was driving toward oncoming traffic! My heart raced in my chest as I swerved. With everything inside me, I slammed on my brakes and braced for impact. An approaching black BMW slammed on its brakes and veered out of my path, missing me by a hair.

  When my car came to a complete stop, I looked to the side, but the car wasn’t there. It had gone down into the ditch and wrapped itself around a tree. I threw my car into park, unbuckled my seatbelt, and ran with everything I had to the other driver. The sleep that had threatened to take over my body was gone. At that moment, I was flooded with adrenaline.

  “Are you okay?” I shouted, my hands rushing to the door handle. “I’m so sorry.” My body shook with fear. When the car hit the tree, the fender pushed back, making it difficult to open the door. “Can you hear me? I said, desperate for an answer.

  The dust from the airbag settled, and I could see that the man was unconscious. With all my might, I pulled the driver side door open. The fender broke off.

  “Please be alive,” I said under my breath, and brought two fingers to his neck. He had a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. Digging into my back pocket, I dialed 9-1-1. My throat was dry as the phone rang, and I fought back the need to empty my stomach.

  “911, what’s your emergency?” the operator said.

  “I need to report an accident on Interstate Sixteen. I’m at mile post forty-seven,” I said, gasping for air as I looked around for a clue to where I was.

  “Is anyone injured?” she asked. I could hear the faint sound of typing on the other end of the phone.

  “Yes.” I ran my hands through my hair. “There’s a man in his thirties, I think. His car hit a tree head on. He has a pulse but it’s weak.”

  “I’m sending first response your way right now.”

  I sprinted to my car, opening my trunk. “What can I use?” I mused, looking for anything to clear his cervical spine. From my peripheral I could see smoke coming from his car, and I knew it would only be a matter time before it caught on fire. I looked around, hoping someone else could help.

  “Are you okay?” someone shouted, and I looked back. Two cars had pulled over.

  “Yes, I’m fine. The other guy is badly injured,” I said. Yanking the divider that separated the trunk of my car and the spare tire, I folded it in half. It was sturdy enough for me to clear his c-spine and lay him on the ground.

  “I called 911. They are on the way,” he said.

  “I did too, thank you. Do you think you can help me take him out of the car?”

  “I think we should wait for help.”

  “I’m a doctor. I know what I’m doing. But if you’re uncomfortable, that’s fine. Just keep your eye out and wave the ambulance down when you see it!” I shouted over the truck that drove by. With everything in my hand, I ran over to the injured driver. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm my erratic heartbeat. Slowly, I unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled him out of the car. My hands held his head in place as I placed him on his back on the divider I’d taken from my car. His pulse was still faint, his breathing low, and he had a laceration to his front temporal lobe.

  Come on, man. Stay alive.

  “Hey, man.” I tried to wake him up. “Can you hear me?” I grabbed his shoulder.

  He moaned and tried to open his eyes.

  I sighed in relief. “You were in a car accident,” I said loud and clear, so he wouldn’t panic. “Help is on the way. Do you know your name? Do you know where you are?” I said, desperately trying to keep him conscious as long as possible.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His eyes looked up at me and I could see the shock in them.

  It’s okay.” I grabbed his hand. “I’m a doctor. You’re going to be okay.” He tried once again to open his mouth to speak but coughed up blood instead.

  This was all my fault. If only I’d slept in the on-call room, this could have been avoided. This man could have continued on with his day. But instead, he was lying in the grass on the side of a highway as he fought to stay alive.

  From a distance, I could hear the sirens wailing. I looked over my shoulder and the two men who had pulled over were waving their arms in the air. It was only a matter time before they rescued him. They would bring him to St. Michael’s Memorial, the trauma team would fix him up, and then I would spend the rest of my life begging him to forgive me.

  The paramedics approached just as his car overheated and a cloud of smoke formed on top of the bent hood. I bent down to cover him from the heat.

  “What do we have?” the EMT asked. He placed the stretcher on the ground and I helped him transfer the injured man onto it.

  “It’s all my fault,” I blurted out. “I fell asleep at the wheel. I’m a first-year resident at St. Michael’s Memorial, and I just worked a double. When I opened my eyes, I was on the opposite side of the road. He swerved to miss me and landed in the ditch.”

  The EMT nodded as he lifted the man’s eyelid and checked his pupil.

  “I cleared his c-spine and he was unconscious, but I was able to wake him up,” I continued. I stood as the other EMTs lifted him off the ground. “His heart rate is faint, and his breathing is irregular.”

  “We got it from here.” The EMT placed a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you go get checked out, too?”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said, taking a step back. I didn’t need help. “Nothing hit me.” I shook my head, hating what I’d done. “I’m fine. I’m the one who caused all of this. Focus on him.” I moved to the side, so they could check his vitals.

