Pulse (21 page)

None of
these things were what I wanted to say. But in the airport, before Mia's
departure, was not the place to say what I truly felt. How badly I wanted her
to stay. How selfish I was. How I was losing my mind at the thought of her
absence; not temporary, but forever.

“Goodbye,
Dr. Greene,” she said. She pressed her lips together, swallowing hard.
“I...I'll call you when I reach Phoenix, okay?”

“Okay.”

She
hugged me tightly. My hands fell against her back. And even through the layers
of clothing, I could feel the heavy thrum of her heartbeat as she held onto me
for one last time.

“I've
listened to thousands of heartbeats,” I told her. I closed my eyes, kissing the
top of her head. “But I'll only miss the sound of yours.”

Chapter 29

MIA

Arizona
was a mix of dry heat and chalky sunlight. It bled through my bedroom drapes;
jail-cell slants burning hot against my skin.

“Honey,”
Mom touched a hand to my cheek, stirring me awake. I blinked my eyes open,
spying her dressed in her bathing suit. She smelled like coconuts and chlorine.
“I think it's time to wake up.”

I could
have stayed in bed forever. Every part of me was sinking into the jersey-linen
sheets; soft and reminiscent of a time when this was my home. The walls were
still covered in old posters of kittens and early 2000's musicians: Coldplay,
Evanescence, The Killers (Brandon Flowers was forever my early-teens
heart-throb). A lava lamp sat beside my bed on the nightstand.

“Okay,” I
said. “You're right. I'm up.”

“Why
don't you come outside and lounge by the pool with me? Your Dad made
margaritas.”

“Margaritas?
But it's technically morning, isn't it?”

“Mia,”
she said. “I know you've been having a hard time. But that's over now. You need
to get up, catch some sunlight, get those bones in gear. You have your whole
life ahead of you.”

Straining
to look at the clock, I saw it was 12:00pm. 3:00pm Eastern time. If I were
still on the East Coast, I'd have slept the day away already.

“Let me
get motivated first,” I said, settling on the words. “And then I'll join you.”

She smiled.

“I'll
make you a sandwich,” she said. “There's leftover tomatoes from the garden.”

“Thank
you,” I said, face still buried in a pillow. “I love you.”

I loved
my mother furiously; she was a wonderful woman. Still, I was glad to be alone.
Alone with my muddled thoughts. Alone with the sinking anchor in my chest.

I was
some-thousand miles away from Dr. Alex Greene. And I missed him terribly.

Little
Fox sat on the night-stand, leaning against the lava lamp, eying me with those
sad, button-brown eyes.

Picking
him up, I hugged him tightly, swearing that I could still catch a subtle hint
of Alex's cologne.

Laying in
bed, I thought about our final night, and how his hands trembled. I recalled
with a painful clarity how it felt when he undressed me. Powerful, worshiped.
Aggressively desired.

Tapping
on the window, Mom whistled. And I, still full of smoke and sighs, finally
dragged myself outside.

The
Arizona sun was so much harsher. What the humidity masked in Florida was
double-downed by the absence of water vapors; in the dry heat, you felt
everything. The sunlight sank deep into the skin; I could feel it in my bones.
Even with a million layers of sunblock, I still feared burning.

Laying on
a float in the pool, Mom and I shared casual banter. She told me about her
gardening pursuits, and how one of her friends had gone off the deep-end when
it came to her couponing obsession. How she was really starting to enjoy having
the house to herself and living simply, domestically, along with my father.

“And
honey, I'm so proud of you,” she said. “Your father and I both are. I can't
believe my daughter is going to Cambridge. In two weeks, you'll be on the other
side of the pond.”

“I know,”
I said, in a kind of disbelief myself. I had been so wrapped up in Dr. Greene
that even the things I should have been most excited for – Cambridge, for God's
sakes – had been swept under the rug. “I should probably make sure I've packed
an umbrella.”

During
the in-between, Mom and I watched every episode of Real Housewives of Orange
County, which was terrible and embarrassingly enjoyable all at once. I helped
her plant an herb garden, and Dad taught me how to properly grill a steak.

Every
evening, we dined
el fresco
underneath the scorching orange-streaked
sunset, sipping iced tea and enjoying the little remaining time together.

Two weeks
went by. Occasionally I'd look at my phone, expecting a call. I had called him,
as promised. But he'd never answered.

Whatever
.
I told myself. Even if the thought was bullshit, and phony, and the complete
opposite of how I felt.
He was never meant for you, anyway
.

Curled up
in bed, I held Little Fox against me, my eyes peering out the window towards
the noir sky; everything was clearer here, too. The stars, the night-sky,
preserved like diamonds through a looking-glass. The Milky Way stretched on,
towards oblivion.

