Suicide Med (3 page)

Unfortunately, Rachel catches me looking at my phone.
“Texting with your boyfriend again, Heather?”

“No,” I answer truthfully.

Before I can say anything else, Rachel announces to the table: “Heather is dating some guy at another school about a thousand miles away and they text each other every five minutes.”

“No,
two hundred thirty-eight miles away,” I mumble. I committed the number to memory last year, when Seth and I were debating if we could make our relationship work long distance. I’d offered to hold off a year, and reapply near his school. But Seth didn’t want me to give up anything for him. Especially since, as he rightfully pointed out, I only got into one school and it was off the waiting list.

“You know
,” Rachel says to me, “about 80% of long-term relationships end during medical school.”

Where does Rachel find these stupid statistics anyway?

“Have you been with him long?” Lauren asks me.

I nod.
“Three years.” I notice her eyes flit down to my left hand and I quickly add, “He wanted to get engaged, but I thought it was better to wait.”

That’s not
exactly a lie. Except it’s sort of the opposite. I had been pressuring Seth for a ring at the end of senior year, but he wanted to wait. “What’s the rush, Heather? It’s not like we’re getting married soon.” Except two of my friends got engaged and neither of them were dating their boyfriends as long as Seth and I were together. Neither of us could imagine a future apart from the other, so why not make it official?

But maybe it’s better this way.
There’s no point in complicating things. Plus it would be a pain to figure out what to do with an engagement ring during anatomy labs.

“Three years is a
really long time,” Lauren says kindly. “I bet you’ll be in the 20% that stays together.”

I bet we will too.

I mean, I’m pretty sure.

Seth is supposed to call me tonight at nine p.m. and it’s now one minute after nine. With each passing minute, I’m getting more and more ticked off.

I don’t want to be that kind of girlfriend—the kind where he has to call at the exact time he said he would or else I get all
pissy. But then again, how hard is it to call on time? Is it really so difficult to pick up the phone and call me at the time I asked him to? I mean, he knows it’s my first day of school and I’m all keyed up. Why is he doing this to me?

It doesn’t help that Rachel is driving me completely crazy.
First she started tacking up some pro-choice poster on the wall that had a huge picture of a zombie baby on it. I’m pro-choice too, but that doesn’t mean I want a zombie baby poster on my wall. It was awful. When I asked her to take it down, she started lecturing me on feminism and women’s rights. Apparently, she wants to be a surgeon and it’s people like me who are holding her back.

Look, I want women to have rights.
I just don’t like zombie babies on my wall!

The other weird thing is that Rachel hasn’t bought any books.
Not even Dr. Conlon’s book,
Anatomy Inside Secrets
. You’d think if she wanted to be a surgeon, she’d be studying her ass off right now in anticipation of our first anatomy lab tomorrow. Or at least halfheartedly trying to read the lab manual like I’m doing.

Instead she’s sitting on her bed in a lotus position, just watching me.
It’s a little creepy. Our bedroom is just too small for two people to share—I feel like we’re always on top of one another. There’s just barely room for both of our beds, our desks, one dresser, and a single bookcase. We have to share the dresser and a single closet. I can’t even walk into the room without tripping on something.

“Are you waiting for your boyfriend to call you?”

I look up at Rachel, who is blinking innocently. I make a face. “His name is Seth. And… well, he might call.”

Rachel snorts.
“Just don’t get too hung up on the guy. If he dumps you, I don’t want to be the one who walks in on you if you…well, you know…”

“What?”

Rachel makes a slashing motion across her neck.

I stare at her, horrified.
“I’m not going to kill myself!”

She shrugs.
“You never know. I mean, who walks into medical school thinking, ‘Hey, I’m going to throw myself off the roof of the hospital.’”

My mouth falls open.
I never got around to checking on the internet to see if Rachel’s story is true. Suicide Med. Surely I’d have heard that nickname.

“Nobody really killed themselves, did they?” I say.
I’m half-hoping Rachel will start laughing and admit she’s been messing with me.

“Maybe not,” she says.

I feel a twinge of relief until she adds, “They could have all been murders.”

Rachel definitely has a flair for the drama.

“What are you talking about?”

“So here’s an interesting detail,” Rachel says, a mischievous smile forming on her lips. “The first suicide at Southside was six years ago. And when do you think Dr. Conlon got hired?”

I picture Dr. Conlon limping around with his cane and his dorky bowtie.

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

Rachel shrugs again. “Six suicides in six years. Dunno, seems like a big coincidence to me.”

I’m about to finally tell Rachel that I think she’s full of it when my phone starts ringing with Seth’s number.
My ringtone is Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA,” which resulted in some choice comments from Rachel last night. But screw her. I like that song.

“Hello,” I answer breathlessly.

