Pulse (5 page)

Chapter 5

MIA

Sitting
in the waiting room, I couldn't help but wonder why waiting rooms always seemed
so bland – and Dr. Greene's office was no different. The walls and the floors
were all colored in shades of green that reminded me of toothpaste. But I guess
it made sense – this wasn't a business office. A place where you might expect
sharper colors and colder-looking furniture. You want people to feel safe. Bland
colors, I suppose, do just that.

On the
television, a news broadcast flashed across the screen: a sixteen-wheeler had
caused a pile-up on I-4. The fatalities were staggering.

I sighed
inwardly, turning back to the paperback resting on my lap – the text that I
would be using to write my final essay for my French literature class – Antoine
de-Saint Exupery's
The Little Prince
. I remember picking it up for the
drawings, and sticking around for the words.

Outside,
I could hear the beginnings of rain fall. The clouds had hung heavy with water
all afternoon, and it was the kind of rain that you sit around, anticipating.
You could smell it in the air.

I flipped
through a few pages, sighing, and glanced at the clock. I didn't want to
anticipate seeing Dr. Greene. I didn't want to think about how fast I had gone
from lamenting Evan's cheating to not even wondering what he was doing, or
where he was sleeping, or if he was off screwing or falling in love with
another girl.

My legs
continued to wobble. I had worn a pair of jeans that I liked enough when I was
looking them over in the full-length mirror of my bedroom, but now I felt
frumpy and under-dressed. My sweatshirt felt too baggy, and the jeans felt too
saggy, and my hair, I was certain, probably could have been smoother. Humidity
ruins everything.

I pressed
my lips together, reminding myself that only a weirdo would care so much for a
stranger. The adrenaline nipped at my skin like the first frost of a winter I
had never felt. I had never seen snow in all my life, but I imagined it felt
something like this.

“Mia
Holloway,” a nurse said.

I
blinked, stood, and nodded.

“Hi,” I
said. “That'd be me.”

I
followed her down the narrow hallway, noting the few men (and one woman) in
their clean, white coats. But none of them were Dr. Greene, and for a
flash-second I envisioned being told that he wasn't around, and that I had been
assigned some other doctor, and that – as if by the snap of a finger – I would
never see him again.

“Here,”
the nurse said. She wore black scrubs, as did all the nurse staff, it seemed.
We stepped into a small examining room that was still very much as
toothpaste-colored as everywhere else. After taking my weight, she added: “You
can have a seat by the desk.”

So that's
what I did. And when she took my blood pressure, there was no surprise when I
watched her eyebrows raise, two golden arches:

“It's
high,” she noted. “Very high, actually.”

“Oh,” I
said, half embarrassed. I might have known why, but what do you say to that? “I
guess that's kind of weird.”

She
nodded, removing the band from around my arm, and told me that Dr. Greene would
be in shortly. And then, like flash of smoke, she was gone. I was alone.

Every
cell in my body seemed to freeze. I clutched the well-worn book in my hands,
trying to catch my breath. All around me, the room itself was sterile and clean
and lacked any trace of the kind of place you would expect to meet someone whom
you felt a sense of longing for. The walls were covered in charts depicting the
various parts of the heart, which looked a lot like a fist, I acknowledged.
There was a large model that sat atop the desk beside me, next to the computer.
It was all so formal. So professional.

My own
heart thudded. I looked down at my hands, at my fingernails that were bitten
down more than I would have liked them to be, and closed my eyes.

When the
echo of a door-knock sounded, they fluttered open. I looked up, and saw Dr.
Greene in the doorway with a chart in his hands. The look on his face was
impossible to read.

“Mia,” he
said formally. “How are you this afternoon?”

“Fine,” I
said, fidgeting slightly. “But the weather has me feeling a little drowsy.”

“Rain is
good for that,” he remarked. Dr. Greene walked over, took my hand, and squeezed
gently. I exhaled softly. “I've heard through the grape-vine that your pulse
was high.”

“A
little, I hear.”

He
smiled. I wanted him to touch me again. Please, please, touch me.

And then,
as if hearing my own thoughts, he offered a hand, and I placed mine in his, and
he held two fingers to the flesh of my wrist. I could feel the pulse beneath
his fingertips.

His eyes
fell, soft and sullen.

“It seems
better now,” he said gently. As the words fell, he seemed to catch sight of the
book on my lap. “
The Little Prince
?”

“Yes,” I
said. “It's my favorite book. I'm actually re-reading it for a paper I'm
writing for my French Literature final. We've been given the last few weeks to
write our papers in advance, and so...” I trailed off a bit. “I thought this is
what I would choose.”

“And why
The
Little Prince
?”