It looked
a bit like a child's painting. There was a profound innocence to it all.

I wished
that I had someone to share it with. To sit out on the dry grass, look up at
the sky, and share the sense of woeful awe that I felt.

I
wondered what the sky looked like where he was. I wondered if he was watching,
too.

On my
final night in Arizona, he called. I was sitting in bed, staring at my packed
suitcase, feeling frightened and uncertain and a little bit sick.

When his
name popped up, lighting up the screen, I felt a little bit irritated, and a
little bit heart-broken, and all around conflicted.

I loved
him. I understood why he hadn't called. This wasn't easy for him, either – and
we had already said our goodbyes.

I paused,
hesitated, and answered.

“You
never picked up my call,” I said. “Or any of them, actually.”

I could
practically see the slant of his mouth. I pictured him laying on his
pristine-white couch, wearing his rumpled dress-shirt and slacks, still in his
tie, smelling of hospital and that clean, tangy scent of his body wash.

“When do
you leave for England?” he asked.

I sighed
heavily.

“You're a
real mind-fuck sometimes, Alex,” I said. A chord inside of me hummed. I rarely
called him Alex, and saying his name out loud made this feel different. It hit
a bare nerve. “I leave tomorrow. Early in the morning.”

“Okay,”
he said. “I hope...I'm sorry, Mia. I know I should have answered. It was shitty
of me not to. This has just left a bigger scar than I could have ever
anticipated. I wasn't trying to ignore you. I was just trying to reach a place
where I could hear your voice and not fall back to where I started.”

I could
hear the strain as the words tumbled. I looked at my own clock: 11:24pm. It was
almost 2:30am in Orlando.

“I know,”
I said gently.

“Write to
me,” he said. “If you write to me, I'll write back.”

“I will,”
I said. “I promise.”

I tried
to picture his smile, but I couldn't. My heart clenched in response to all of
the little things, the little memories, that were slowly trickling away. It was
already, in the span of just over a month, difficult for me to remember exactly
how he smiled.

Something
about that hurt. I felt my face grow hot.

“Can I
ask you something?”

“Yes,” he
said.

I looked
towards the skyline again. It was still clear, the moon still full.

“Do you
still think about me?”

He grew
quiet for a moment, but I could still hear his breath.

“Yes,” he
finally answered, his voice heavy with what was probably something stronger
than water. “Every single fucking day.”

And
whether by purpose or accident, the call ended. The line went silent.

Chapter 30

ALEX

Every
night, from my apartment balcony, I looked up and tried to catch a glimpse of
unclouded sky. I watched the lights seep into the streets, with all the colors
spilling together like paint.

Every
little thing, every single star or smile, reminded me of her.

 
With Mia gone, I was left to spend my nights
either at the hospital or tilting a bottle of something strong into a glass. I
spent my mornings locked into the same routine, buzzing around the hallways
that were packed as congested arteries. I spent my afternoons sitting lonely at
my desk, staring at my diplomas, feeling like a man made of stone.

Glancing
down at my phone, I gave it a spin. I had become bored, and restless, running
off my last vapors. Every little thing – a paper set down on my desk, a release
to sign, or one of the nurses popping in to tell me that my next patient was
ready and waiting – made me sigh.

Last we
spoke, I hadn't hung up on Mia. My phone had died.

Two weeks
later, I received a letter.

Alex -

I'm
writing this while sitting on the edge of the River Cam, watching the punters
row by. It's a beautiful day, and the sunlight is warm and welcoming after a
long bout of gray skies. It's the kind of warmth that settles nicely into your
bones. I come here most afternoons to sit by the water. Sometimes I bring my
homework, or some bread to feed the swans, and other days I just bring my
thoughts. Occasionally I'll walk around King's College Chapel and admire the
architecture. So far, I'd say so far, it's one of my favorite places.

You'd
like it. It's very serene. It's the kind of place you can go to escape from
everything.

For
now, here are some things I'm learning: the rain is not a stereotype, everyone
is so polite, and they call shopping carts trollies. Everything is more
delightful-sounding here. The buildings are magical; they don't make 'em in the
States like they do here. Everything is so full of history. The roads are lined
with cobblestones nearby where I live. Have you ever heard the sound of a
horse-drawn carriage over cobblestone streets? It's wonderful.

Right
now, I've got the kettle on (see? I'm already picking things up) and trying to
prepare myself for this essay I need to write. I'm also trying hard not to
think about you so much.

I hope
you're well.

Take
care of yourself, Dr. Greene.

Sincerely
yours,

Mia

Selfishly,
I wished the letter was longer. It was short, written on notebook paper in
purple ink. Still, I read and re-read it about a dozen times.