I hear chewing on the other line. “’Lo?”

“Hey,” I say, rising up from my bed.
Rachel is still staring at me, so I back out of our bedroom into the living room. “What’s up?”

More chewing.
“Not much.”

More chewing.

“Um,” I say. “Are you eating?”

“Just an apple.”
I hear him swallow.

“Didn’t you get dinner?”

“Yeah,” Seth says. “But, like, I got hungry again.”

Typical Seth.
He always gets hungry about an hour after dinner.

“Oh,” I say.
I grip the phone tighter. I wish I could give Seth a hug, feel his body against me. The person on the other line almost doesn’t seem like it’s him. This long distance thing really sucks. I didn’t expect it to feel so… distant.

Seth and I first met in freshman chemistry.
We were assigned to be lab partners, and I got taken in by his dimples and brown curls. Also, he was just so
smart
. I would have burned the lab down with my Bunsen burner if not for him.

For months, Seth and I were just friends.
Then one day, while we were walking together, I felt his hand slide into mine. We’ve been together ever since.

“I miss you,” I say to him.

“I miss you too,” he says. “I heard a Miley Cyrus song on the radio today and I thought of you.”

“Oh yeah?”
I say. I’m unsure if that’s a compliment.

“But you’re way cuter than Miley,” Seth says.

“Gee, thanks,” I laugh.

“And way sexier,” he adds, even though I’m totally not.
I’m not the sexy type, but that’s okay.

“I had my orientation today,” I say.

“Oh yeah?” Seth says. “How was it?”

“Pretty good
…” I search my brain for something interesting to say. “Our anatomy professor was wearing a bowtie. Isn’t that funny?”

Seth laughs.
“Maybe it’s a spinning bowtie.”

“Maybe,” I say, giggling into the phone.
“I wonder if he’ll wear one to lab tomorrow.”

“That would be awesome,” Seth says.
“You have to get a photo if he does that.”

We spend the next half hour or so chatting about our respective days.
I fill him in on all the weirdo students I met today. He clucks sympathetically when I tell him about how that bearlike student stepped on my foot and almost broke it. And I laugh when he tells me about how a ripe pear that he packed in his backpack exploded and got over all his new books and papers.

“I wish I’d been there to see that,” I say.

“Yeah,” Seth says. “I wish you’d been there too. You would’ve pissed your pants laughing.”

I close my eyes and imagine that Seth is sitting beside me. My left hand squeezes my knee.

“I miss you so much,” I say.

“I miss you too, Heather,” Seth says. He pauses. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I say. It’s all I can do to keep from covering the phone with kisses.

Seth sighs. “Okay, I better get back to work.”

“Me too,” I say. But I don’t hang up.

“You didn’t hang up,” Seth notes.

I smile into the phone. “Neither did you.”

“Well, one of us has to hang up,” he points out.

“Well then, I want to be you,” I say.

Seth laughs. “No, you have to hang up first.”

“No,” I retort. “You hang up.”

“No, you,” Seth says.

“I think you’re going to have to hang up first,” I say.

We’re about go another three or four rounds like we usually do when I hear Rachel yell from the bedroom, “For Christ sake, hang up the goddamn phone already before I shoot myself in the head!”

Seth and I quickly whisper our goodbyes and hang up the phone. The last thing I want to do is incur Rachel’s wrath further. But when I hang up
, I have a good feeling in my stomach. It helps knowing that Seth is here for me. Seth is my first… well, no, he’s more like my second… well, anyway, he’s my first
love
. I love him. And he loves me. This is totally going to work out. I’ve got nothing to worry about.

Southside Med doesn’t have a locker room per se. What we’ve got is a long hallway of lockers, not segregated in any way by gender. Meaning that I’ve got two choices:

1)
      
Be a prude and run to the ladies room to change into scrubs for lab

2)
     
Change my clothes in front of
boys

I stand in front of my locker, clutching my scrubs for far too long, trying to make a decision. The ladies’ room is all the way at the other end of the floor, so I’ll save some serious time if I change my clothes right here. And it’s not very crowded, at least not yet. However, I’m still retaining a modicum of modesty and I’m not sure if I can make myself do it. I feel like my body isn’t quite as bikini-ready as I’d like it to be.

In any case, I need to decide soon.
Because I look like an idiot just standing here.

I’m just about ready to start pulling my shirt over my head when I hear a door swing open and about a dozen students filter into the hallway, most of them male.

No,
all
of them male.

And loud.

I quickly pull my shirt back down.

One of the students yanks open the locker three doors away from mine, and gives me a charming smile. And oh my God, this guy is cute. I mean, seriously cute. If someone made a movie about our med school class, he’d be playing himself. His face is really classically handsome, but most of all, I can’t stop staring at his hazel eyes, and I have to admit, at this moment, Seth is the farthest thing from my mind.

