Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (35 page)

When I calmed down she handed me the plate of food and
supervised my consumption of it. She made idle chitchat about different sights she and Angelica were planning to see, about a recent visit with her daughter Lisa. I half-listened. She didn’t seem to notice or, if she did, she didn’t seem to mind my absence of attention.

A
fter Rose felt that I’d eaten enough she stood and reached for the plate. She didn’t offer a sympathetic smile, which I felt would have been most appropriate in the situation. Instead she gave me an affectionate, maternal smile; it was heavy with knowing wisdom and patience.

“Ah, Lizzybella, you will be fine.
He is not perfect, he will make mistakes and so will you. It’s good that you discover this now. But you are perfect for each other.” She nodded, her smile grew as though she were amused.

She was right. He wasn’t perfect. He was making a new mistake by pushing me away and I was making an old mistake by letting him go.

“I’m so tired of making mistakes.”

Rose patted my hand.
“Here is something for you, and I will tell you what it means—okay?”

I nodded. The food felt like a brick in my stomach. I just wanted to go to sleep.

“
Amore non si compra né si vende, ma in premio d'amor, amor si rende.
It means:
Love cannot be bought nor sold, but the prize of love is love.
”

I nodded, again on the verge of tears
. She kissed my head then left me.

As soon as the door closed I flopped back on the bed. I lost the final battle and, therefore, the war against my irrationality, and cried myself to sleep on Nico’s pillow.

~*~

I tried to call Nico on Sunday morning. He didn’t answer. I tried again Sunday night. He didn’t answer. I texted him. He didn’t respond.

I hated Nico Manganiello.

I hated that, since he’d left, I walked around like half a person. I hated that I found nothing enjoyable—not knitting, not yoga,
not Star Trek and Captain Janeway, not FARK.com. Mostly, I hated that I loved him so much.

Work helped
a little. I was busy at work. My mind was preoccupied with others, with their problems, which put my issues into perspective.

I kept trying to reason with myself—
Nico would be back in a week. In one week I would tell him that I wanted us to be together and then that would be that. . . I hoped.

The problem was, I realized that I had absolutely no control over him and his feelings, his decisions. I might spend the next week falling more and more hopelessly in love with him. Meanwhile, he might spend the next week falling more and more out of love with my petty, immature, emotionally stunted self.

Or maybe I was being too hard on myself. And maybe I needed to
stop. Perhaps I deserved better. Perhaps I should demand better.

I needed to do something, stop making the same mistakes
.

Therefore,
Sunday night I resorted to asking Rose if she would call him, see if he answered. She happily agreed and dialed his number. Again he didn’t answer. However, he immediately texted her back.

“What does it say? What did he say?” I bounced from one foot to the other, impatient to see the screen.

Her brows lifted, but her face was calm, passive. “Here, you can read it yourself.”

She held the phone out to me
, and I took it from her hands, greedily read the screen:
Tell Elizabeth to stop calling.

I read and reread it a few times. My heart sunk. I handed her back the phone and buried my face in my hands.
I felt the despair of being left.

~*~

Work officially began at 5:00 p.m. on Monday; although I arrived early, left my building right after Angelica’s 2:00 p.m. infusion. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I arrived shortly after 3:00 p.m. and immediately started seeing patients.

I noted that
both Meg and Dr. Ken Miles were also working in the ER.

Dr. Ken Miles
, unfortunately, noticed me, despite my efforts to stealthfully slip into clinic rooms under the radar. At one point, while I was charting between patients, he seemed to be speaking especially loudly in the next alcove about something—a girl, a conquest, I heard the word tits. I rolled my eyes. For as much as he liked to point his finger at me, as much has he liked to say that I was immature because of my harmless, light-hearted pranks, he was one hundred times worse.

As evidence, I reasoned, he used the same finger to pick his nose that he used to point out my immaturity.

