Pulse (3 page)

But Mia
appeared unphased.

“I don't
know,” she answered. “I mean, there's a lot going on right now. I don't know if
I'd say that I'm
stressed
, exactly, but I have been trying to work
through a few things. I guess it's been a rough few months.”

I picked
up the clipboard – for the sake of needing to do something with my hands – and
jotted that down
: stress is a potential factor
.

“And I
have to ask,” I said, and for the first-time, I was embarrassed about it. “Have
you been drinking?”

“Is it
that easy to tell?”

“Roughed
cheeks,” I murmured. “And,” I cut another glance at the file. “Your initial
blood-work shows a slightly elevated alcohol level.”

“Well, I
did go out, but it was just one drink,” she explained. “I needed a mind-eraser.
Today kind of sucked, to be honest. But I don't really want to get into it.”

“And do
you smoke?”

“Never.”

“Good,” I
told her. “Pulmonary issues are a real drag.”

She
smiled, lovely and sincere.

“But you
think I'm okay?” she asked. “I mean, you don't think it's serious?”

I leaned
forward, noting that she still smelled of whatever perfume she'd decided to
wear that night; something almost too sweet. But it suited her.

Extending
my palm as an offering, she took the bait herself. Our hands folded together
perfectly.

“I don't
think so,” I assured her. “But I'd like to keep you here for the night to be
sure.”

With a final
squeeze of her hand, trying to maneuver the gesture into a handshake that had
lingered just slightly too long, I stood.

“Thank
you,” she said, and I said: “You're very welcome.”

I had to
force myself to walk out.

At the
nurses station, I ordered that the first open room be assigned to Mia.

“I'd like
a Chest X-Ray and lab-work run to test for any blood-borne virus,” I said. “Run
a full panel, and expedite them, if you'd be so kind.”

“Of
course, Dr. Greene.”

I spent
the next two hours wandering aimlessly through the halls, without any work to
do, but not being able to tear myself away.

This was
a first.

Eventually,
while sitting in the empty cafeteria after closing and nursing a cup of black
coffee, one of the nurses – an kindly, late-aged woman who went by Grace,
touched my shoulder.

“Why
don't you go home, Doctor?” she asked. “It's late, and we'll see you in the
morning.”

I
shrugged.

“I'm
going to wait around for a little longer. There's a patient I'd like to check
in on before I leave.”

“Oh?” she
asked. “Was this the patient from earlier? The doe-eyed girl – she
 
looked kind of startled.”

“That
would be the one.”

“She was
very sweet. I ran her IV. Barely flinched when I had to stick her a few times.
What was her name again?”

This was
another first: the first time, for reasoning that I still couldn't pin-point,
that I felt compelled to lie.

I thought
about Mia, and her flushed cheeks, and the way her eyes cut away from mine.

“I don't
remember her name,” I answered. “Holloway, I think. Mila might've been her
name.”

“Mia! Her
name is Mia,” Grace declared, smiling. Of course, I already knew. “Either way,
she's on the fifth floor. Room 506.”

I smiled
tightly.

“That's
why you're one of my favorites,” I said. “Have a good night, Grace.”

She
smiled with no hint of question, no scrutiny. Why should she, after all? I was
a doctor. The kind of rapport we had with patients were strictly professional.

“Enjoy
the rest of your night, Doctor.”

“To be
sure,” I said, then I watched her walk away and disappear around the corner.

Crushing
the paper cup in my hand, I tossed into the nearest bin, walked to the
Elevator, hit Number 5, and waited.

The
ascent upwards seemed to take a slow eternity, and when the doors opened, the
halls were eerily empty and bathed in the gentle blue of nightfall. I had
always found it amusing how the first floor – as if exemplifying Hell itself –
was so chaotic, and yet the higher you climbed, the quieter the halls were.

And the
fifth floor, just below the sixth and final, was nearly silent.

At Room 506,
the door was partly open. I could see the flicker from the television set, and
from the small opening I could spy with perfect visibility that Mia was still
awake – staring at whatever program she was watching with a drowsy kind of
focus. Hooked up to an EKG, the incessant beep was ever-present, and for a
moment, I watched the line dance carefully – noting that it appeared, at least
in that moment, normal.