Two eyes,
like absinthe, seemed to tumble into mine. How was it that such an obvious man
could have such beautiful eyes?

“Have you
ever felt lonely?” I finally posed, then stopped myself. “I'm sorry if that's
too personal. I totally get it if that's out-of-bounds.”

A
toothsome grin flashed. His gaze lingered for a moment too long. And here I
was, worried about having asked him a question.

“Yes,” he
said, though the single words cracked with a kind of hesitancy. “You know,
there's a line – may I see the book, if you would?”

He
flipped through the pages and began reciting the page where the the prince asks
the fox why he won't play with him, and the fox professes that it is because he
has not yet been tamed.

“I love
the fox,” I said. “The fox is my favorite.”

“You
remind me of a bit of one,” he remarked, his head tilting just slightly.
Observing. “You've got wide eyes.”

My heart
thudded as Dr. Greene placed the book back in my hands. And after a second,
only to break the tension, I said:

“Is this
going to be my last appointment with you?”

A part of
me hoped that he could tell, without my needing to elaborate, that I wanted to
see him again. A part of me hoped that he wanted to see me again.

Dr.
Greene spun around in his chair, which was nicer than the uncomfortable metal
seat I was sitting on, and obviously more fun. Everything is more fun with
wheels.

“There's
one more test that I would like done,” he said, then removed a pen, scribbled
something down on my chart, and clicked it a few times. Playful, not pensive.
“And if you could wait just a moment, there's something I need to go grab.”

He jumped
up, and in two paces was out the door. It took a whole of thirty seconds before
he returned, brandishing a device that was both very cool and very frightening.
It looked like a bomb.

“That is
ugly,” I said, and he laughed.

“The King
of Hearts,” he declared. “You're going to wear this for two weeks, and it's
going to monitor your heart-rate.”

“How does
it work?” I asked, staring at the tentacled mess of wires.

“I attach
these electrodes to you, and whenever you feel an odd sensation, you hit this
button,” he pointed to a very obvious blue button. “And it records your
heartbeat. This way I can see if your chest pains are directly correlated to
something that the general Cardiac sonogram or x-ray didn't catch.”

“You're
very thorough,” I said.

“I'm a
doctor,” he said. “And I wouldn't be a very good one if I didn't do everything
in my power to make sure that you're okay.”

We both
smiled. As he moved closer, sliding with a grace that almost seemed deliberate,
I wished that I could have said more to him than simple, typical banter.
Chit-chat. The only things that were acceptable between two people like us.

When Dr.
Greene seated himself again, he rolled his chair over until we were directly
face-to-face, and said, hushed as a feather's touch:

“I need
you,” he stopped short, pausing. He appeared, right then, slightly flushed. “I
need you to lift your shirt up, Mia.”

My throat
tightened, and I swallowed.

“Why?”

He
removed several stickers – oh God, the stickers – from a box.

“I need
to place these,” he said, clearing his throat a little. “Of course, if you'd
prefer, I could call a nurse in to do it instead.”

I shook
my head, told him it was fine. As he was programming the King of Hearts, I
stood, ambling a little. I tried to calm myself by reading the poster that hung
on room's door, but the text was so small that it only seemed blurred.

He cut a
glance over, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you
sure?” he persisted. “I don't want you to feel uncomfortable.”

I nodded,
embarrassed.

“Yes,” I
told him. I lifted my shirt just above my bra, suddenly very aware that my
chest was partly exposed, and it made every nerve stand on end. “I'm sorry if
I'm a little shaky.”

His lip curled
at the corner, the bit of stubble making his otherwise polished appearance
just
 
slightly rugged. Aimee was right –
he did look slightly Stark-like.

“You're
fine,” he said. He then placed all the stickers accordingly. His hands didn't
linger. They fell away and onto his lap, his fingers curling. “I promise.”

I pulled
my shirt down, feeling sheepish, but neither of us said a word.

We were
just a patient and doctor, standing in a room that felt more and more
claustrophobic by the second.

Why was
this even happening?

I looked
at him, partly wanting an answer from him, too. How could he be so obvious? How
could he possibly dare? What a careless thing for a doctor.

The other
half of me wanted to stand on my toes, wrap my arms around his neck, and press
my mouth to his.

Instead,
we muddled around in the murky waters for a moment longer, until I smiled –
probably looking as awkward as I felt – and said.

“Well,
thank you.”

“Of
course,” he said, then. When I stood to leave and the book slid from my lap and
onto the floor, he knelt to pick it up. “It was a pleasure to see you again.”

“Two
weeks,” I said, and he nodded.

“Two
weeks,” he said. “And I'll see you soon, little fox.”

