Heart Sister

by Michael F Stewart

  I begin to stand but then hesitate. It can’t be this easy, can it? Shouldn’t I have to wait longer? But maybe this is my only chance. Maybe I’m just lucky. Someone must be lucky. I mean, on another street some driver isn’t texting while at the wheel. Or they are driving extra slowly at night. Or they look up in time to hit the brakes.

  I don’t want to stay in the waiting room any longer than I need to.

  What if I get caught?

  No one knows what I’m doing. Caught for what? Bumping into a doctor? Loitering? Has anyone anywhere ever been charged with that?

  I stand.

  Dr. Lebow is speaking as I shuffle toward her. As I get closer, I hear, “Her white blood cell count is very high. It’s indicative of an infection. An infection that we are attempting to treat with powerful antibiotics.”

  “How did this happen? It was only supposed to be a day surgery,” someone replies.

  “One in a thousand such surgeries have complications…”

  Bad luck.

  I try to tune it out, focus on the badge. If I approach the doctor from her right, I can make it look like I’m reaching for a Time magazine on the side table—its Person of the Year issue. On the cover is a man in a surgical mask. I’m being rude but not criminal. The alligator clip at the top of the badge will be simple enough to pry open. Voices rise in barely controlled anger. But eyes are not on me. They are on Dr. Lebow’s expressionless face, and Dr. Lebow’s eyes are on her hands and their expressive fingers that weave with her commentary. Fear darkens the borders of my vision. I tunnel toward the Person of the Year. The magazine is years old. The Ebola Fighters, says the headline. I’d forgotten about the Ebola outbreak. Will anyone remember my sister?

  I need to be quick. Stumble, grab, apologize and then disappear.

  Across the room a woman with nearly white hair watches. I’m acting strangely. I trip. My hand shoots out to steady myself against the doctor, but Dr. Lebow’s already moving. Someone calls over the PA system. Between calls come bleats. An alarm. They have me. I snag the arm of a chair. Dr. Lebow runs toward the nursing station. I swing my hand out again to snatch at the flare of her lab coat, the swinging badge, but she’s already past.

  I missed, and I must run.

  “Code blue, PICU, room 212,” the speakers blare. “Code blue.” Bleep!

  Code blue. Not me, I realize. Someone else’s bad luck.

  The family members Dr. Lebow had been speaking to are shocked at the sudden departure of the doctor and my taking her place. I splutter and then point to the Ebola fighter. “I’d forgotten,” I say. “It was so huge and scary, but I’d already forgotten.”

  I take the magazine and begin to wander back toward my seat, still uncertain if my cover is blown. I glance at the nursing station. It’s empty. I check the time on my phone and wait. Counting.

  One minute and forty-four seconds later, a nurse returns.

  I have my security gap. And it’s only ten o’clock. I do this today.

  FOURTEEN

  I go to the hospital entrance and text Dennis. Do you know any doctors?

  His response is immediate. You need help? ’Cause I am ready to help.

  I roll my eyes. Yes, please. Doctors?

  I just had an organ transplant. I have way more doctors than friends.

  Anyone you can text privately?

  I have one cousin in medical school and an aunt who is a plastic surgeon. What’s the question?

  I need to know how to call a code in a hospital. A code that will have everyone running into the PICU. Theoretically.

  Of course! I’ll be back.

  At a medical supply store, I purchase a white lab coat. Now I’m a doctor, maybe a junior doctor, if they have those. I google it. I can’t be a medical student because they might not have access to records. And then I see it. A medical resident.

  I consider the stethoscopes, but they’re really expensive. A lab coat should be all I need.

  While I pay for the lab coat, Dennis texts me back. Just phone in the code and the location.

  I don’t need to give my name or badge number or say anything secret?

  Code brown, PICU, room 218. There are phones all over the place.

  Code brown.

  He replies with a poop emoji. Just an example. But that room number is good. Farthest from the nursing station.

  Dennis is a quick study. Okay, thanks.

