Bend (8 page)

T
his is hell.

I’m in hell.

I’ve been sitting in the crowded Emergency Department waiting room for almost an hour and a half. My hand is aching, a dull pain that’s radiating up my arm and all the way to my head, which is fuzzy and heavy. If the wine I drank earlier is helping at all, then I’m dreading to find out how I’ll feel once the buzz wears off.

About five minutes after I got to the hospital, the triage nurse called me up to her desk to register me and ask about my injury. Half an hour ago or so, I was called back by another nurse, who brought me to a small room where she took my vitals and asked more questions, then told me to go back out to the waiting room and—yup—wait some more.

It’s really no wonder Jay’s job stresses him out. I definitely wouldn’t have the patience to work here. The large waiting room, which is painted in shades of pale beige and crammed with worn upholstered wooden chairs, is a lot like the DMV, except people here are sick and miserable on top of enduring a wait time that seems like an eternity.

There’s hardly an empty chair to be seen. Little kids are sitting in their parents’ laps, looking sad, and in the corner across the room, a frazzled woman, who can’t be much older than a teenager, is trying to soothe her wailing baby. Some people are doubled over in their chairs, some resting their heads in their hands, and those who are leaning on or embraced by their companions are the lucky ones.

No one’s smiling. Hardly anyone is talking. We’re all having a bad day. And this is what Jay faces at work: a seemingly endless parade of people who are having a bad day. Some of them having just a kind-of-bad day, others a pretty-seriously-bad day, and for a few of them, it’s the worst day of their lives.

Most people want nothing to do with this. Those who work here are heroes.

The staff at the front desk are hustling, assessing and registering people as fast as they can. The TV high up in the corner is showing a twenty-four-hour news channel with the sound off, and as I watch the never-ending repetition of destruction, disaster, and the latest overhyped political “scandal,” I can’t decide if it’s better or worse without the inane commentary.

A sharp and rolling rumble starts in my stomach. I’m supposed to have eaten dinner already.
Oh, shit.
Oh, man. I left the oven on. The lasagna must be way past done by now, and by the time I get home, it’ll be halfway cremated. Nothing I can do about it, though. The worst that’ll happen is the casserole dish will be ruined. And my apartment might smell like something died in there.

Unless it starts to smoke and my smoke alarm goes off. My neighbors will hear it, call 911, and the fire truck will show up—

“Mia?” a voice calls out. My body jolts to attention. A young, blonde nurse with a perky ponytail and navy-blue scrubs stands at the double swinging doors, tilting her head as she looks around the room for her patient.

Hooking my purse over my shoulder, I get to my feet and approach her. She notices me and flashes a wide smile that goes all the way to her eyes. “Hi, Mia. I’m Brooke,” she says as I reach her and catch the door she’s holding open for me.

“Hi.” I follow her down the whitewashed corridor.

She’s leading the way, only a short step ahead of me, glancing sideways as she asks, “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” I say with a half chuckle. “Bet you never hear that answer around here.”

Brooke the ER Nurse lets out a musical laugh that lasts for exactly the right length so that I have no idea if she’s just being polite. How does she do that? I feel like I should be taking notes.

We walk down a short maze of corridors until we get to the main patient care area. Phones are ringing and nurses are hurrying to and fro while talking between themselves. In the exam rooms and among the stretchers lining the hallways, patients in pale polka-dotted hospital gowns are sitting up, lying down, or even wandering around, pulling their wheeled IV stands along with them.

It’s like being in a beehive, all the noises blending into one—a buzzing, bustling, and living thing.

“You’re in luck,” my nurse says as she brings me to a small room with more beige walls, a bed, and various medical equipment. “A room just opened up.”

We do the questions-and-answers routine. It’s pretty straightforward, but I hesitate when she asks about my pain level, remembering Jay’s frequent griping about how hard it is to trust that patients are telling the truth about pain.

My medical training isn’t all that useful right now. I feel like there are tiny rats inside my hand, gnawing on my muscles and tissue, but I don’t remember seeing anything about rodents on pain level charts.

“It’s probably about a four…or a five?” And then, while Brooke writes on her chart, I can’t help asking, “Is Dr. Bradshaw working tonight?”

She looks up from the chart, frowning. Even with that expression on her face, she’s flawlessly pretty—blue-eyed, unblemished skin, and natural, subtle makeup. Jay probably thinks she’s cute. I glance down and see no ring on her finger.

“Why?” she says, hesitating. “I can’t really—”

“It’s okay if you’re not supposed to say,” I interrupt quickly. “He’s a friend of mine, so if he’s working right now and you happen to see him, if you could let him know I’m here…”

“Sure.” She gives me a brief smile, and with the promise that I won’t have to wait too long, she disappears, closing the door behind her.

I’m starting to shiver, but my skin feels clammy. That’s not good. It doesn’t seem like it’s actually that cold in here. I kick off my flip-flops and climb into bed, burrowing under the blankets. What are the symptoms of shock? Low blood pressure. Dizziness, rapid pulse, shallow breathing.

Oh, for Pete’s sake.
Why would I be in shock? I didn’t lose that much blood. I hug myself while I’m shaking, keeping my bandaged hand on top of the blanket.

It smells like antiseptic in here. There’s a woman in the next room who’s moaning and yelling about being in pain and that someone needs to help her. I can hear her muffled voice through the wall, and it’s agony to listen to. Doesn’t matter if she really is in that much pain or if she’s a junkie looking for a fix. Her distress is real regardless.

