Pulse (2 page)

Another
sharp pang. Another wince. And in front of my eyes, I swear, I saw red lights.

“I'm not
sure,” I said. “But we need to go to the ER. Now.”

So we
sped off into the humid, Orlando night. I tried to calm myself down, but each
almost-calculated throb was more heightened than the last.

Don't
panic
, I told myself.
Don't panic.

The
hospital's lights were all lit up; the yellow orbs of distant windows. The red
Entrance sign shown brightly against the backdrop of the chalk-board sky, and I
turned to Aimee.

“I'm
scared,” I told her.

She held
my hand as we walked inside. Where one chapter had closed, and another would
open.

Chapter 2

ALEX

Standing
with my hands against cold glass, I looked down at the sprawling city below,
all palm-trees and gray-scale buildings. And in the early evening, right around
twilight, when everything was bathed in that spectacular amber glow – that
water-color wash of golds and purples – it was really very lovely.

I
generally enjoyed evenings. Mostly because I was never much for hanging around
in the glaring sunlight – admittedly a questionable confession for a couple
reasons. For starters, this was Florida: the Sunshine State, as it were; and
secondly, I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to endorse the positive benefits of
sunlight. Natural vitamins, and all that generic nonsense.

Frankly,
I made a point in avoiding all
au naturel
exercise by working out in my
own personal gym. If I did run, I ran in the early morning before the first
glimpse of light peaked above the horizon. I bought organic, farm-grown
vegetables at the Farmer's Market. I kept myself healthy, of course. No
cigarettes, and I tried to keep the drinking moderate - but I hated the sun.
Maybe I was a vampire.

Kidding.
A bad joke. I didn't spend nearly ten years with my nose buried in textbooks,
countless nights falling asleep at my desk by lamp-light, and almost
half-a-million in personal costs (chiefly loans, of course) to become some sort
of Edward Cullen wannabe.

Plus, at
thirty-two, I think that sexy-schoolboy ship has sailed.

So why
was I here? I didn't know. Well, that's a lie – I
did
know. I was here
because this is where I had intended to establish my life; the things that are
expected of a guy when they reach a certain age. The perfect girlfriend that
inevitably becomes the perfect fianc
é
e,
then wife, then the mother of your 2.5 kids. The starter apartment that you
eventually leave in place of a Real Home, with several floors and at least
several bathrooms (because what is solidarity anymore?) and a pool and a yard
for cook-outs, family gatherings, birthday parties.

Oh, and a
dog.
 
Because what's the family without
God's most loyal companion?

Anyway, I
could draw out my own story, or I could make it quick. I'm going to guess, for
the sake of brevity, that most people prefer the short-hand version.

Of
course, I had those things. The blond fianc
é
e who would have certainly gone on to create very
beautiful children; all of whom would have certainly made for very beautiful,
blown-up black-and-white photographs to place around my office. I had the
perfect starter apartment – which I still lived in, actually. A sleek, modern
loft on the very top floor of a high-rise building that overlooked Orlando's
downtown metro. I had the suits, and ties, and all the beginning makings of a
Grown-up Guy. I had a proper job, a respectable title, and a more than sizable
income.

But my
fianc
é
e – ex-fianc
é
e, as it were – left me
after several years together when she confided, after one too many glasses of
Riesling, that I was
too distant
, and didn't really want a life with
her. I was just going through the motions.

And you
know what? She was right. I was. I wanted that life, of course – or, that life
in some fashion, with some person. But she wasn't it.

In the
end, I apologized, and told her to keep the ring (because she had never really
worked a day in her life, and I was largely supporting her), and she packed up
her belongings and left, as these things usually go.

So here I
was, gazing out a window, drinking pretentiously French-pressed coffee from a
glass mug (to seal my incredible level of pretentiousness) and hoping to God
that my cell phone didn't ring.

But on
that fateful Friday evening, it did. And despite my initial temptation to
ignore the buzzing in my pocket, I picked up.

“Alex
Greene,” I said, curt as usual.

“Dr.
Greene,” I heard the familiar voice of one of the nurse staff from the hospital
– warm as a cordial. “We need you here at the hospital. Dr. Weisman can't make
it in, and we have several patients here in need of a Cardiology consult.”