I skipped my dinner break, preferring instead the distraction of people with real problems, and redoubled my efforts to ignore him. This was easy to do at first. But then, just as I was making my way up to the fourth floor to meet Rose and Angelica for the evening visit, Dr. Ken Miles stepped out of a clinic room and dissected my elevator trajectory.

My guard,
Dan, hastened forward, walked at my elbow, apparently planning to usher me past Dr. Ken Miles. Dr. Ken Miles glared at both me and Dan then stood in the center of the hall, his pale-blue eyes focused on mine.

“Hey. We need to talk.” He lifted his chin toward
me; his face was marred with an unhappy frown that didn’t diminish his prettiness. Instead of looking severe he looked like a pouty little girl.

“Not now. I have a patient in the CRU
,” I mumbled as Dan and I passed.

“We still need to talk
,” Ken called after me. “I’ll find you later.”

I shrugged, didn’t turn around. I noted that Dan was s
ending shifty eyed glances in my direction. I ignored him.

Angelica’s visit, apart from her being sleepy, was uneventful. She was nearing her
fourth and final week on therapy and some of her lab values had improved. I shared the news with Rose and was gratified to be on the receiving end of one of her strangling, full-body hugs.

I wished that Nico had been there. The results were early
, but promising. I wanted to tell him in person, celebrate with him, with Rose and Angelica, with this family that I loved. Instead the profound moment felt bittersweet. 

Rose, Angelica, and their guards left shortly after the visit was over. Dan and I saw them off then walked the corridor back to the ER. I was fighting against losing myself in my thoughts. I was looking for a distraction, any distraction that would keep me safe from any prolonged pity staycation.

Just as I thought to myself—
I’ll take anything, any distraction whatsoever, anything over more morose meanderings
—Megalomaniac Meg appeared out of nowhere, stepped into our path.

Before we could alter course, Meg darted forward toward Dan. Her eyes were wide and fearful
; I registered the strangeness of her expression before I registered her words. “Oh my god, that woman. I saw that woman, in the hospital. You have to come with me!”

Dan stiffed. “What woman? What did you see?”

Meg’s eyes bounced from me to Dan. “The woman who stalks Nico Moretti. She is here, in the hospital. I saw her.”

Automatically I shifted closer to Dan
, and he moved closer to me. “We need to get you out of here.”

“No.” I shook my head. “We should call the police first.”

“This freaking hospital only has cell coverage in the doctors’ lounge.” Dan ran a hand over his forehead and scanned the hallway.

“I know where she is.” Meg tossed a thumb over her shoulder. “You could go get her now.”

Dan glanced from me to Meg. “No, my first priority is to keep Dr. Finney safe.”

“But the safest thing to do is to remove her as a threat. If you go with Meg, I can go to the doctor
s’ lounge and call the police. You could restrain her until they arrive. Didn’t you say that Quinn’s legal team was working on getting the restraining order in place on Friday?”

Dan nodded, glanced at his phone and its zero reception. He cursed again. “
The restraining order went into effect today so, yes, if she is here then she’ll be arrested.” He searched my eyes then glanced down the hall once more. “Fine. This is what we’ll do: I’ll walk you to the lounge—”

“But she might get away by then!”
Meg sounded frantic, her arms moved wildly toward the hall.

He held his hands up
, fending off Meg’s frenetic arm waving, and addressed me. “I will walk you there and you will stay put. This doctor,” he pointed at Meg, “will then take me to where she saw the lady. Meanwhile, you will call the police and Quinn, okay?”

I nodded, my hands sweating. I wiped them on my teal scrubs. Dan gripped my el
bow and began steering me to the break room. He released a steady string of expletives the entire way there.

When we arrived he physically placed me in the room and glowered at me with, what I assumed, was his absolute most serious,
I mean business
face. “You will stay here until I get back.”

I swallowed, nodded, and pulled my phone out of my pocket. I pressed 9-1-1
. “Fine. Yes. Just go get the loony toon so we can all rest easier.”

“We have to hurry!” Meg tugged on Dan’s hand.