My stomach clenches with hunger pains and a hint of nausea. It’s not a mystery why: seven hours since lunch, two glasses of wine, and the emotional ordeal of slicing my hand open.

And lying here, all alone.

Maybe I should move back closer to my family.

There’s a knock on the door. In steps a tall guy wearing mint-green scrubs and an unbuttoned white coat. He’s carrying a medical chart—and he’s got black hair and gray-blue eyes.

Jay.

My chest feels like it caves in, and a knot builds in my throat. Tears sting my eyes, and then they’re blurring my vision, overflowing and streaming down my cheeks. I’m so relieved to see him.

Thank you, Brooke. I love you, Brooke.

“Mia.” He says it like he wasn’t sure it was actually me until this moment. This is a different Jay than the one at the park on Sunday, who looked like he wanted to strangle me. Here he’s Dr. Bradshaw, come to talk to a patient, and he’s looking at me with a serious and concerned expression.

Fetching the tissue box from the counter, he brings it to me. “What happened?”

I pull out a tissue and wipe my eyes. The tears are still flowing, and soon the tissue is soaked and useless. Sucking in deep breaths, I try to stem the flood, but it’s much harder than it should be. Jay is here. He doesn’t look angry. He looks big and strong and competent. It’s just what I needed, and it’s too much. I can’t steady myself.

I tug out another tissue, and after blowing my nose, I finally manage to say, “I cut myself. I—” My voice becomes a gurgle as the disgusting, embarrassing fluids filling my nose and throat refuse to dissipate. I swallow with difficulty, covering my mouth as I cough. “I’m pretty sure it needs stitches.”

“Okay,” he says, and that pale-eyed gaze of his is working better on me than a double dose of Xanax. “Let me take a look.”

I follow him with my eyes as he grabs a pair of latex gloves out of the box attached to the wall, pulling them on. He really fills out that lab coat nicely, what with his broad shoulders and muscled upper arms. A lot of physicians look awkward in their scrubs and coat, like they’re little kids wearing their parents’ clothes. Jay could be a model for the fit and attractive young resident.

Bet he looks even better without the clothes, too.

Stop it. God.
I swallow with difficulty, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.

He comes back to my side and wedges a hand under my wrist to gingerly lift my injured limb. Holding it like that, he slowly unwraps the bandage. Having him touch me like this is unfamiliar, strange. Even through the latex, I can feel the warmth from his palm. My head feels too light—lighter than air, like it might float away.

When the stretchy fabric is loosened, he peels off my haphazardly applied mound of gauze. His eyes go wide. “Jesus, Mia.”

I wince, and that lump starts growing in my throat again.

“How did you do this?” He raises my arm to get a better look.

“I was cutting up vegetables for dinner,” I say weakly.

His forehead wrinkles. “And?”

With a resigned exhalation, I say, “I was on the phone with my mom, holding the phone between my shoulder and ear, and then phone started sliding, and my tomato slipped just as I was cutting, and the knife went into my hand instead.”

Jay lets out an almost inaudible sigh. He’s exasperated. Fair enough. I probably deserve that.

“You know,” he says while he starts carefully wrapping my hand back up, “I got you that Bluetooth earpiece for Christmas for a reason.”

I pinch my lips together. “I know, but I just forget to use it. Only douchebags walk around with those things on all the time.”

“Uh-huh,” is his response as he finishes with the bandage, then tears off the gloves and tosses them in the trash.

“I’m a patient,” I point out. “You have to be nice to me. That is, if you want me to give a good score on that survey I’ll be getting in the mail next week.”

He whips his head up and glares at me. Those surveys are the bane of this department’s existence. They feel it discourages them from doing what they think is best for their patients. He knows I know that.

I meet his stare with a narrow-eyed one of my own. “That’s right. I can be mean, too. I guess that’s what pain does to me.”

His face changes, softens. He reaches his hand out toward my face, stopping about an inch from my cheek, and my heart stutters and heat flares up the back of my neck.
He’s going to touch me.
Maybe stroke my cheek. Because he feels bad for me, cares and worries, and he’s going to touch me.

But his hand falls away, and I’m swallowing my disappointment.

“How bad is it?” he asks, his tone gentle and warm.

“Um.” I shrug, struck by an urge to not sound like a wimp. “I’m okay.”

He gives me a look. “Come on. This is not the time to put on a brave face, Mia.”

I heave a sigh. “It definitely hurts. And I keep getting queasy.”

He nods. “Well, you know I can’t treat you, but Yamada will do the sutures. The local will help with the pain, and he’ll probably send you home with a prescription for hydrocodone.”

“Okay.” I’m not sure the pain is bad enough to warrant taking an opioid, but I guess I might need it, because the deep and dull throbbing in my hand will probably make it hard to sleep tonight.

“Did you drive yourself here?” Jay asks suddenly.

“My mom called me a cab,” I answer with a shake of my head. “Which was probably a good idea, since I’d had two glasses of wine.”

He goes quiet and still, and that intense, humorless stare of his is boring into me. “When?” he says with what I suspect is deceptive calm.

“A couple of hours ago?” I’m not sure what time it is now.

He arches his brows. “While you were cooking dinner? Chopping up food with that butcher’s knife of yours and talking on the phone at the same time?”

Wow. I narrow my eyes at him. Yeah, I could definitely have made better choices tonight, but I really don’t need him getting all judgy about it.