When I
stepped inside, giving a small knock against the wall, she looked at me, and
the EKG monitor began to dance.

“It's
you,” she said, sitting up. Reaching over towards the remote, she turned off
the TV. “Do you ever go home and sleep?”

“Sometimes,”
I answered. “But I wanted to check in on you. How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy,”
she said. “And my chest still feels a little funny. But maybe it's just my head
at this point.”

“What
were you watching?” I asked, motioning towards the television.

She
shrugged. “Some terrible reality show. It's all that's on at this hour.”

I walked
over, seating myself at the edge of the bed. One of her wrists was heavily
bandaged, and beneath the layers of opaque tape, an IV needle punctured her
skin. Typical fluids for the sake of hydration.

I took
her free hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers, and searched for
her pulse.

Tick,
tick, tick
. There it was. Steady, but fast.

“Your
pulse is up, but your EKG line seems normal right now,” I glanced at it again,
then removed my stethoscope. “Here. I want you to take a deep breath, and hold
it.”

I took a
listen, noting the subtle yet sharp breaths. She was nervous, or something
else.

When
finished, I hung the stethoscope around my neck and suppressed a sigh.

“Are you
anxious?” I asked, and she shook her head.

“No,” she
said. “Not anxious. I'm not stressed, either.”

I wanted
to understand her. And despite the subdued signal I was picking up from her
body language, or the light in her eyes – a faint glimmer, like flint against
stone – she was completely guarded.

“Then
what?” I asked gently.

“You're
different from other doctors,” she said. “Like, you wear the same clothes. You
have a fancy watch. All doctors seem to wear nice watches. But you...” she
paused. “You called me honey. Do you call other patients that?”

“No,” I
said quickly. “It was a slip of the tongue. I'm sorry if it upset you.”

Mia was
quiet for a long time before speaking again.

“It
didn't,” she said softly. “I liked it.”

I nodded.
I didn't want it to seem stern, but I almost had to be. I couldn't start
threading this needle. I had to break the string while it was tightened, before
it knotted itself up into something incapable of untangling.

“Well,” I
said, standing. “You need rest. I'll come and check on you in the morning.”

“Okay,”
she said, then, as I reached the door. “Can I tell you something?”

As I
stood in the doorway, I could see that she was already half-asleep.

“Of
course,” I told her.

“You're a
very nice doctor,” she said, then nothing else.

I waited
for a moment longer, but she was gone. It was only the sound the EKG – the soft
and subtle
beep, beep, beep
.

“You're a
very nice patient,” I told her.

I knew
she couldn't hear me. But it was better that way.

That
night, in bed and beneath the ceiling fan's draft, I lay in bed completely
strangled in thoughts of two wide-eyes and the incessant drum of a beating
heart.

Or the
sound of Mia's breath, timid and soft.

The way
the EKG line jumped when I walked into the room.

The
feeling of her pulse.

The
warmth of her skin and how fragile the bones of her wrist were – dainty and
feminine.

Fuck
.

I pressed
a hand over the fabric of my boxer briefs, covering the aching erection. I
tried diligently to calm myself down – closing my eyes, silently reciting the
Pledge of Allegiance - and when that failed, I reminded myself that I was a
thirty-two-year-old man, and a learned doctor, and not some fourteen-year-old
boy-child who crumbled at the thought of a pretty girl.

I sat up
in bed and covered my face, freaked out by how quickly this girl had managed to
leave her imprint on my fucking brain.

Control
yourself, man. Control yourself.

I
repeated this mantra. Several times. Still, I couldn't stop myself.

Shaking
hands, frantic thoughts, shallow breath. It was the first time I indulged in
thoughts of Mia – the scant sight of her exposed shoulder, her pretty mouth –
and came within moments. Heaving, orgiastic, with a feeling that spread
throughout my whole body.

Goddamn.

I felt
disgusted afterwards. I was almost tempted to assign Dr-fucking-Weisman to
attend to her in my stead.

But then,
finally satiated, I thought of Mia's last words to me:

You're
a very nice doctor
.