He pulled it out of her grasp and swung his glower in her direction. Under the weight of it she stumbled backward a few paces.

“After you.” He motioned to the hallway.

Meg, perhaps still a little wary after Dan’s impressively menacing scowl, fumbled for her footing and direction. Finally, after a delayed moment they were off.

I walked further into the empty room and crossed to the couch, sat down just as the 9-1-1 operator asked, “
What is your emergency?
”

I was poised to answer
, but, before I could, a voice that sent shivers of fear racing down my spine sounded from behind the entrance of the break room. “Put the phone down.”

My eyes shot up
and found Fancy Stalker, who must’ve been neatly tucked behind the door, now shutting it. We were the only two people in the room. I was alone with Fancy Stalker.

And she was holding a gun.

She was dressed in scrubs and a lab coat. Gone were the fancy boots and clothes. However
she still looked impeccable; her long brown hair fell in a sleek waterfall over her shoulders, and her eye makeup was wicked impressive, the elusive smoky eye.

I wondered at myself, that I was noticing her talent for eye makeup while she was holding me at gun point.

“That was too easy.” She cocked her head to the side. Maybe it was my imagination, but her movements appeared to be jerky, sudden, reminded me of horror movies and machines. “For a doctor you sure are dumb.”

I licked my lips since they’d become inexplicably dry and, because I didn’t like sitting while she was standing, I stood albeit very, very slowly.

“Oh. Hi there,” I croaked.

“Stupid.” She sneered, shook her head, then began to screech. “You are nothing! I am going to show him you are nothing!”

“
Hello? What is the nature of your emergency?
”

I moved my hand to cover the receiver, hoped that she didn’t hear the dispatcher or notice the movement. But I was disappointed.

“I said to put the phone down or I will shoot it out of your hand.”

I flinched
, and, on complete autopilot, I dropped the phone.

Her lip curled in a snarl as she
abruptly crossed the room and stomped on the cell with the heel of her shoe. Again and again she smashed the black rectangle into the linoleum, small to moderate screams bursting forth—either from effort or just from being a crazy person. She didn’t stop until it was a million pieces of unrecognizable glass and electronic bits.

Then she screamed again, her features feral, spit raining in all directions, “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

I tensed, but kept my hands at my sides, fought the urge to cower into a small ball under the disturbing weight of her wild gray eyes and the black revolver.

She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, her eyes trained on me, and a weird laugh tumbled from her lips. I shivered. It was worse than the screaming. I didn’t dare look anywhere but directly at her even though every fiber of my being was urging me to run, escape.

“You know, it was so easy. It was so easy. I know you.” She lifted and pointed the gun at me. I tried not to think about the fact that at any moment a bullet was going to tear through my skin. “But you’re not the type Nico likes.
I’m
his type, he should want to be with me! Why doesn’t he want to be with me?”

I didn’t move or make any sound in response. Her next words made me jump.

“We went out, did you know that? I thought he liked me, but he used me.” Her voice became smaller, whisper quiet.

“You and Nico?” I couldn’t help my automatic surprise to her statement.

“Yes, me and Nico! Don’t you say his name!” She shook the gun at me, “I’ve been watching you. You only saw me when I wanted you to. I’ve been here.” She laughed again then whispered, “I’ve even watched you undress.”

Nausea rose in my throat
, and I forced myself to swallow it back; I forced myself to start thinking of a way to leave this room alive.

“Everyone hates you.” She nodded, her face pinched with bitter superiority. “Meg
hates
you.”

I choked
, and my question slipped passed my lips before I could stop it. “You know Meg?”

She
clicked her tongue, obviously pleased that I was surprised by this revelation. “Oh yes. How do you think I’ve been able to move around here so easily? Who do you think cut up your lab coat? How do you think I got those pictures of you and Nico?”

“How? How do you know her?”

“I thought she was you. I followed her to the train. When I approached her, she was disgusted that I’d have confused the two of you. Isn’t that funny?” She waited like she expected me to laugh. When I didn’t her features hardened. “I’m the one who showed her that disgusting video, where you made a fool of yourself by screaming lies at your high school reunion. Pathetic.”