  Please, can I help? he asks again.

  You have. I search on my phone’s browser for hospital codes. I don’t think a code brown will draw a big crowd, if it even exists. I need something big. Code white—violent patient. Or a code blue—no heartbeat. Either will bring everyone. And I’ll find my heart sister.

  I stand near the entrance to the PICU waiting room. The lab coat is rolled up in a plastic shopping bag. Fifteen minutes until noon. Lunchtime—that’ll be when staffing is leanest. It’ll be doubled up at shift change, when nurses hand over their patients. That’s the time to avoid. A one-hour window. I have two minutes within a one-hour window.

  I will call the code. Walk into the waiting room. Hop over the half door at the empty nursing station and search for Minerva Highland on their computer system. I will take pictures of the medical record without reading it except to scan for mentions of organ recipients.

  It’s so James Bond—I love it. I only wish I was behind the lens and not playing the lead role.

  A CCTV camera glints at the end of one hall, but I don’t see any cameras in the corners of the waiting room. What’s the criminal charge for calling a fake code? For stealing medical records? I don’t want to know.

  Despite the dry, cool air, sweat bursts from my pores. Twenty-five minutes remain until twelve fifteen. I can’t stand here for that long without appearing suspicious, so I try other nursing stations, hoping to catch glimpses of computer screens. The more I understand the terminals, the better my chance of success. But anytime I walk to a computer, the person at it looks up and blinks at me expectantly. I need somewhere busy. Very busy.

  I head for the emergency room.

  Several people wear masks, whether to protect others from their germs or to protect themselves, I don’t know. The coughing and sniffling are almost constant. Parents comfort wailing children. A guy holds one of his hands, wrapped in a bloody bandage, above his head. Two paramedics joke over an occupied gurney. A line of would-be patients waits at the triage station, but in a corner I spot a computer facing my direction. Someone in surgical scrubs consults it, then leaves. Another arrives. I fall into the triage line for a closer look.

  The triage nurse focuses on the next emergency. At the computer in the corner, the orderly sways as he types, and I catch flashes of what’s on the screen—one of those gray-and-white forms to fill in. From this distance I can’t read the headings across the top, but I suspect I’ll need to hit one, enter the name of the patient and bingo. When the orderly leaves, I exit the triage line and wander closer to the computer. But the orderly halts in mid-stride, lifts one hand and spins on his heel to face me. His eyes flick from the terminal to me and back. He takes a couple of steps, blocks the screen, hits escape a few times and then walks away. Now the screen is asking for login information.

  That could be a problem.

  I have another ten minutes to kill. I ask one of the mask wearers where they found the masks. A woman overhears and says, in a voice muffled by her mask, that the hospital drugstore carries them.

  I thank her and head for the store. I am sure everyone knows what I’m up to and that I’m running out of time, even though I’m the one who set the arbitrary deadline. I nearly collide with a clown exiting the hospital’s volunteer office.

  “Oh ho, watch the feet!” the clown says, tapping the toes of his enormous red shoes together and laughing. The shoes slap down the hall as he walks away. While I was in the PICU with Minnie, a volunteer clown arrived at one point to cheer us up. He didn’t stand a chance.

  In the drugstore I ask about the surgical mask
s and buy a box of twenty.

  At the entrance to the PICU, with a minute to spare, I shake out the lab coat and plunge my arms through the sleeves. Across the hall from the unit hangs a phone. Goose bumps bubble up under the scratchy white sleeves. Lights shimmer. What am I doing? How did I reach this point? I glance over my shoulder and half expect to catch Minnie’s wicked and mischievous grin of approval.

  The surgical mask presses tight over my mouth and nose as I pull the elastic straps over my head, draw a deep breath and pick up the handset.

  “Hospital operator,” a dry voice answers.

  “Code…” Which one was it? Oh, right. “Code Omega, PICU, room 218.”

  Omega. I can’t help myself sometimes. It’s code for catastrophic loss of blood.

  “Sorry? I didn’t catch the room number.”

