Pulse (7 page)

Inside
the Porsche, trying to keep myself together, I took my phone and scrolled
through my contacts until I reached Mia's name.

A
second's pause, a hard swallow.

It should
have been easier. All of the evidence, all of the knowledge, was laid before me
like a spread of rusted nails. She was too young. She was a patient. She was
the symbol of everything that could take away, like a raging storm, everything
I had built. All that would be left in the aftermath was ash and rubble.

But she
was also innocent and deserving of someone on her level – not a grown man. Not
a doctor. Not a man with baby on the way.

Delete.

And just
like that, I attempted to discard her.

Chapter 9

MIA

I
finished my Literature final at two in the morning, with my eyes heavy from
sleep and my brain near melting point. My copy of
The Little Prince
sat
on the floor by my feet. I think I actually fell asleep at some point between
typing the final word and hitting
save
, but I'm not sure. I was
exhausted and ready for the semester to be over. There was too much junk that
had accumulated, and too much that I just wanted to move on from.

Chiefly
Evan. But also, well, all of it. And still, I was dreaming of Cambridge. And I
was still swimming in the deep-end that was Dr. Greene.

He had
never answered me back. Sure, maybe I was over-thinking the whole thing. He was
a doctor. He worked a million hours in a given week, and his typical schedule
probably didn't pad much time for him to sit around texting me.

I got a
little bit sad, then tried to remind myself that there were other things going
on. Like finals, and the end of a school year, and the promise of a different
place entirely come next fall. In the UK, Dr. Alex Greene would be nothing but
a vague, distant memory. A,
remember that time when
? He'd become one of
those fuzzy thoughts that pop up in the middle of something mundane, like
ironing clothes or folding kitchen towels, that make you think to yourself –
did that actually happen, or was I just imagining the whole thing?

Shutting
my laptop, I crawled in bed wearing a pair of sweatpants and my favorite,
slouchy American Eagle T-shirt. At one point the shirt had been snug and fit
well, but now it stretched and hung off my shoulder and fit sort of weirdly. So
it became a pajama shirt.

I kept
flicking the light on and off, bored and restless, before sinking into my
sheets. The words of the essay I'd just finished seemed to chip away like dried
paint, to the point where I honestly couldn't even remember what I'd written,
or if it was even any good.

My focus
had been on the relationship of the Little Prince and his Rose, and the Fox.
I'd used a lot of quotations, of course, but my favorite one by far was:

“
It is
only with the heart that ones sees rightly; what is essential is invisible to
the eye.
”

Too
right, I thought. Though I hadn't found my Rose yet, or met my Fox, or even
contemplated what was waiting for me in the real, Adult World when graduation
ended...the sentiment of seeing with the heart felt appropriate.

Oddly
enough, when I handed in my paper the next morning, I didn't even feel tired. I
felt light-footed as I stepped out of my French Lit class, feeling sorry for
the kids who hadn't bothered writing their paper in advance and were now stuck
sitting around for two hours, forced to pull their final papers out of
their...well. I didn't feel anxious when I walked out of Ethics, after flipping
through six pages of long-winded questions like 'do you think Kevorkian's
methods were justified?' or, 'Is all life equal, and if so, why?'

When it
was all over, I walked through the the halls, all sardine-packed with students
and flittering with chattering voices. Aimee and I bantered over what we would
be wearing to graduation, which was officially in a little over a week, and
what was I going to do about my apartment, and what was I going to do with my
life if I didn't get into Cambridge?

“God,” I
muttered. “I don't even want to think about it.”

Occasionally
I peeked at my phone, hoping for a text from Dr. Greene, but nothing ever
popped up. Each time, I felt a small jab.

“Anyway,”
Aimee said, twirling a strand of cornflower-blonde hair around her finger. “I
declare a celebration tonight.”

A bar, of
course. More drunk kids bashing their fists against a jukebox, or screeching
like crows at the amateur Deejay. Motives and actions fueled by cheap liquor
and self-deprecation.

“Sounds
good,” I said. Only it didn't. Not really. But Aimee was my friend, and I was feeling
just enough self-indulgent melancholy that when I looked down at my phone for
the seven-hundredth time and saw nothing – I thought,
maybe a cocktail would
help
.