I couldn’t breathe. The room tilted a little
, and I fought to stay upright.

“Oh, she thinks I’m harmless. She likes that I frighten you
, she doesn’t think I’d actually
hurt
you. But you and I, we know better.”

“
She . . . Why would she do this?”

“
Because she hates you! You’re nothing special. You’re small, unremarkable, plain. You have nothing,
nothing
that he wants. I don’t know why you’re deluding yourself. Why are you doing that? Huh? Why are you lying to yourself, that he wants you? Do you know how
sick
you are?” She emphasized certain words by jabbing the gun in my direction. I noted that her eyes lost focus, like she wasn’t talking to me, like she was talking to herself.

In my peripheral vision I noted my distance from the coffee pot—filled with hot coffee—and the drawer with the knives. I thought about picking up the chair that was three feet from where I stood and throwing it at her or jumping behind the couch and using it as a shield.

“ANSWER ME!”

I jumped at her abrupt command. Luckily, I jumped closer to the coffee pot.

“Okay. Okay . . . Look. Maybe we, you and I, maybe we could just talk.” I lifted my hands up between us, tried to keep my voice level and calm, instead of panicked and hysterical.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Again she jerked her head to the side. Two fat tears pooled in her eyes, ran down her cheeks, ruined her smoky eye makeup.

I stiffened. I saw, at that moment, in her eyes that she was seconds away from shooting me. If something was going to happen it needed to happen now.

And, luckily for me,
Dr. Ken Miles happened.

“I know you’re in here, Elizabeth. You can’t hide from me all night—”

I heard him before I saw him. He was, again speaking loudly; but this time I didn’t mind. In fact, I could have kissed him at that moment. It likely would have been a peck on the cheek, but still a kiss nevertheless.

She spun toward his voice
, and I didn’t hesitate to act. Dr. Ken Miles—Ken—stopped abruptly at the entrance and stumbled back a step, obviously when he saw the gun. His hands flew up to cover his face, and he screamed in a way that reminded me of a little girl.

I felt lightening in my veins
, and I used her temporary state of distraction to grab the coffee pot. With strength, speed, and agility I didn’t know I possessed, I bounded to her in three steps and bashed the side of her face with the pot. It made contact with her temple and shattered, hot coffee and glass shards raining down on her like justice.

She screamed. This time it was with
pain. Her arms came up in an automatic response to fend off any additional attack and swipe at the wound.

I was surprised that the force of the impact against her temple didn’t
immediately knock her out, but wasted no time dwelling on it. Instead I tackled her, and the gun dropped to the ground—fired off one round—then skidded across the floor toward Ken.

“Oh my god!” I faintly registered Ken’s
shrieked exclamation as I struggled to keep the crazy woman from throwing me off.

“Get the gun, Ken!” I
ordered him as her fist swung around and nearly collided with my jaw, missing by millimeters.

I couldn’t waste time or attention on whether Ken followed through because, in the few seconds that passed since my assault with the coffee carafe, Fancy Stalker had mostly recovered her bearing
s and was swinging like a champion cage fighter. I dodged a right hook, but then collapsed as her knee connected with my stomach. Her fist pounded my kidney, and suddenly I couldn’t draw breath.

“Stop!” As though from a great distance I heard Ken’s voice
, but I couldn’t focus on it. I was in crazy pain. I couldn’t think. I could only roll to the side and hope the next blow she landed didn’t hurt as much as the first two.

The gun went off again
, and I winced at the thunderclap, then ringing between my ears.

“I said stop!”

But she didn’t stop. She lifted her fist as though to disfigure my face, her gray eyes beyond insanity and firmly on the line of animalistic. I braced myself for it, for her knuckles. But they never came.