Especially when Dreamy
McCutie pulls off his shirt.

Wow, look at that chest.
Sheesh.

“What’s wrong?” he asks me as he fishes through his locker for his scrub top.
“You forget something?”

Oh God, I really need to stop staring at this guy.

“No,” I mumble, still clutching my own scrubs to my chest. “I just… need to go change.”

Dreamy
McCutie yanks a crisp green scrub top from his locker and winks at me. “So what are you waiting for?”

I swallow, feeling like a silly little girl at a Justin Bieber concert or something.
I should not be swooning over random guys in my class. I have a boyfriend who I love, who I want to marry. And even if I didn’t, I
still
shouldn’t be swooning.

And I definitely shouldn’t be changing my clothes in front of this guy.

“Excuse me,” I say, and I race off in the direction of the ladies’ room.

I am such a prude.

_____

The ladies’ room is a comforting sight, packed to the brim with other female students who are also too chicken to change clothes in the hallway. We prudes definitely make up the majority. I put on my scrubs and sneakers, deposit my clothes back in my locker, and head for the anatomy lab.

To say I’m anxious about this lab would be an understatement.
I am freaking terrified.

Everyone has assured me I’ll be okay.
That you get so involved in what you’re doing, that you forget it’s a real dead body. It’s sort of like dissecting that plastic dummy we used during our CPR course. Anyway, that’s what I keep repeating to myself over and over. But what if I faint? What if I vomit? What if I vomit then faint in a puddle of my vomit? I’ll never live that down.

I stand outside the door to the lab for far too long before I work up the nerve to enter.
Long enough that I’m starting to get a few funny looks. About five other students push past me before I heave a deep breath and step inside.

The lab is cold.
Really cold. Little goose pimples rise up on my forearms and I hug my chest for warmth. Also, it’s bright. Bright enough that I have to squint for a few seconds until my eyes adjust.

Also, the room is filled with dead bodies.

There are a couple dozen metal tables spread throughout the room.
The bodies have been covered with plastic, but several gray mounds have been exposed by the lab groups. The only good thing I can say is that the bodies have been positioned facedown, so there are no dead eyes staring up at me. But it’s still pretty creepy.

I hug my chest tighter.

“Heather?” A soft-spoken voice comes from behind me and I feel a (hopefully clean) hand fall on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I look up.
It’s Abe, the nice bear-like guy I met yesterday. He’s got a little furrow between his red-orange brows.

I decide to be honest with him.
“I’m feeling a little… squeamish.”

“Oh!”
He looks appropriately concerned but not judgmental at all. “Do you think you’re going to faint?”

I shake my head.
“No. But… it’s not outside the realm of possibility, you know?”

Abe scratches his chin, where he’s got a bit of red stubble growing.
“Well, you wouldn’t be the first person to faint in anatomy lab. It’s not
that
big a deal.”

I consider
telling Abe my fear about fainting in the puddle of vomit, but I decide against it.

“It would be embarrassing,” is all I
say.

Abe nods
in understanding. I hadn’t realized when I met him earlier, but he has really nice, kind green eyes.

“How about this?
If you faint, I’ll catch you and whisk you out into the hall before anyone notices,” he says.

“You’d
catch
me?” I’m a bit skeptical, considering Abe seems like kind of an oaf. Maybe I’m just being biased because of his size. Then again, he did manage to practically break my foot yesterday.

“
Seriously, I have catlike reflexes,” Abe assures me, although he’s grinning. “So which table were you assigned to?”

“Thirteen,” I reply.

Abe brightens. “Hey, me too.”

I feel a flash of relief.
Whatever else I know about this guy, he definitely will make sure I’m okay if I start to faint. Despite his intimidating size, he seems very nice.

We weave through
the tables of dead bodies, finally coming to a stop in front of a table with a big laminated paper that says “13” on it. This is us, I guess. We’re the first to arrive, and the body is still draped in thick, clear plastic.

“You okay?” Abe asks me, lif
ting his eyebrows. “Should I… remove the plastic?”

I nod and brace myself.

Abe yanks the plastic off the body. Too fast. Embalming fluid or other cadaver juice squirts into the air, generously peppering my forearms. I scream in absolute horror.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” Abe gasps.

He’s sorry, and I’m drenched in cadaver juice. I race over the nearest sink and submerge my arms in the hottest water the sink will provide. I soap myself up practically to my shoulders, wash my arms off, then do it again. This is so disgusting.

Well, at least it didn’t get in my face.
Although I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s Abe’s encore. From now on, I’m keeping my mouth closed during lab—the last thing I want is to taste the cadaver.