In the
swampy AC of the university store, I relinquished what textbooks I could sell
back for hard cash. In Aimee's suite, sprawled out on the blessedly cool tile,
I counted the bills while she shimmied out of a crop top and glanced at her
silhouette in the mirror. She was even thinner than I, though she had curves in
all the right places. I envied her, honestly. I sometimes felt depressed by my
being all elbows and knees. It was only recently, recalling the feeling of my
chin tilted upward, face cradled against Dr. Greene's fingers, our eyes locked
– that none of those things mattered anymore. The flaws felt sexy. The plain
T-shirts and skirts and jeans felt posh and pretty.

“I'd wear
a crop top, but I don't really know if I feel like broadcasting mid-drift,”
Aimee said, tossing a shirt into a bigger pile of shirts. “Maybe layer it with
a cami? Mia?”

I raised
my eyes, not exactly listening.

“Layers
work,” I said. “You'll look great in whatever you decide to wear.”

She
groaned, yanked on some lacy-looking top, and turned to me.

“Sometimes
I really do feel like you're out to orbit,” she said, and I said: “That's the
second space reference you've made in relation to my absent-minded behavior.”

“Yeah,”
she said. “But what's going on, really? What are you thinking about?”

Green
eyes, rough stubble, waves of burnished-hair the color of espresso. A white
lab-coat and strong hands. A pulse-beat like a ticking clock. Oh, and how my
heart could have exploded.

I glanced
at Aimee, shrugging.

“Nothing
particularly,” I lied. “I guess I just need to snap out of it.”

She knelt
down, her thin legs buckling in a way that made her knees look slightly knobby.
She touched my face gently, and I could smell the sweetly fruity spray on her
skin. Bath and Body Works.

“You miss
Evan,” she said softly. “I know you do.”

Wrong, I
thought. So wrong. But what I could I possibly tell her without declaring, like
a fog-horn,
I made a tentatively huge mistake
.

“Yeah,” I
said, smiling. “I guess I still do a little bit.”

I
listened the entire car ride to Chiller's as Aimee belted out Hozier's “Take Me
to Church,” and thought to myself, can't someone take this guy to goddamn
church already? I was getting tired of the song. I sat with my head against the
window, eying the skyscrapers built by Giants.

The bar
itself was a sea of freshly-painted faces and glittering lights. We opted for the
bar, and I drained a tall Mojito, crushing the fresh raspberries into mush with
my straw. I could taste the muddled mint on my tongue.

Aimee
ordered a round of mango-flavored shots, and I downed it like water. Two drinks
in, and I was already buzzing.

“No
more,” I told her. “This isn't fun. This is a night with our heads hanging over
a toilet bowl waiting to happen.”

Another
shot down. I couldn't help but feel childish and stupid and at the same time,
why should I have cared? You're only young once, and all that rambling.

So when I
was offered a fourth shot, I took it, and before I knew it, I was on the dance
floor, twirling beneath the lights that made me feel glowing, ethereal. I could
smell the collective scent of pheromones and perfume and sweat. We were all
just looking for something, I realized. An escape, momentary or otherwise. A
brief lapse into free-falling happiness.

Aimee's
smile glittered, and I felt, at least briefly, like a twenty-two-year-old on
the cusp of graduating should feel: excited. Lit-up by the promise of something
new, waiting for me around the corner. I just wasn't holding it yet.

Fast
forward: bare knees on filthy tile, my head hung over the toilet, cussing under
my alcohol-riddled breath.

After I
was sure I could leave the stall without vomiting all over myself, I found
Aimee, who was dancing closely with a boy who looked not exactly unlike Justin
Bieber, and I said:

“I need
to go home.”

She
pulled away, just slightly, her arms still hung around Strange Boy's neck,
looking appropriately concerned.

“Home?”
she said, as in
am I driving you
? “Do you want to leave right now?”

“Uber
app,” I flashed my phone, a reminder that technology was grand and also a
life-saver. “You stay here. I'll call you later.”

“At least
let me wait with you outside.”

“Aimee,”
I got as close as I could to the two of them without being blatantly
drunk-awkward, and we hugged. “Have fun, okay? I'll call you.”

So I left
alone, the night full of Florida heat. It hung over everyone like a wet
blanket, wringing with the scent of fried food from the myriad of fast food
joints, cigarette smoke and engine exhaust. Looking up, you couldn't even see
the stars; they were lost in the neon lights, hiding.