And that
same night, I wrote her a letter. I figured I owed her that much, and there was
something intimate about spending a few hours at my desk, thinking about what I
wanted to say, and penning the words down. Paper and ink.

When I
left the post office, my wallet burning after having hashed out a ridiculous
amount for expedited shipping, it still felt right.

As I sat
in my car, it began to rain. Heavy, swollen droplets. And every one of them
reminded me of Mia.

Another
sullen sigh; another fist to my chest. Call me Houdini, because I wouldn't
survive another hit.

I had
tried to imagine a life with her, of course. Like anybody who finds themselves
desperately in love. I envisioned that she would be the one in the framed
photographs, our smiles lighting up the empty spots on my desk. I imagined
future children, a future home, a future story to tell other people.

But I
think most of us know how things are going to end. Deep down, at least. We just
never acknowledge it, because giving nod to the insanity that pricks us like a
poisoned spindle is just too easy. We'd rather struggle. We'd rather drive
straight-on towards the inevitable crash, clinging onto our hopes and notions
until we eventually realize they were nothing but a vain, naive illusion.

She had
said it herself. She was too young, and I was too old. She needed to finish her
schooling, and I needed to start growing the fuck up and playing the part of a
proper doctor.

Tapping a
finger against my desk, I shook my head slowly.

I was
still dreaming. I couldn't stop it.

Three
weeks went by, and I never received a return letter. It all felt strangely odd,
and for the first time it made me pause before picking up my phone and shooting
her a text, or calling her.

I wanted
her to answer. I wanted the written word, not pixels on a screen.

At night,
I gazed at her photo, my blood simmering with longing. My veins were full of a
twisted yearning.

In the
daytime, I was the everyday doctor again; slowly acclimating to life without
her, learning to accept that things would continue as they would, and so it
goes.

To be
honest, the adjustment all seemed to fall into place pretty quickly. Maybe even
moreso than I wanted it to.

But I
still thought about her every day.

Another two
weeks passed,
 
another month came and
went. But what options did I have, really?

And then,
one afternoon, during my spare hour between hospital and office, Dr. Weisman
approached me. I was drinking Gatorade, of all things, straight from the
bottle.

“Electrolytes,”
he said. “You've been drinking more.”

“Hm,” I
shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”

He took a
sip of coffee, eyes scanning the sea of people that filled the area; all
chattering families and exhausted staff.

“You miss
her,” he said. “She's all over your face.”

“She's a
plane-ride away,” I told him. “Studying in the UK. So whatever I get the
feeling you're about to say, please refrain.”

Dr.
Weisman smiled smugly.

“All I'm
getting at,” he said. “Is that you have an opening now. Whatever you choose to
do, make use of it. You only get one, Al. You'd be an idiot to spend it wasting
away in that swank apartment of yours. And by the looks of it, your liver
probably won't last much longer.”

I laughed
lightly.

“Maybe,”
I said. “Probably.”

I was
growing to appreciate Weisman. He was still a bastard, and full of
imperfections – but if it weren't for his own slew of mishaps, I didn't know
where I'd be. And even in the agony, I was feeling something. She had managed
to scratch through the surface.

If only I
could find the salve.

At home,
I tore apart my office until I located my passport; it was long-expired, but I
took a long look at the photo of the twenty-one-year-old boy in the photo. He
was younger, and thinner in a slightly scrawny kind of way. His eyes were maybe
slightly brighter.

I
imagined, briefly, Mia and I meeting when we were both at that same place in
life. In our twenties, in college; young and able to pursue whatever the hell
we wanted without the fear, anxiety, ramifications. Without the grief.

I pulled out
her letter, acknowledging silently how much I fucking missed her.

And the
worst part of it all?

I knew,
deep down, that if we'd met when we were young and untethered, we would have
likely walked straight past each other. I knew, as much as I knew that I would
eventually die, and all the months of time spent wallowing in defeat would
wither and and rot, that it was the dynamic that had brought us together.

The
doctor. The patient.

The click
of my pen, and her wide eyes. The way she looked at my clipboard, at my face,
as if I had all the answers right there.

The way I
looked at her as if I'd never again see something, or someone, quite like her –
and I wouldn't.

The next
afternoon, when Rebecca asked if I was alright, for the first time, I gave a
member of my staff the straight answer.

“Honestly?
No. I'm shit, Rebecca. But I appreciate the concern.”

She was
shocked. Her eyes widened as she set the file she was holding carefully aside.

“What's
wrong, Dr. Greene?”

I looked
at her, dropped my pen, and stood.

“For the
longest time, I couldn't answer that,” I told her, walking over to the wall and
picking up one of my diplomas. I studied it with a heavy understanding.
“Honestly? Knowledge, Rebecca. Knowledge and hindsight. And all I've come to
know, all I've come to understand, has made me sick.”