“I'll be
there,” I said. “And someone should finally speak to the board about Weisman.
What good is he if he spends more time consulting that secretary than spending
time with patients? Somebody needs to take him out back and give him the
bullet. Or, you know, drop a hint to his wife.”

She
laughed.

“I'll see
you in a few, Dr. Greene.”

“Don't I
know it.”

After
hanging up, I tossed back the rest of my coffee, grabbed my coat, and headed
out, knowing well that I likely wouldn't make it back until the streets were
heavy with morning fog; thick and rolled out as if the streets themselves could
breathe.

As I
turned into the parking lot, glancing around at the cars, I wondered exactly
what kind of havoc was in store for another sleepless night On Call. And I
nearly considered peeling away, flipping the bird, and cruising down the
highway, towards Nowhere.

I thought
about going to the ocean. I thought about standing on the white beach. I thought
about stepping into the sea-foam, and maybe disappearing.

But God,
I'm glad I didn't.

Here's
the biggest truth, I'll tell you: we love to romanticize the life of a Doctor.
Money, prestige, respect. The first one is true. The second and third? A
fantastic amount of bullshit.

But if
you make enough money, most people will toss away any grievance that you have.
You'll get the scoff, the eye-roll.
You make enough money – how could you be
so sad?

Doctors.
We aren't just in the business of treating the sick. We can also, apparently,
buy happiness. You can frequently find it on sale at Target.

Reality
Check: the daily shuffle is mostly comprised of immense fucking exhaustion.
Drowsy mornings spent making rounds about the hospital corridors, scribbling my
signature away on patient forms, dealing with various prognosis and lab-work
and treatment release forms (nurses, you know, never get enough credit for
their own wares). Afternoons spent tapping a pen against my lacquered desk and
gazing at my array of diplomas, or trying my best to listen for the dozenth
time as a patient recants why they weren't taking their prescribed medication
accordingly – and resisting the incredible urge to stand, throw my hands up,
and walk out. Sleepless evenings pouring over paperwork, pondering malpractice
insurance, and succumbing to – if I was lucky – a few hours worth of actual,
REM-driven sleep.

Then,
repeat. On and on it goes.

And,
aside from the occasional cocktail party or black-tie event, there's little
space to meet women. Sure, I could pick up someone at a bar with relative ease
– but I was never that kind of guy. I preferred some kind of connection, and
was never able to really get off – intellectually, physically – without feeling
that (sure, call it cliché) spark.

But despite
it all, there's never been a moment where I truly wanted to give it all up.
Even with the little stains that I'd occasionally find on my scrubs, or the
realization that I hadn't actually shaved in three days, it was worth it for
the occasional
thank you, Dr. Greene
when I managed to do something
right. Pills for a heart-murmur, or surgery to mend an artery.

That
night, after shrugging on my lab-coat and trying my best to straighten out a
tie that wouldn't quite flatten, I reminded myself to tuck in my shirt, ran a
hand through my hair, then readied myself to cross the River Styx.

The halls
were already bustling with gurneys and nurses; it was all a mesh of
varied-colored scrubs and bland white walls.

Leaning
over the counter of the nurses station, I tapped a finger playfully against a
stack of
 
paperwork.

“Which of
these is mine?” I asked, grinning. “Or should I assume all of them are? It
wouldn't be the first time.”

One of
the nurses laughed, slightly exaggerated. I could see that they were all
already checked-out for the night. It was written all over their faces.

“We
appreciate
you, Dr. Greene,” she said, playfully sarcastic, then handed me one of the
clipboards. “But luckily, there's just one left tonight. The other two
checked-out AMA. They didn't want to wait around.”

I grinned
inwardly (thank the Gods for the impatience of some patients), gave the nurses
a half-wave, and went about my business.

I glanced
at the file, flipping through the pages to quickly pick apart the bits of
immediate, imperative information:

Name: Mia
Holloway.

Age:
Twenty-two.

And she
was dealing with chest pains. I scratched my head, nodded, and stalked off to
find her assigned room.

Dodging
the gurneys and wheel-chairs and sea of people that crowded the halls sometimes
felt like navigating though a video game, but the room was easy to find: 184. A
room in the corner of a hallway that always felt too quiet.