Later in
the afternoon, sitting in the library (with the device safely concealed by a particularly
baggy sweatshirt), Evan approached me.

“Hey,” he
said, sitting himself down. “How have you been?”

“Alright,”
I said, nodding towards my laptop. “Just studying.”

“Yeah...”
he trailed off. “I guess I was just wondering if you were okay. With the
hospital, and Aimee telling me that it might've been something with your
heart.”

“My heart
is fine,” I told him. “But I appreciate the thought.”

He
pressed his hands to the table, exhaling heavily, and as I tried my best to
maintain eye contact without looking as if I were giving him blatant Bitch
Face, I realized what a contrast he was in comparison to Dr. Greene. Dr. Greene
wore ties, and tailored dress-pants, and shoes with price-tags that were less
than humble. His body had the build of someone older, with strong, defined
limbs and broad shoulders. His face was covered with the slightest hint of
stubble, his smile deceivingly boyish.

But Evan
wore graphic T-shirts and American Eagle jeans, and his face was clean shaven.
He wore maybe too much Axe, and a cheap watch that contrasted only with the
iPhone that his mother had gifted him for Christmas.

He looked
like a boy, I realized. A boy I had loved at one point, sure. But as he sat
across from me, studying my face with those same azure-blue eyes that I had, at
one time, swam in – I felt absolutely nothing. I wasn't resentful. But I didn't
miss him, either. I felt nothing but nothing.

Little
fox.

“Well, is
there anything else?” I asked him. “Did you need something?”

I guess a
part of me was expecting the typical: for him to ask for me back, for there to
be some mild melodrama that erupted in the UCF library. Whispered blows and
quiet rage.

But no,
he just shook his head, and took a deep breath, and scooted his chair back.

“No, I
guess,” he muttered. “Anyway, I'll stop bugging you. Good luck with your
studying and everything.”

“Thanks,”
I said. “You too.”

Chapter 6

ALEX

I was
standing on autopilot, nearly blinded by the sunlight that streamed through the
windows and fixed on the sight of a patient that I could have sworn by every
written God was Mia, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Dr.
Greene,” I heard the familiar chirp belonging to one of our newer nurses. “I'm
not sure what this says. Your writing is terrible.”

Breaking
away, I glanced down at the form.

“Heparin,”
I told her. “An anticoagulant. Is this for Mr. Moulton?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him
two times daily,” I said, fixing my eyes back on the doorway. “And tell him
that he better start laying off red meat if he doesn't want to end up back
here. But what am I saying? They all end up back here.”

She
scurried away, and the patient finally turned, solidifying my spectacular
fucking disappointment. This one was older – and pretty enough, I suppose – but
not Mia.

Taking a
pen from my lab-coat pocket, I turned and trudged down the hallways,
incessantly clicking the stupid ball-point utensil. I needed to keep my hands
busy. I needed to keep my thoughts less so.

But I
hadn't
 
come in two weeks, which was
starting to smart at this point. And it all felt completely ridiculous – why on
this expansive, green Earth would I bar myself from one of man's most simplest
and primitive pleasures? And why would I sit around waiting for a patient that
was never going to be mine?

My little
fox. My sweet, doe-eyed little fox.

I straightened
my tie, exhaled loudly, and moved right along.

At the
end of the afternoon, before making my way to the office, I had lunch with Dr.
Weisman at this hole-in-the-wall restaurant around the corner.

“You took
a girl home,” he said, leery. “So how are you feeling after having the chance
to blow off some steam?”

I bit
into a piece of summer squash, swallowed, and wiped my mouth.

“I
actually didn't blow off any steam,” I told him. “She fell asleep, and I put my
blue balls to bed.”

He
laughed. I chuckled, too.

“Are you
going to see her again?”

“No,” I
said quickly. “I didn't even think I was going to take her home.”

I watched
him for the better part of a minute as he cut into his steak-tip salad, then
added:

“How was
the student?”

“Student?”

“Yeah,” I
said. “From the other day. The one you were meeting with for coffee, to talk
about whatever it was you had planned to talk about.”

Weisman
took a bite, swallowed, then glanced around. As if someone were watching the
two of us. As if I were some kind of confidant that he could trust. And sure,
he could. I didn't particularly like Weisman, but he was company.

Was that
pathetic? Maybe.

“I fucked
her in the back-seat of her little Mini Cooper. My joints still ache,” he said.
“Elaine is taking the kids to Naples this weekend, to visit her mother. I think
I might have her over.”

“That
sounds like one of the worst ideas you've had in awhile, Nick,” I told him.
“She's a co-ed. How old is she? Nineteen, twenty?”