By the time
I get back to the table, two more members of my five-person lab group have arrived. One is a tiny, olive-skinned girl with dark brown hair swept back into a ponytail—she looks almost like a child standing next to gigantic Abe. And then there’s the other member of the group: Dreamy McCutie, the guy who changed in front of me by the lockers. My knees buckle slightly when I see him.

“I’m really sorry,” Abe says to me again when I return.

I nod at him, noting that Dreamy
McCutie is snickering slightly as he pries open our dissection kit. Abe must have told them what he did to me. I’d vow revenge on him if he didn’t look so upset about the whole thing.

“I’m Heather,” I say to my two new lab partners.
I don’t bother to offer my hand, since they’re both already wearing blue rubber gloves.

“Mason,” says Dreamy
McCutie (apparently actually named Mason). He glances up at me only briefly before going back to rifling through our dissection kit. He fishes out a scalpel and examines the blade carefully through narrowed hazel eyes.

The tiny girl give
s me a little wave and speaks in a voice that’s barely a whisper, “I’m Jenny.”

“Nice to meet you, Jenny.”

“Ginny.”

“Oh, sorry.
Ginny.”

Sheesh, some people really need to speak up.

“Mason and I are roommates,” Abe explains to me.
“I heard they usually assign roommates to be lab partners to make it easier to share study materials.”

“Oh,” I say.
I glance at tiny Ginny. “But Ginny and I aren’t roommates.”

“I live
alone off campus,” Ginny explains.

I get this really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
We’re still expecting a fifth person in our lab group and Ginny doesn’t have a roommate. That means that the most likely person to be our fifth lab partner is…

Oh great.

As if on cue, Rachel arrives at our table. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail so that strands of fall along her cheeks, and she’s not even wearing scrubs. She’s wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. Worst of all, I’m pretty sure she’s still not wearing a bra.

Wear a bra, Rachel!
How hard is it? I’ll buy you one!

“Hey,” she says, running a hand through her loose strands of hair.

Mason manages to tear his eyes away from the dissection kit for long enough to notice Rachel’s breasts.
I hear his breath catch slightly. “Hey,” he says.

We go around the table with another set of mumbled introductions.
To Abe’s credit, he doesn’t seem to be remotely interested in Rachel’s chest.

Now that the trauma of being splattered with embalming fluid has worn off, I take a look at our cadaver.
He’s really big—a good two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, at least. But he’s tall, fit, and carries the weight evenly. He looks like he could have been a bouncer in a bar. His face is pressed into the cold metal of the table, but I place his age around fifty. There’s a tattoo on his right arm that I can’t make out due to the dryness of his skin.

“He looks like a Frank to me,” Mason speaks up.
“What do you girls think?”

Rachel shoots daggers with her eyes, “To me, he looks like a human being who had a name of his own.”

“Aw, come on,” Mason says, flashing a killer smile.

He’s so freaking charming.
I bet he’s the kind of guy who always gets what he wants—women or naming of cadavers or whatever.

I hate that I can’t stop staring at him.

“You’re naming this cadaver over my dead body,” Rachel says through her teeth.

“Fair enough,” Mason says.
He winks at me as he menacingly lifts a scalpel out of the dissection kit. Abe shakes his head at his roommate. Seriously bad taste. Fortunately, Rachel is too distracted by the cadaver to notice.

“I brought gloves,” Abe volunteers, nudging my elbow with his.
He points under the table where there’s a little tower of glove boxes. “Three different sizes. I heard you’re supposed to double glove in order to, uh, keep out the smell.”

“Don’t kid
yourself,” Rachel says. “
Nothing
is going to keep out the smell. Tonight we’re all going to stink like formaldehyde.”

My roommate—always a burst of positivity.

“So who wants to make the first incision?” Abe asks the group.

Anyone but me.
I step away from the table, trying to make myself invisible.

“I’ll do it,”
Mason volunteers with a shrug. He holds out his right hand. “Scalpel,” he barks.

Before I know what I’m doing, I start fumbling with the dissection kit and remove a scalpel, which I obediently place
in his right hand with a resounding plop.

Rachel’s eyes widen and she looks
furious. “You know,” she says to Mason. “Heather’s not your scrub nurse.”

Well, she’s right.
But let’s face it: between the five of us, Mason is the only one who looked like a real surgeon. I can almost picture him in the operating room, slicing through the skin of a real patient’s back. His hands are so steady. Mine are shaking like a leaf and I’m not even doing anything. I’m just standing there.

“Dr. McKinley!”

My heart practically jumps out of my chest. I whirl around and come face to face with Dr. Conlon, our anatomy professor. He’s dressed in scrubs (no bowtie), which makes him look much less dorky than he did on stage the other day. I noticed before how black his hair is, but I didn’t realize how bright blue his eyes are, even behind thick glasses. And he’s still clutching that cane in his left hand.