Beautifully Awake
Riley Mackenzie
Diagnosis: Sleep-running
Treatment: Truth
Prognosis: Beautifully Awake
Lili Porter hates the rain. Bad things happen in the rain. As a small town social worker dedicated to protecting children, she is forced to start over to escape her rural disaster. Determined to follow her father’s advice—head up and chin high—Lili finds herself in a new city, taking on a new system, this time healthcare. In doing so, she gets something she never expected, an intimate behind-the-scenes look at life in the hospital.
Lili learns that a surgeon’s hands have the power to heal more than physical wounds. And a prescription for truth can cure three years of sleep running and leave you beautifully awake.
Beautifully Awake
by
Riley Mackenzie
To our two husbands and five children. Thank you for giving us our “HEA!”
Prologue
It was eerily quiet in the room. Only the rhythmic sound of the heart monitor interrupted the silence. This was how it was supposed to be. Not like the last time. The sounds from last time haunted me every day and night. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I gripped my stomach. I was going to be sick.
How did I let this happen?
I stood and stared motionlessly at the already lifeless body in the bed. Time stood still. It could have been minutes or hours, I had no clue. No one came in. I wanted to yell and scream. I wanted to break down and sob. I wanted to talk and explain. But it was too late. All of it.
Instead I hummed our favorite song. Music was our happy place.
Finally I reached out and brushed the hair from those familiar eyes, the mirror reflection of my own. You were awake. Your eyes were open. But the light was gone. There was nothing but darkness. Three years of complete emptiness.
It was time to close your eyes.
1
July first
The sound of Katy Perry coming from the bedside table started getting louder and louder. Okay, I’m wide awake. 5:30 AM. Shit.
I slapped the oversized snooze button for the second time and kicked the light cream-colored sheet off my bare legs. The back of my sleeveless tank was damp with sweat. July was ridiculously hot.
Rubbing the sleep from my burning eyes, I blindly reached for my glasses on the nightstand. I needed to stop being a wimp and get the damn Lasik already.
Small clips from last night’s dream teased their way into my mind while I stretched my limbs. Tall grass-covered dunes, sea glass. It was a beach dream. Those were never bad. Why was it I never remembered the good dreams, and if I did, the details were etched in pencil. Easy to fade, easy to erase, while those other dreams were engraved in permanent black Sharpie.
The beach sounded like a fan-freakin-tastic idea. Anything was better than work today. Neurosurgery. Were we really talking brain surgery, why not just send my ass to NASA for the next month?
“Just get your butt out of bed and get it over with already.” I sighed my monthly mantra. So now I talked out loud to myself. Charming. I hated pretending I had the first clue what the surgery “team” was talking about on rounds. Being out of my element sucked. I scrunched my nose and mashed the pillow down over my face. The sun was barely up, and I already wanted the day to be over.
New service, new residents, new intern and a brand new attending. Still, nothing could be worse than the month I spent on the cardiac service. That attending was awful. Sounded harsh, but it was true. He was rude and inconsiderate, not to mention lacking any social graces whatsoever. And if I had to bear witness to pompous adults throwing temper tantrums, I could have done without a southern twang. It was kind of ironic if you thought about it, a heart surgeon without a heart. This one had to be a little better; rumor had it he was from NYC. That was already an improvement.
Philadelphia Hospital had more than its fair share of arrogant surgeons to go around and did not need another. I had the pleasure of being tortured on most of their services for the past two years, somehow escaping neuro until now.
Pediatrics was the exception, of course. My exception. It’s why I moved here and took this job. At least that was my story, even if it was a lie. I was hired to be case manager for the pediatric surgery service, and I dedicated every free second to the position when I first moved here. Case manager was a far cry from social worker, but I still got to work with needy kids. And because of that, my first year was fine. Not stellar, not dream job status, but doable.
All I ever wanted to do was work with the kids and their families. People who gravitated toward peds were pretty even-tempered, even the surgeons. Everyone’s focus was the kid’s well being. All the other bull was moot. And although I didn’t make as much of a difference as I would have liked, it was a safe place to channel my energy.
Then the hospital fell off some fiscal cliff and all the case managers needed to take turns rotating on the different surgery services. Two years later, the so-called reallocation of resources had zero effect on the hospital deficit, but had a seriously detrimental effect on my irritable bowel.
“Okay, okay. I’m going,” I huffed at myself. Good thing I lived alone.
Ten minutes later, showered, with contacts in, I stood in front of my bedroom closet. Correction. My bedroom/living room/dining room closet. My studio was on the smaller side, all five hundred square feet, but it was all mine.
The daily routine of picking out work clothes bored the heck out of me, so a light blue fitted blouse with my staple above the knee black pencil skirt was easy. I wore it entirely too often, but hopefully no one noticed. The rest of the team couldn’t care less, rolled out of bed, skipped the shower, and showed up in glorified pajamas. So why did I care? It’s not like I wanted to impress anyone.
My reflection bounced off the full-length mirror. The changes were subtle, but they were there. Still five-six, but three years of building a new life recharged my confidence. I stood a little taller. My size four frame looked less skinny and a little more toned, thanks to my new therapist—running.