“And
you've never snuck a look at one of your pretty young patients?” he quipped.
“You know, Grace told me about that girl of yours – I don't know, I guess she
was dealing with anxiety, chest pains – and how she'd walked in to the sight of
you ogling the floor as if a giant hole had opened up, and you were about to
get swallowed.”

“I'm not
sure why,” I mused. “I see younger patients all the time. This isn't a
novelty.”

I began
picking at a paper napkin, feeling Dr. Weisman's wandering eye watching me
carefully. The key: appear nonchalant.

“She also
added that you'd taken it upon yourself to remove her EKG line,” he said, this
time more softly. “Why not let a nurse do it? God knows I've never known you to
get your pretty hands dirty.”

“She
wanted to leave,” I said, my skin prickling. “I was expediting the process. You
know how limited our nurse staff is. She could have been waiting around for a
decade before someone wandered in to take care of her.”

I tilted
my glass of wheat-colored ale back, taking a sip. When I set the glass down,
Weisman was smiling.

“Well,”
he said. “I guess that goes to show what a kind, concerned doctor you are, Dr.
Greene.”

I threw a
crumpled fifty on the white tablecloth, and pretended to seem amused. If the
first step was to play it off as if you could give literally zero shits, the
second rule is to play along. People never suspect those who give them nothing
to pick at.

“And
that's why there's always a hot cup of coffee waiting for me,” I grinned, slid
into my Porsche, and waved him off. “Take care, you terrific bastard.”

At
quarter to four, I was practically trembling. So much so, that Rebecca, one of
the CNAs, even poked around the corner to ask:

“Are you
sick or something, Dr. Greene?”

“Hm?” I
mumbled. I was seated behind my desk, which was substantially empty and void of
things like family photos, because I had not yet achieved a family. Looking
past her, I lazily stared at the diplomas that hung across the
cranberry-colored walls. My greatest achievements. “No, I'm not sick. Why?”

“I don't
know,” she muddled around for a second longer. “You look sick. I was going to
offer to reschedule your patients if you wanted to go home and rest.”

“I'm
fine,” I snapped, maybe a little too quickly, because her face immediately
softened. “I'm fine, Rebecca. I'm sorry that I snapped. It's been a long day.”

“That's
alright, Dr. Greene,” she said in a voice that told me it wasn't really
alright. But off she went, and I felt, all said, like crap. I'd have to make it
up to her somehow. One of those fruit arrangements, maybe. Or macaroons.
Rebecca liked macaroons.

I leaned
back in my chair, swiveled, then stared at the ceiling. While the lights in
every other part of the office were the same, intrusive fluorescent ones that
you would expect, I had commanded softer, evanescent lights in my office. It
put a greater ease on the patient's shoulders, I found. People respond better
to softer settings. They seem safer.

Eventually
I went dipping in and out of the patients rooms, shaking hands, smiling
politely, scribbling orders and prescriptions. One patient was dealing with a
severe case of heart arrhythmia, but still insisted on running marathons.
Another was dealing with a mysterious case of heart failure. Her husband had
passed away almost seven months prior. She still wore her wedding band.

You can't
help everyone.

When they
were wrapped up, I went back into my office and waited. I watched a YouTube
video of a duckling falling asleep. I tapped my fingers against the keyboard,
typing jumbled text across a blank Word document. I held down the M key,
watching it shoot across the screen.

When
Rebecca finally stepped into the doorway, the anticipation nearly killed me.

“Mia
Holloway is here,” Rebecca said. She then held up the King of Hearts, and I
could have strangled something. I had wanted to remove it myself, and now, all
bets were off. “Here. For when you read the results.”

She set
it down on my desk, and I nodded.

“Thank
you,” I said, standing. Sighing. Always sighing, it seemed. “I'll see to her
now.”

I moved
slow as a serpent down the halls, hands in pockets, trying to cool myself down.
When I reached the door, removing the manilla folder and taking a deep breath,
I realized there was no point. I'd tangle back up the moment I saw her.

So I
knocked:
one, two, three
, and opened the door.

“Miss
Holloway,” I said. I did this on purpose, feeling playful. “How are you?”

“Do
doctors always start off with such formalities?” she asked.

My grin
split widely, maybe more than I had even wanted it to.

“The best
doctors, Miss Holloway, have mastered the art of small-talk.”

I sat down
on the wheeled chair, tilted my head to the side, and simply studied her for a
moment. Her hair fell in loose waves down to her breasts, dark as her
sepia-colored eyes. I couldn't tell if she was wearing anything on her lips or
cheeks, but there was a natural bite to them both. She sat with her knees
buckled, her toes pointed straight as a dart.