  I pull down the mask. “Code Omega, PICU, room 218.”

  Almost immediately there’s a bleep overhead. I hang up, and the PA announces the code. I stand frozen. The code is called again.

  Move!

  I hustle into the waiting room. Eyes swing to me, but the nursing station is empty. Code Omega! I nod at the people and stride officiously toward the nursing station, counting seconds. I make a face like I’m worried. I draw my phone as if it’s a weapon and activate the camera function.

  I leap over the half door, sit at a chair and scan the computer screen. This one requires a login. Crap. I try the next. Same problem. I have no time for this. Chair wheels squeal as I slide to the third one. It is still open. I get a flash of Minnie’s diorama of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” where Goldilocks is a slavering rat with a blond wig, and Baby Bear is a mouse on the floor with his belly carved open. Just Right was the name of the scene. Minnie was an odd person.

  I click on the search function and type my sister’s name. There are three Minerva Highlands—I can hardly believe that—but I’m lucky with my first click. I’m snapping photos as I scroll my sister’s massive medical record. Someone approaches the desk. I glance up, then back at the screen. The person tilts their head to the side, as if they’re uncertain. It can’t have been more than sixty seconds so far.

  “I’ll be right with you,” I say.

  At the bottom of the medical record are the linked records. I recognize Gerry and Dennis and Eileen. I have all the names. Holy crap. I’ve done it.

  “Hold on. Let’s see your ID,” someone behind me orders.

  I clear the screen.

  The nurse’s eyes burn.

  FIFTEEN

  “I’m a resident,” I squeak.

  “I know you.” The nurse squints, mouth pinching. She stands with her fists tucked into her waist.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, struggling to keep my back straight, as if I should be here. “I’m new.”

  Voices call out on the other side of the door, another nurse or doctor arriving, likely from the room with the fake code Omega. I have what I need. Now I need to get out of here.

  “Who are you?” the nurse probes.

  “I’m Dr. Mishma, new emerg resident,” I say, panicking. “Heard the code—big one, Omega, blood everywhere, right? Well, I was checking to see if you needed help, saw you didn’t and needed to pull up a record. The computers in the ER are so busy, know what I mean?” I stand, but the nurse doesn’t budge. Her nose is at my chest.

  The door opens.

  “Who’s this?” Dr. Lebow cocks her head at me. “Nurse?”

  “Dr. Mishmash,” the nurse replies with a droll tone. “Call security.”

  “Security? No, I-I-uh…” But there’s nothing to be done.

  I jump over the counter, but the nurse lunges and catches my arm. Fingers band my wrist. Dr. Lebow grabs for the phone. That’s when someone in the waiting room starts screaming. A naked man with a backpack is grinning wildly. He begins dancing. Sort of. It’s a combination of jumping jacks and the waltz. But done naked, which is all wrong.

  I gasp.

  It’s Dennis. He starts singing what I suspect is a Blackpink song.

  Dr. Lebow lowers the phone, and for a second the nurse’s grip loosens. I tear free.

  As I run, a call for security for me plays over the PA system, followed by a code white—for Dennis, I assume.

  He sprints down the hall in the opposite direction of me, startling onlookers, and disappears around the corner.

  I strip off my mask and lab coat and chuck them into a garbage can without breaking my stride. Scrambling down the stairwell flights, I hit a rear exit to the hospital, skipping out past some employees on a smoke break beside the garbage bins. I’m smiling as I reach the busy street, and then I start to laugh, even though my heart rams in my chest. My phone pings.

  Run!

  A cop car, lights flashing, screams around the corner. I cut across the road and into another hospital building, weaving through a crowded atrium to stand before an exit to a new street. I stay at the doorway until I’m sure the road is clear of police, draw a deep breath and stride onto a sidewalk glimmering with heat. Five minutes later, as I hurry downtown, my lungs no longer burning, I jump at the ping of another text.

  Hungry? Dennis asks.

  I’m buying, I reply.

  Where?

  I know a place. I text him the location.