It didn’t really matter because it was all about the shoes. A strange guilty pleasure for a girl from bumble fuck where UGGS and flip-flops defined footwear. I slipped on my favorite black patent leather peep toe pumps and cracked a half smile. They might not be designer shoes, but they looked good to me. It was my only real vice.
I ran a quick brush through my hair, not that it mattered much, since my loose dark brown curls would be up in a messy ponytail by lunch. I was predictable.
Mascara and chapstick. Good enough. I repeated my mantra: just get it over with.
“Mornin’, Miss Lili. Happy New Year, sunshine!”
“Good morning, Jorge. Aren’t you a comedian! How’s your family?” I asked, returning my friend’s infectious smile.
Anyone who had any connection, even remote, to medicine knew the significance of July first. Philly had a hospital every few hundred feet, so even my trusted elderly barista who owned the most delicious coffee cart in all of Center City was astutely aware.
He was right for all intents and purposes; it was a new year. Residents all moved up a year in training, but unfortunately their egos increased exponentially overnight. July also welcomed brand new interns to the floors. Medical student one day, doctor the next. Frightening. NEVER get sick in July.
“What can I getcha, sunshine? Usual?”
“I think I’ll pass on the latte, but it’s Wednesday, so I’ll take two of those delicious apple scones if you have them.”
Caffeine and nervous stomach was an ugly mix. I didn’t need anything fueling the rumble down below. Some people manifested stress with a simple pimple. Not me.
On the bright side, I saved three buck
s. Cha-ching. If I had a sexy shoe jar, I only needed two hundred more days like today and I might have gotten the nerve to actually try on a pair. How was that for glass half full…
“Anything for Miss Lili. You tell me if those kidza misbehave. I fix ‘em good!”
I’m not sure what I loved more, Jorge’s Spanglish or that he blew me a kiss every day.
Coffee-less, I crossed the street, zig-zagging between the half dozen cars lined up in front of the hospital parking garage. You could set your watch by hospital shift changes. From outside, it looked like a hockey line switch. Fast and precise, without game interruption. It was just missing sex on skates.
If I weren’t OCD about being on time, I would have dilly-dallied a little longer. It was seriously gorgeous out—one of those days when the sky was so crystal clear it looked fake, and the air was so crisp you wished you could bottle it. I couldn’t fill my lungs enough. It was a perfect beach day. But not today. Today duty called. I headbanded my hair with my wide framed sunglasses and pushed through the revolving doors. The hospital was already buzzing, and it was obscenely early.
My vibrating side interrupted my autopilot trek toward the elevators. I reached into the depths of a seriously oversized bag to find the damn thing.
“Hey, everything okay?” I finally answered.
“Hey, Asspuck. How’s it going so far? Did you meet him yet?”
“Sierra, are you for real? Why are you awake and what possessed you to call me so early?” My best friend didn’t do early—EVER. Uneasiness settled in the pit of my stomach. “Everything okay with the baby?”
“Don’t worry, the baby’s totally fine, kicking the crap out of me and wreaking havoc on my body, but great. Lil, you need to see my boobs, they’re like a road map with green lines everywhere ... and you’re gonna love this-”
“Um, Sier? I’m at work, can this wait?” I tried to whisper since there was a cluster of people waiting with me at the elevator.
“A hemorrhoid. A. Fucking. Hemorrhoid.” She had no shame. “It’s so disgusting. Don’t get me wrong, I love being pregnant, and I knew my body would take a serious hit, but I never expected a baboon ass.”
I sucked back the snort that threatened to escape from my nose while I pushed the button for my floor.
“You’re a freak!” That was an understatement. And why I loved her. All five feet of her. Sierra had more personality in her left calf than anyone I’d ever met and was not afraid to show it. If she were any taller, it wouldn’t be fair to the female race. Slim but blessed with top curves and Neutrogena fair skin.
“Are you really calling me at the crack of dawn to tell me about this little discovery? Where’s Dodd? Shouldn’t you be sharing your woes of pregnancy with that hunky husband of-”
“Umm, who do you think found it? I sure as fuck wasn’t the one down there investigating.”
Too much information.
“Gross. My eyes hurt. I could’ve done without that visual.” I chuckled so hard I didn’t have a prayer of holding back a snort this time. So much for being discreet on a crowded elevator.
Sierra was beyond comfortable talking about all things sex, and if there was a gene responsible for embarrassment, she was congenitally deficient. No detail was too personal. For as cosmopolitan as she played it, Sierra was blessed with diarrhea of the mouth within her intimate circle. A circle that started and ended with me since we were seven years old.
“Honestly, you need more than a visual, you need a freakin’ tutorial. Just saying. Maybe it’s time to mount the horse again-”
“You need serious help,” I quipped while shaking my head.
Time to change the topic. That didn’t mean she was wrong. She was more right than I would admit. Sierra knew enough about my past not to push the issue, but I appreciated her brutal honesty. It came from a good place.
“Anyway, I really called to remind you ‘bout tonight and make sure you don’t let the new guy get your panties in a bunch. He’s supposedly a real ball of sunshine. So since your day’s basically gonna suck, just look forward to happy hour instead.”