Instead the gun went off a third time
, and her left side whipped around, as though she’d been struck. Awed, I watched her stumble backward then fall to her knees. Her eyes were no longer on me. Instead her head was tipped down, her hand covering a spot on her abdomen where blood was seeping through her fingertips.

I blinked at he
r and time did that thing again, where it both slowed down and sped up. Once minute I was watching her, her movements slow motion almost to the point of stillness. Then, suddenly, I was on my knees next to her fallen body. I’d taken off my lab coat and bunched it up, used it to stem the flow of blood from her side.

There were other people present as well—Dan, Meg, Ken, as well as several ER triage nurses and other faceless colleagues of mine. The nurses immediately reacted, issued orders, pulled me away from her and placed me into the strong embrace of somebody.

It didn’t occur to me to find out who that somebody was until several moments later, after the stalker had been loaded onto a stretcher and carried to the Operating Room. I glanced up at the owner of the arms and found Dan looking at me with plain concern and visible regret.

His brown eyes, usually so guarded, were soft and sincere
, and he held me, didn’t seem to mind that I was getting blood all over his nice suit.

“Dr. Finney
, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry. I never should have left.”

“Shh. No, no, it was my idea. I—I shouldn’t have
 . . .” I shook my head, unable to finish the sentence, my brain no longer capable of forming words.

Instead I leaned into him, wrapped my arms around him, thankful for the comfort
, but all the while wishing he were someone else.

~*~

The police came. In fact, a lot of police came. I gave a statement. Ken gave his statement. And, when it was time for Meg to give her statement, I punched her in the face.

It took both Ken and Dan holding me back to keep from giving her a second black eye.

Ken pulled me aside, and Dan hovered at my shoulder. “Elizabeth, are you okay?”

I nodded, flexed my hand. I noted
absentmindedly that none of the police officers seemed at all concerned that I’d just assaulted someone.

Ken nodded, pulled his hand
through his curly blond hair. “I just wanted to say, I wanted to tell you . . .” His eyes bored into mine with surprising intensity, and then he frowned as though just deciding something. “But none of that’s important now. We should just—let’s just agree to be friends again, normal friends.”

He stuck out his hand
, and, after only a brief pause, I accepted it in mine. We shook.

“Good
,” he said, still frowning. “Good.”

I nodded. “Yeah.
Good. And thanks, by the way, for . . .” I glanced around the break room, the blood and coffee on the floor. “Thanks for shooting her.”

Ken grimaced and sighed. “I was actually aiming for her knee.”

I didn’t respond, but I’d wanted to tell him that I didn’t care where he’d shot her, I was just thankful that he did. I was thankful to be alive.

I was sent home shortly thereafter with instructions to take off my Tuesday
afternoon shift. However, I was asked to return for the evening shift at 11:00 p.m. Dan argued against this, argued with me as we left. He expressed his opinion quite loudly that I needed time off to recover, and, at the very least, I needed to see a therapist or a trauma counselor. In fact, during the entire drive back to my building he ranted that I was a ridiculous and unreasonable person and, therefore, when I collapsed from exhaustion it would serve me right.

I could only shake my head—which hurt like the devil—and try to pacify him in small ways.

What he didn’t understand and what most laypeople don’t get is that you can’t call in sick when you’re an emergency room physician, especially not in an inner-city Chicago trauma center. There are no
mental health
days. If you don’t show up, people suffer, people die. Sure, sometimes the hospital can find a replacement in a true emergency. But my situation wasn’t an emergency.

I could walk, talk, and think. I could see patients.

In the end I made a few concessions. I agreed to make every attempt to reduce my shifts over the next two weeks, I further agreed to ask Dr. Botstein to allow me a few extra days off. By the time I arrived at the penthouse door it was close to three in the morning, and I likely would have agreed to hosting a panty dance party for all of Quinn’s security and body guards. 

I wondered what it was about life and death situations that bonded people in such an indescribable, intangible way.
I now felt that Dan and I would be friends for the rest of our lives. We had no choice in the matter. We had an understanding, a shared situation. There was no escape.