No, I
wasn't.

But she
didn't know me.

Chapter 3

MIA

Aimee
arrived that morning, carrying a bouquet of pink carnations that smelled like
nothing.

I took a
look at the small card attached to one of the stems and groaned.

“Don't
tell me,” I said. Aimee blinked.

“I told
Evan that you were in the hospital.”

“Oh,
God
.
What did he say?”

The
screen of Aimee's LG lit up her face, and she read through the line of text:

“
I
hope it wasn't my fault
,” he said. “
Tell her I hope she's alright. If I
pay you back, could you get her some flowers or something for me
?”

With
that, she dropped the phone in her purse, and smiled bleakly. The carnations,
which were already browning at the petal's edges, looked even flimsier in the
pale light of Evan's blatant douchebag-ery.

“Are you
okay?” Aimee asked.

“I'll be
better when we graduate and I never have to share a general space with that
asshole ever again,” I said. “Also, I love that he feels responsible for my
chest pains.”

“So what
was it, anyway?” Aimee asked. “What was Dr. Dreamy's prognosis?”

“You're
ridiculous,” I said, laughing a little. “I don't know. That's what I'm waiting
to find out.”

Aimee
reclined against the bay window, her feet propped up on the edge of my bed. She
wore these Grecian sandals, and her toes, as usual, were perfectly painted this
shade of coral blue.

Glancing
down at my Panda-printed socks, it made me feel slightly insecure. Weirdly
self-conscious. I felt a little cold, and a little uncomfortable with the
layers of tape pressing the IV needle in a way that kind of pinched. I was both
ready to go home and anticipating Dr. Greene's arrival, thinking about how he
had promised to check in on me, and how strange it all was that I was so
quickly over Evan and so rapidly able to preserve with perfect clarity Dr.
Greene's every small movement and faint gesture from the night before. Every
smile, every inflection of every word, was already pressed into me like a
sculptor takes to clay.

Honey,
he'd called me. Pressing the stethoscope against my chest, his mouth parting
slightly, his eyes – it almost felt – purposely avoiding mine. The brush of his
fingertips against the inside of my wrist.

I
recalled how he looked when he first walked into the ER, holding his clipboard
against his chest and looking so surprised. They say it only takes a few
seconds to truly know if you're into someone, and maybe he was into me.

My chest
tightened again. The EKG began making a beeping sound, and both Aimee and I
turned, startled.

“Is
everything okay?” she asked.

“I don't
know,” I said. “It hasn't made a sound like that all night.”

But
neither of had to do anything. As if having heard it from the hallway, or maybe
he was simply a man of perfect timing, Dr. Greene came walking in, his head
partly cocked to the side. His hair was in a gorgeous state of disheveled; his
deep-emerald eyes heavy from what was probably lack of sleep. Still, he was a
perfect roughly-six-foot (though truthfully, maybe an inch or two shy) tower of
fair skin and sinewy limbs and a mouth like ripe fruit.

I had to
stop myself from staring, and suddenly I forgot all about my Panda-printed
socks or the fact that I was wearing a hospital gown that was three-times too
big, or the fact that I hadn't even brushed my hair yet.

He smiled,
his eyes grazing mine, and I knew it was only for me.

“No
worries,” he assured. “It just needs to be reset.”

He walked
over, pressed a few buttons, and the beeping stopped. Dr. Greene took a glance
at the screen, then glanced down at his shoes. They were polished as the rest
of him.

“Thanks,”
I said. “I was worried for a second there.”

“How are
you feeling, Miss Holloway?” Dr. Greene asked.

“You can
call me Mia,” I reminded him.

He
appeared, just briefly, stinted. I could feel Aimee watching the both of us,
seemingly amused.

“How are
you feeling, Mia?” he asked, this time more softly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,
surprisingly.”

 
Thoughts of the night before came seeping in,
brimming with evening colors. I recalled Dr. Greene's smile, or how his lips
pressed together when he listened to my pulse. Like he was holding back words
he'd never dare tell me.

“Well,
good news,” he said. “The blood-work and Chest-X ray came back normal. So far,
that's a good sign.”