  Within minutes, we had him on a stretcher, tied to a gurney and inside the back of the ambulance. I abandoned my car and climbed on board the rig. We were halfway to the hospital when his heart gave out. I’d always been the one to revive someone. I was the one holding the paddles to shock a heart back to life. But this time I sat in the rig with my head down.

  I didn’t know anything about this man. I didn’t even know his name, but he was young, and he had a full life ahead of him. My mind played all the possibilities. Was he someone’s son, father, husband, brother?

  I never wanted to be a surgeon. When I was a kid, the only thing I wanted to do was play baseball for the Boston Red Sox. I was convinced I would be the one to break the curse of the Bambino. I remember my father taking me to my first game between the Atlanta Braves and the Red Sox. I rooted for the underdog and quickly fell in love with the game. I spent summer after summer in baseball camp preparing for college. Scouts knocked on my door with promises of scholarships and living the dream I’d wanted since I could remember.

  Bu
t it all changed when my kid sister was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy. I thought she would die in front of me, so I chose to go into medicine. It wasn’t the life I wanted, but it was the life fate chose for me.

  “He’s in V-fib,” one of the EMT’s shouted, and pulled me from my train of thought.

  “Let’s shock him,” the other one said.

  The ambulance stopped, and the back doors swung open. “What do we have? Dixon?” Dr. Hayder said, confused to see me. Dr. Hayder was the trauma surgeon in charge of the ER.

  “I’m fine.” I hopped off the rig and helped the paramedics pull down the stretcher. “I swerved into the other lane and he drove into the ditch, wrapping his car around a tree.”

  “Walk with me,” Dr. Hayder said. The paramedics handed Dr. Hayder his chart as we stepped into the emergency room.

  “Dixon?” Dr. McGee appeared to offer a hand. “I thought you went home.” Alex McGee and I had been together at St. Michaels Memorial Hospital since our intern year.

  “Someone page Neuro,” Dr. Hayder shouted as we wheeled the stretcher to the trauma room. “Dixon, this is as far as you go.” He kicked the door opened. “I need you to get checked out and make sure there’s nothing wrong.”

  “I didn’t hit anything.”

  “You need to talk to the police and after you do, go get some rest. We got this.”

  Dr. Hayder and a team of other residents examined the poor guy as I stood on the other side of the closed door, watching through the glass window. I was so lost in thought that I had no idea McGee was still standing next to me.

  “Are you good?” he asked.

  “He has to live,” I said, running my hands through my hair.

  “Why don’t you go get some rest?”

  “Nah.” There was no way I would be able to rest knowing that someone’s life was at risk. The exhaustion I felt earlier was gone. I was now frantic, worried sick that instead of saving a life, I was taking one.

  “We got this.” McGee placed his hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you go get yourself checked out. Find out why you fell asleep.”

  I knew why I fell asleep. “I fell asleep at the wheel because I’d just worked forty-eight hours and scrubbed in on a surgery.”

  “Have you talked to the cops, contacted the family?”

  “No.” I cleared my throat. “I didn’t even think of that. I was hoping he’d be okay.” My voice was shaky.

  “Okay, go take care of yourself. I’ve got this. I’ll get you an update when we know more.”

  “Thanks, McGee,” I said and willed my feet to move toward the resident locker room. My hands lay flat on the wooden door when I changed my mind. I needed to report the accident.

  I walked over to the police officer who was writing up the report. He was a large, older man who had spent many years on the job and enjoyed one too many donuts. “Um...” I scratched the back of my neck. “My registration is in the car but here is my license,” I said, handing it to him. “Do you need a statement?”

  “We don’t need anything from you,” he said, and I looked at him puzzled. “This is an accident report, and since he didn’t strike your car, there’s no need for your statement.”

  “What? Why?” I said, dumbfounded. “I caused the accident. I fell asleep at the wheel.”

  “Listen, kid.” He dropped the pen and looked over at me. “From what my buddies at the scene told me, the tire marks show he was speeding, and he’s not awake to say otherwise. Whether it was your car or an animal that came into his lane, he should’ve been able to stop without wrapping his car around a tree.”

  “But . . .” I blinked rapidly.

  “The speed limit was forty-five miles per hour, and he had to be doing at least sixty-five to cause that much damage. Your car is untouched and in the impound since you left it on the side of the road. His is totaled. This is an accident report, which I’m almost done with.”

  “But he didn’t cause the accident. I did.”

  “Well, feel free to file another report at the police station.”

  “Will that one at least state that a car came into his lane?”