  Never heard of it.

  Just meet me there.

  I promised Dennis a VR experience. It’s time to make good.

  Not much later we’re on the steps of the VR Café. I’ve grabbed a couple of burritos from the food truck across the road.

  “That was crazy.” I give him a hard high five.

  “That was awesome,” Dennis says. “I came to watch. When I walked in, the nurse was pushing through the door and glaring at you, so I ran back to the washroom, shoved all my clothes in my backpack and—”

  “I caught the rest. Was that Blackpink?”

  “One of their biggest hits.” He hums a few bars, and I shake my head.

  “Never heard it, but thanks. I’d be in hospital jail if it weren’t for you.”

  “Can you imagine how bad hospital jail food is?”

  “I owe you,” I say.

  Dennis snorts. “You owe me nothing. You gave me your sister.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  He places his hand on my shoulder and stares at me. “Your family could have blocked the organ donation. Her having registered is part of it, but the family can stop the donation. You didn’t. That takes courage.”

  I flush with shame. I did no such thing. I threw myself over her and threatened to stick the endotracheal tube down Dr. Lebow’s throat. I was rude to the nurses and angry with my parents for not fighting harder for Minnie.

  “It takes so much courage. I can’t imagine how you could find that strength in the depths of despair. The worst moment really, right? When everything is against you. You said you wanted to be sure her death helped others.” His head swings in wonderment even as the blood drains from mine.

  “Well, thanks anyway.” I break away, uncomfortable with his words and his familiarity. “Follow me.” I head into the café, where I rent a “cell.”

  “Welcome to the ultimate VR playing arena.”

  “No way!” Dennis says, scrambling to hold the holy grail of VR gear, a wireless headset. He stands in the middle of a green cell, the playing area. A screen hangs in front of him.

  “It’s all yours for the entire hour. They have games here that haven’t even been released.”

  “Wow.” Dennis slides the headset on, grabs the slim hand controls and selects a zombie game.

  “Careful what you wish for, man.”

  On the screen, Dennis appears in a sewer, gripping an ax. Zombies begin to shamble toward him from different tunnels. He takes a swing and catches a zombie in the torso.

  “Watch it. You’ve got one behind you,” I say.

  “So did you get what you were after?” The ax arcs, and the zombie head rolls.

  “I hope so,” I reply and pick up
my phone to connect to the café’s free Wi-Fi.

  “Good, because I don’t think you can go back there.”

  I laugh. “Never.” I start swiping through the photos I snapped of the computer screen. A couple are blurry, but the last one—the most important one—isn’t. The list of names. My heart sister.

  “Rebecca Shih,” I say.

  “You got a name?” Dennis asks. He lifts the headset. Three zombies are chewing on his avatar.

  “Uh, you’re losing brains.”

  “This is so much more important!” He leaves the cell and pulls a laptop from his backpack. “I’ll do a search. Shih? Maybe she’s single.” Dennis waggles his eyebrows.

  “No way,” I say too quickly. “You can’t.”

  He chuckles. “What? You like her? She’s your heart sister. You’re not even allowed to date her!”

  “That’s not what I meant.” I don’t really know what I mean. It just seems weird to talk like this about someone so connected to my sister. “Besides, then you’d be dating your cousin.”

  “Second cousin. That’s allowed.”

  “You’d date your—forget it. I don’t want to date her. I want to meet her. Get to know her. She’s my heart sister.”

  “Wow,” Dennis says, staring down at his screen.

  I stand over Dennis’s shoulder so I can see. “What?” Dennis has found her Instagram feed. Except her username isn’t Rebecca Shih. It’s Dark Heart. All moody purple and silvers. Images of powerful women cut through castle gates with massive burning blades. Women on the backs of dragons slay monstrous nightmares with tentacles, beaks and muscle corded with veins.

  “Is that her art?” I ask.

  “Yup. She’s into heavy metal.”

  “Holy crap. She’s good.” Minnie’s heart found the right home. “Keep scrolling!”