“So is
that it?” I asked.

“I'd like
to have you in my office this week for a few other tests,” he removed a pen
from his coat pocket – starch-white, perfectly clean, his name (Dr. Alex
Greene, MD) embroidered over his heart – and clicked it a few times. Almost
like an anxious tick. He glanced at Aimee, then back at me. Rigidly, he combed
a hand through his dark, ash-brown hair. “I'd like to have a more detailed
Cardiac sonogram done. We'll have a look at that, then go from there, okay?”

“Okay.”

Dr.
Greene smiled, and there was a smidge of goofiness to it. His eyes lit up, and
I saw it again: a small glimpse giddy affection.

Honey
.

“
And
,”
he said, his tone a pitch higher, like there was something to celebrate. “You
can go home now.”

“Thank
God,” I said. “I feel so gross.”

He said
nothing. Just glanced down at his clipboard, scribbled something, and cleared
his throat. Aimee, ever-watching, tapped a fingernail against the window. I
could spot the small smirk starting to pull at the corner of her berry-stained
lips – it was the kind of smirk you could spot from a hundred miles away. She'd
have something to say when we were out of dodge.

“I'll
pull the car around while you get changed, then?” she posed.

I glanced
at Dr. Greene, and he nodded.

“I'll
have them hurry up with your discharge papers,” he said breezily. “I have the
power to quicken the process, you know.”

“Well,
you
are
a doctor,” Aimee said slyly. “Handsome to behold, too.”

He
laughed, but there was almost a kind of discard to the sound. As if she were a
bit of dust he wanted to brush from his shoulder.

And,
although I felt a small twinge of guilt, I was glad
 
to watch her leave the room; I wanted to see
the contrast. The contrast between how he looked at me with her around, and
when we were alone.

When the
door closed, we looked at each other again. At first, he looked slightly
uncomfortable; he smiled, but it was wide and almost gawkish. Like he was
figuring out how to do this for the first time – talk to a girl.

“Hello,”
he said again, after a few seconds had passed.

“Hi,” I
said again, suddenly conscious of the wires, like vines, sprouting from my
chest. The line on the EKG started to jump, and I felt inescapably given away.
“I'm sorry.”

“Why are
you sorry?”

“I don't
know,” I said, flushing. “I just am.”

He waited
a moment before seating himself next to me. The line started to jump higher,
and his Cheshire-like-grin grew. He thought it was funny.

“Would
you like me to set you free?”

“Are you
allowed?”

Dr.
Greene shrugged lightly.

“Typically,
Mia, I leave these jobs to the nurses who – I will be honest – are slightly
more experienced,” he took a small breath. “But, yes. I
am
a doctor, and
am able to remove EKG electrodes. I've had some practice.”

“Okay.”

He
cleared his throat again, this time, looking as if he were a little
embarrassed.

“I'll
need you to...” he paused. “Lie back for me.”

Lie
back for me
.

I obeyed
him, the gentle doctor's command. With a quick precision, he plucked each of
the EKG wires from the electrodes that were still stuck – just stickers, really
– to my skin.

When he
pulled back, his eyes widened. His mouth, serpentine and full, was a shade
darker.

For a
half-second, our faces were close enough that I could have leaned forward and
kissed him.

“Give me
your hand,” he instructed firmly.

I offered
him my left hand, the one free of bandages, and he burst out laughing.

“No,
honey, your right. I'm going to remove your IV.”

Honey.
Again. We were both giggling like little kids, and with careful hands, he
peeled back the tape, and apologized when it snagged.

“I'msorry,”
he said all at once, then slid the needle out. “All done.”

He
pressed gauze to the small puncture, and wrapped it with that weird tape that
isn't even sticky. Still holding my hand, he brushed his fingers over my
knuckles, his eyebrows fallen and lips cut in a soft slant.

Then,
realizing what he was doing, he drew away. Would it be insane for me to say
that something in me twisted – just a little?

“So I'd
like you to call my office,” he said, removing a small index card from his
lab-coat pocket. I wondered what else he could fit in there. The pockets of a
doctor's lab-coat almost seemed equivalent to a clown car. “They'll probably
tell you that there's a wait, because I'm typically booked up by about two
months, but let them know I'm willing to fit you in.”