Collapsing
outside, my back against brick-siding, I lit up my phone, contemplated texting
an Uber driver to come pick me up, and still found myself hovering over Dr.
Greene's number.

In some
horrible romantic comedy, the girl would call the guy, drunk, and he would pick
her up and drive her home and take care of her.

Was this
going to be how things went? Was I really going to do this?

A brief
pause, hesitant with dread; the booze still coursing through my veins, making
everything tilt just slightly, and my reasoning was no exception.

I hit
call. The phone rang three times, and he picked up.

“Hello?”
his voice was like gravel. He sounded tired. He also sounded like he didn't
know who was on the other end. Repeat: “Hello? Dr. Alex Greene speaking.”

I almost
laughed at his formality. Oh, look at me, I'm a doctor. I have a fancy title
and everything to prove it, too.

After he
repeated himself a third time, I answered.

“It's
Mia,” I said. “I know what you're thinking: God, aren't Millennials such a pain
in the ass? They aren't even aware of the art of subtlety, you know? We just
dive right in. We just go for it.”

He said
nothing for a long, long time.

“I'm at
the hospital,” his voice, when he finally answered, was hushed. “Mia, what's
going on? Have you been drinking?”

“Is it
that obvious?”

A clipped
second passed. Was he angry? Well, he had a right to be, I suppose, given that
I was being about as mature as a six-year-old that didn't find the prize I
wanted in a box of Kellogg's cereal.

“Where
are you?” he asked.
 
I heard a door
close, then lock. The lock was loud. “Mia?”

“I'm at
Chiller's,” I told him. “I'm waiting outside. It smells disgusting out here. I
don't even want to breathe the air.”

“Wait
where you are,” he commanded. “Don't move. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

Then he
hung up, and I was caught in the lapse of dead air. A car sped by, honking its
horn. Another vehicle – this massive SUV, nearly side-swiped it. Two people got
out, started throwing insults, then fists, and finally the cops came and broke
them up. And I watched all of it unravel, the unseen bystander.

Damn, I
thought, feeling dizzy. They give out driver's licenses here like sparkly star
stickers on a grade-schooler's spelling test.

When Dr.
Greene arrived, there was no missing him. His Porsche emitted this aura of
sleek importance; you wondered who was sitting inside, and what they did, and
who they were.

I
stumbled over to the door, opened it, and slid into the passenger's seat.

Dr.
Greene handed me a bag, instructing firmly.

“If you
need to throw up, please do so in here.”

I shut
the door, and we sped off. Cutting a sideways look at him, he was in full
apparel; lab-coat, shirt, tie, slacks. His hair was combed neatly. He smelled
like hospital, too, if that was possible.

I nuzzled
the leather seat as he adjusted the air-conditioner, muttering:

“I'm
sorry if you're mad at me,” I said. “I know this is terribly immature.”

He sighed
softly.

“I'm not
mad.”

“I
wouldn't blame you if you were, though,” I pressed, then added. “You look so
handsome. I probably look like I just rolled out from under a trailer.”

“I'm not
mad,” he persisted. “Now where do you live?”

I gave
him the instructions, and he seemed to know without me even needing to
navigate. When we pulled up to the apartment, I expected him to just drop me
off – no parting remarks, no parting kiss. Why would he have wanted to kiss me
then, anyway?

But no.
He got out, took my arm, led me inside. In the apartment, he removed my coat,
then his, then led me into the bathroom and sat me on the edge of the bath. He
washed my face with a warm cloth, tied my hair back with an elastic that he
(admittedly looking pretty befuddled) rummaged for in my mess of makeup
baskets. He instructed me to drink water until I could keep it down, a warm
hand against my forehead, then my cheek, then my shoulder. Calm, reassuring. We
were doctor and patient once more.

I will be
upfront in confessing that this was not something sweet, or romantic, or sexy.
I didn't sober up in time for us to have another lusty rendezvous in my
apartment, where I stealthily slipped out of my pajamas and he tore off his tie
and dress shirt. We simply sat on my couch, and he watched a few episodes of
Hemlock Grove with me, and when the credits rolled I asked him, meekly.

“What did
you say to get out of on-call duty?”

“I told
them that I had a personal emergency,” he answered. “You were lucky I had
wrapped up my work for the night. To be honest, I was simply waiting around.”