I
knocked, a typical courtesy, and opened the door.

“Mia
Holloway?” I asked, with my eyes still glued to the clipboard. “Would that be
you?”

“Yes,
that's me.”

Her soft
voice seemed to catch the air in a way that traveled, as if by wire, into my
brain. My skin prickled immediately, and I glanced up at her.

Two wide,
almond-shaped eyes immediately met mine – the darkest brown I had ever seen.
And though she looked so childish with her crinkled nose and darting
expression, and I was slightly ashamed, something immediately gripped me by the
shoulders. I was shaken awake.

One thing
to make clear: I wasn't in love with her. I was merely disarmed.

But which
was worse?

“Hello,”
I said, extending a hand. She grasped mine with a surprising firmness. “I'm Dr.
Greene. I'm the attending Cardiologist. I understand that you're dealing with
some chest pain?”

Mia
nodded. She wore an over-sized hospital gown, with a blanket draped over her
shoulders. Beside her, in a fold-up chair, sat a blond-haired girl who was
busily texting. When she stopped, she looked at me, and I knew immediately what
she was thinking:
Hello, Doctor McDreamy
.

It's not
an ego thing, I swear. It's just a thing that, after what feels like a million
faces you've scanned in examining rooms, that you pick up pretty damn quickly.

When I
turned again to Mia, she appeared as I could have only expected her to:
concerned. Worried. Afraid.

“She
thinks she's having a heart attack,” the un-named friend proclaimed, setting
her phone aside. “But she's twenty-two. Is that a thing? Can it really happen?”

“All
sorts of things can happen for all sorts of reasons,” I explained, placing the
clipboard down on the end of the hospital bed. Mia's feet poked out from
beneath the covers, and I saw that she was wearing socks with Pandas on them.
“But for the time being, I'm going to need to ask you to please wait in the
waiting room while I examine Miss Holloway, if that's alright.”

“Are you
going to be okay, Mia?” she asked, and Mia replied: “Yeah. It's fine. Go home
and get some sleep, Aimes. You have that big Sociology presentation tomorrow.
I'll call you when I get home.”

The
Friend (who now had a name) gave me the once-over, pausing as if uncertain
whether I was a doctor or simply a man dressed the part, then gave Mia a hug
and told her that she loved her.

When she
was gone, with the final click of the door, I felt an odd feeling of relief. We
were alone.

I pulled
up a chair and sat down next to her bed, loosening the stethoscope from around
my neck.

“I really
thought I was dying,” she said quietly. We locked eyes again, and for a second,
I could feel my lips part – but I couldn't say anything. I just clasped her
hand – for sake of bedside manner, I swear - and smiled as she added: “Do you
think it's serious?”

“Your
pulse rate was very high,” I admitted. “But your oxygen levels are normal. No
history of heart ailments with your family, or with yourself. I'd say no one is
dying tonight, but to be safe, I'd like to keep you here overnight and run a
few tests.”

“Okay,”
she said. “But what kind of tests?”

“I'd like
to order an expedited chest X-ray, and some blood-work,” I explained. “For now,
do you think I could take a listen to your heart, Miss Holloway?”

“You can
call me Mia.”

“Mia,
then. Is that alright?”

She
nodded again, and I adjusted the earpieces snugly, and gently, I said:

“I need
you to draw back the blanket, Mia.”

Mia let
the blanket fall from her shoulders, and I pressed the stethoscope to her
chest. As her heartbeat, a loud, quickened
thud
hit my ears, I could
feel my own start to pick up. You're never taught, in all the years that you
spend doing these seemingly tedious practices – listening to heartbeats,
pulses, breathing – how intimate they actually are.

And this
time, I felt it. With each beat, the blood sped through my veins like wildfire.
I could feel my skin start to heat, with each beat almost forming almost
something melodic. A song only I could hear.

When I
drew away, and removed the earpieces, our eyes met again. I hoped she couldn't
see how dilated my pupils must have been – a tell-tale sign of interest.
There's some free advice for you.

“It's
still a little tacky,” I said, and she laughed at that – tacky. “Are you
stressed, honey?”

Shit
.
I called her honey. As soon as the word tumbled out, I could have strangled
myself with the stethoscope. A Freudian slip.