“You can
do that?”

“I can,”
he answered. There was a hint of pride in his tone, and rightly so, I guess.
“It's my office. I can do what I want.”

With his
two ever-green eyes still fixed on mine, he sighed. A soft little sigh, almost
like a million songs I'd heard before.

“So you
work at the hospital in the mornings, and at night, and in the afternoons, you
see patients at your office,” I said, then folded my hands. “Don't you get
burnt out?”

He
smiled.

“It's
worth it,” he answered.

If my
heart were a set of strings, he could have played them like a harp. And for a
few seconds, it was just us – the patient, the doctor, and the pressing
realization that there was nothing we could do about it. The dynamics of our
relationship, whether we wanted to rip it apart and set it on fire, were already
sealed.

“You're
all taken care of, aren't you?”

We both
turned towards the nurse, jolted. And though she smiled politely, there was
something about her unprompted appearance that made me nervous. We'd done
nothing wrong, but it still felt as if we had been caught.

Suddenly,
as Dr. Greene straightened up, I was forced to wonder if I had imagined
everything. The warm eyes, the flirtatious smirk.

“I took
care of it,” he said, his voice cold with authority. Not a hint of soft
affection. “Miss Holloway is ready to go home now, Grace. If you'd be so kind,
I'd like to sign her discharge papers and get her on her way.”

That was
it. Something that typically seemed to take hours was wrangled in the span of
ten minutes. And before I knew it, I was dressed, signed-out, and released. The
orderly arrived to take me to Aimee's car, and I spent my last moments floating
through the halls that were flooded with a honey-colored sunlight.

Dr Greene
followed until we reached the elevator, his eyes cast downward.

And for
some reason, even though I knew I had done absolutely nothing wrong, I felt
badly. Not just for me, but for him.

As the
doors opened, he cut me one last glance.

“Goodbye,
Mia,” he said.

I turned
to him as the elevator doors began to close, but couldn't bring myself to
actually look at him. Something inside of me was already hurting.

“Goodbye,
Dr. Greene.”

“You know
who he looks like?” Aimee asked as we stepped into my apartment. “Robb Stark.
Like, if Robb Stark was a doctor.”

“You're
ridiculous.”

“If by
ridiculous, you mean observant,” she said, then watched me as I slid out of my
sandals, walked over to the couch, and wearily sat down. “He likes you, you
know.”

“What do
you mean?”

“That
doctor,” she said. “Doctor of the North. He was totally trying
not
to stare
at you.”

What was
I supposed to do? Indulge it? No. No, that wouldn't have been a good idea.

“You
think?” I asked. “Anyway, he's a doctor, and I'm me, so it's not like it's
anything worth talking about.”

Aimee
curled a strand of hair around her finger, her toes pointed straight as an
arrow. Looking around the apartment, I could still spy bits of Evan – an empty
can of Coke that I hadn't picked up, or a stray magazine. I knew she could see
him, too. The ghosts that still lingered.

“I need
to get back to campus,” she said, and I said: “I know. I need to shower and get
to the library, too.”

“Shouldn't
you stay and rest? Take the weekend off?”

I sighed.

“Maybe. I
just can't stop thinking about...about things. And stuff.”

“You're a
shoe-in for Cambridge. You know you are, Mia.”

“Am I,
you think?” I stretched my limbs, happy to be freed of all wires. Only the
electrodes were still stuck to my skin, like leeches. “Because I'd say the odds
aren't exactly in my favor.”

Aimee
rolled her eyes.

“I love
you,” she said. “Now get some sleep. Take a bath. Maybe spend a little time
fantasizing about Dr. Stark and his beautiful, manly, doctor-ly face.”

“
Goodbye
,
Aimee.”

She blew
me a kiss, and was gone. Like the wind. That's all she ever was.

I took a
long shower, peeling the electrode stickers off and trying not to wince.
Beneath the jets of hot water, every touch of my own fingertips reminded me of
Dr. Greene, and his own hands.

I
wondered how he would touch me, if he could.