“And this is making me feel better how? Wait. How do you know about him?” I balanced my cell in the crook of my neck and pushed my office door open. I lucked out; I didn’t have to share my office like the six other case managers did. In reality, it was a converted storage closet attached to the security office, but it served its purpose.
“Dodd was at the hospital yesterday working on an endowment contract, and he said all the nurses couldn’t shut up about the new guy. I meant to call you last night, but placenta brain took over.”
Basically, a brain surgeon and a dick was what she was saying.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Who are you kidding? It wouldn’t matter if he was Mr. Rogers, you’d still be running to the bathroom all morning. Is it sick and twisted that I’m jealous? Bet you’re feeling skinny.”
“Sierra. Do me a favor and just stop talking.” She knew me too well.
“You know I’m right. You’re awesome at your job, and sure, it sucks you have to start from scratch every month with all new people, but whatever. You’ll have your shit figured out by noon and then you’ll be back to saving the world. It probably works in your favor. You totally thrive under pressure. And tonight you get to pig out on Rosa’s guacamole and not worry about gaining a pound ‘cause you made plenty of room. Bitch! I’m jealous!”
“Just. Stop. Talking.”
“Fine. I’ll see your skinny ass at six-thirty. Wa-hoo, favorite night of the month!” She sounded entirely too bubbly for this hour.
“Of course I’ll be there. Now can I go to work?” My huff was half-hearted at best.
“Fine, you’re no fun, but if there are any hotties on your team this month, I’m gonna want details. Your eyes still work, right? Even if your vagina’s sealed shut by now.”
“I’m hanging up now. Go gestate or something, see ya tonight.”
I ended the call and dropped my stuff in a desk drawer. The clock read 6:20. Sierra was right. I was all twisted for no reason. Much like the night before the first day of school, anticipation was the killer. Once you got there, you realized it was pretty much the same story, different day.
My actual job stayed the same every month, just the characters changed. I was good at it too, despite the fact it had little to do with social work. And technically, I didn’t need to play into the hierarchical ass-kissing that the residents did, but the whole vibe still affected me. Everything depended on the team. Basically a mishmosh of ambitious personalities dictated the tone of the month. Some months it worked, some months it sucked. Either way, a margarita and killer tacos waited for me on the flip side of the day.
The nurses’ station was quiet when I got there. Rounds didn’t start for another five minutes, so I booted up my tablet and checked email. Suddenly a strong nudge to my hip sent me flying. My left foot jetted out to stop myself from face planting. I blushed from the near miss and glanced up to a familiar cocky smile and a pair of dimples to die for.
“Two rotations in a row, how’d I get so lucky?” Dr. Guy Hunter said in his raspy voice and tilted his head to the side.
“Hey you! I thought you were going to plastics this month.” My voice jumped two octaves, and my grin reached halfway up to my eyes.
“Sorry, doll. You’re stuck with me again!”
As if. Stuck was not the word I would use.
My feet wanted to break into a happy dance. Guy was a kickass third year surgery resident who I was lucky enough to work with a few times—last month on pediatrics being the most recent. He was one part arrogant, two parts awesome and looked like he stepped out of a California surf magazine. His disheveled blonde hair was a little on the long side, with slightly darker roots screaming for a little sunshine. He had to be a solid six feet and he fell in the lean and toned category. His face and arms were lightly tanned. I only imagined what he would look like if he didn’t work eighty-five hours a we
ek and actually had the chance to see the light of day. His pale blue scrubs fell loose and low on his hips and he wore burnt orange crocs. He epitomized laidback and even slipped in a “dude” from time to time. No question, he was good looking. Add in the ocean blue eyes and the dimples, and he was more like hurt-your-eyes good looking. But what made him awesome was that he was one of the smartest residents in the surgery program with a great bedside manner. By third year most of the residents had adopted cocky and started trying out different styles of arrogant. Not Guy, he was grounded and his patients adored him, especially the women whose panties seemed to melt when he flashed his dimple.
Let’s not forget charming. And although I wasn’t into him like that, or anyone for that matter, I wasn’t immune. He spoke fluent flirt, but his dialect was never offensive or distasteful. The way all the nurses looked at him, I’d bet money he was the lead in more than a few NC-17 daydreams. Oscar-worthy, no less.
Don’t get me wrong, if I were to consider abandoning my no-dating-at-work policy, hell, my no-dating-in-general policy, Dr. Hunter probably would have made the shortlist. But we were just friends. I was in no way ready to open myself up to anyone again, so I could just enjoy all things Guy. And there was a lot to enjoy.
“Switched with Martin. He loves that plastics shit, and I’d rather not waste a month doing facelifts and fucking boob jobs. Why? You sick of me yet?”
My grin felt permanently stitched on my face. “You kidding? That’s awesome, I’m psyched.” This news made my morning take a serious turn for the better.
“So you want me to run the list with you?” He reached for my tablet and accidentally grazed my side. Knowing Guy, it was probably not an accident.
He tapped the screen and the list of patients on the neuro service opened. The bottom right side of the screen glowed 6:38. The nurses’ station was still empty. The whole floor was empty.
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