  “Yes, and that you, Luke Dixon,” he said looking down at my license, “were first on the scene. If you feel the need to explain to him what happened, you have the right to do so when he wakes up.” He handed my license back at me. “You should be thanking me since I’m keeping your name out of it, but feel free to confess whenever you want.” He tucked his pen into his pocket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go home.” He turned away from me.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” I muttered under my breath. I would wait until he was better and explain that this was my fault. He deserved to know the truth.

  * * *

  I showered and waited in the on-call room for an update. Two hours later my pager beeped.

  “What is it?” I said when I reached the OR.

  “He’s bleeding into his upper quadrant. We’ll have to go in and repair the damage. We’ve contacted his family, and his parents and wife are on the way.”

  He was someone’s husband. Fuck. “You can’t let him die.” I ran my hand through my hair. “Whatever you do, McGee, you can’t let him die.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m out of surgery.” He grasped my shoulder and I nodded.

  “Thanks.” I lowered my head and moved toward the locker room once again. A part of me wanted to sit in the waiting room and wait for his wife to come. I wanted to bow my head and ask her forgiveness. But I was a coward. I couldn’t face her. Not until he was alive and on his way to recovery.

  As a resident, when your hands were deep in a body cavity, a twelve-hour surgery felt like an hour. The adrenaline coursing through your body made the time fly. You forgot to eat, you forgot to breathe, and you forgot the pain that radiated through your legs because your body was numb. All your concentration was focused on saving the patient.

  When you were on the other side, however, time didn’t move. When you were the one waiting for the news, one hour felt like six, and six hours felt like an eternity.

  I paced the on-call room for what seemed like days. I walked down to the cafeteria and grabbed myself something to eat. I checked on a few patients, and still, time had not moved. I wandered the hallways, aimlessly searching for some kind of answer—anything so I wouldn’t lose my damn mind. When McGee finally paged me, I sprinted back to the OR.

  The room was empty, and he was gone. I rushed over to the recovery room, but McGee wasn’t there, nor was the guy I hit. After frantically searching, I found McGee at the nurses’ station. His head was low as he wrote in a chart, and when he looked up at me, I saw the answer I was dreading.

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “We did everything we could.” He closed the chart. “Dr. Hayder fixed the bleeding in his chest, but he had an aneurysm.”

  “What?” I ran my hand through my hair as I tried to wrap my head around what he said. “He was conscious.” I felt my stomach turn.

  “I’m sorry, man, but he’s brain-dead.” His voice was like a bucket of cold ice.

  The air was tight in my chest. I felt the tension building in the back of my neck. I was beginning to hyperventilate. I’d gone to med school to save people. I’d taken an oath to save a life, and yet I had killed a man with my bare hands.

  “You can’t blame yourself, Dixon,” McGee said. “It was an accident. It happens.” His words did nothing to help me.

  “It shouldn’t have happened to me.” I shook my head in anger. “I should’ve known better.” My chest tightened as I thought back to what McGee said earlier. “And his family?” I was afraid to ask, but I needed to know. My actions would forever have ramifications on his family.

  “His wife has been notified. She should be here shortly.” He walked over and lowered his voice. “Do you want me to call you when she’s here?”

  “No.” I swallowed the rock lodged in my throat. There wouldn’t be anything I could say to her that would help her pain. I l
owered my head in defeat.

  I had killed someone’s husband.

  And I was a coward.

  16

  Present

  Luke had ghosted me.

  As much as I hated the term, it was true. He disappeared. He stopped answering my calls, wouldn’t return my texts, and hadn’t been at work.

  I couldn’t sleep. I kept running everything over and over in my head. What happened? What had he seen? Was it something I said? I lay in bed in my dark bedroom wondering why, out of the blue, Luke disappeared without a trace.

  But Wednesday night there was a soft knock on my front door. It had been four days without a single word from him and four days of wondering what the fuck went wrong. The tapping was soft and in sets of threes.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I lowered the TV and waited quietly to see if there was a third time. AJ had been in bed for the last thirty minutes, and when I glanced down at my phone there was no missed message. Nothing. When I heard the knock for the third time, I knew that whoever was out there needed something. Slowly, I walked to the window, and my mind ran to all the bad things that could have happened.

  Luke died.

  The wife I never knew about was knocking on my door.

  A serial killer was here to attack me.

  Lack of sleep made me a tad loony.

  I lifted one blind and peeked through it. Luke’s car was parked in front of my house. Anger boiled my blood within seconds. Now he wanted to talk? Now he wanted to come over? Now?

  He’d ignored every single one of my calls. Like a fool, I left message after message, each sounding more pathetic than the last. I’d spent the last few days trying to get a hold of him, but never once had he shown any sign of life. And now he—Houdini himself—thought it was appropriate to show up unannounced. I wanted to talk three days ago, not when I hadn’t slept in God knows how many hours.