And when
I sat down, that dart shot straight through me.

A
friendly tip from your neighborhood observer of the human carnivore: where the
body is pointed, the heart is pointed, too.

“You
didn't bring any reading material,” I noted. “Waiting rooms are so dull.”

“I forgot
The Little Prince
at home.”

“Where is
home?” I inquired, leaning in. “You said you were in school. Are you on
campus?”

“I have
my own apartment, slightly off campus,” she answered. “And I am. UCF. I'm
studying English.”

When she
started to turn a shade darker, I asked: “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,”
she said. “I guess it just feels silly, saying out loud that I'm studying
English, when you've obviously spent years and years submerged in the
sciences.”

She was
so sweet about it. Her eyes darted to the ground. Her knuckles went white as
she laced her fingers together. I wanted to reach out and brush a finger down
her cheek.

“If it's
something you love,” I said. “Then it's never silly, Mia.”

She
smiled. Our eyes locked. My heart, for the briefest moment, sprouted wings.

“Will you
be able to read my test results now?” she asked, which only managed to sink me
back into reality, and the sole reason that we were once again face-to-face. I
was her doctor. “Oddly, everything seemed fine these past two weeks, to be
honest.”

“No
occurrences of chest pains, tightness?”

“Maybe
twice,” she said. “But other than that, no.”

I picked
up her file, jotted the note down, then stood, offering a hand.

“Come
with me,” I told her. “We'll tie this up in my office.”

I felt
the delicateness of her shoulder as I brushed a hand across it; it was small,
round, much like a sparrow's skull.

Safely
tucked away in my office, I closed the door, locked it (a usual practice, I
swear), and offered her a chair. Her eyes darted around quickly, immediately
grabbing, I'm sure, for glimpses of who I was.

When we
were both settled, she glanced at me, her expression unreadable, and said:

“You
don't have many photos,” her voice cracked, like whiskey over ice. “Do you have
a girlfriend?”

I shook
my head.

“No,” I
said. “No Mrs., either.”

“Do you
have children?”

“No
children.”

“What
about a mother and father?”

Her face
was full of genuine curiosity. It colored her eyes brighter.

“I have
both,” I answered. “Perfectly pleasant people, but not so photogenic, to be
frank. And I do have one brother, but he'd find it pretty strange if I had his
photo sitting on my desk.”

She
chuckled. I did the same.

“You went
to Harvard,” her eyes fell upon my diplomas, scanning over each one. “That's
amazing.”

I nodded.

“A long
time ago, it feels like,” I said. “But UCF is a very good school. You should be
proud.”

“I am. I
am proud. I have a full scholarship, too. Graduating debt-free.”

“Any
plans for after graduation?”

Her
shoulders sank, her eyes following.

“Not
sure,” she said. “I mean, I have a few hopes thrown into the air, but I try not
to breathe much life into them. It makes it harder if they don't pan out, you
know?”

I nodded.
She looked up at me once more. And I could see, with a greater clarity than
before, that the wheels inside her head, all copper cogs, were turning.

“How old
are you?” she finally asked.

I paused
before answering. I guess I was worried that it would give me away, and her
eyes would fall, and whatever this lunacy was that I imagined I was projecting
would be brought to the surface. And that frightened the hell out of me.

“Thirty-two,”
I told her briskly. “Why do you ask?”

She
tilted her head to one side, then the other.

“You look
younger,” she said. “You have very young eyes. The rest of you, maybe, okay.
But your eyes are so vibrant.”

I smiled,
and she added: “That, too.”

I leaned
forward, took her hand, and spoke softly:

“Thank
you, Mia.”

She
swallowed, moving as close as she could get without falling off the edge of her
chair. And when I could start to feel the gentle quake of her hand beneath my
palm, I turned her wrist to check her pulse.

“You're
nervous,” I said. “Why are you nervous, honey?”

Mia appeared
torn. “I'm not sure.”

Hesitantly,
she removed her hand from under mine, and began tracing circles around the
inside of my palm. Every bone in my body went weak; hot blood surged through my
veins.

“I can
feel it in my throat,” she said. “When I get wound up. It's the strangest
thing.”

“The
jugular,” I explained. “That's another pulse point.”

“Could
you show me?”

My breath
hitched as she drew her hair back, revealing her throat, white as pristine
ivory. I stood, walking towards her, and instinctively she pushed her chair
back so that I could kneel without wedging myself between she and the desk.

Reaching
up, I pressed two fingers to the vein, feeling it thrum like the thick cord of
a guitar string.

Lowering
her eyes, we danced like that for a second longer; soft breath and pupils
growing like paint dropped in a water glass.