“At least get their name before you let them in your mouth,” I say and everyone around snickers.
“Well?” Victoria raises her brow in question.
Pandora shakes her head. “Ice cream first, dishing next,” she says over her shoulder, walking determinedly toward my kitchen. Followed by our expectant stares, Pandora finally settles on the huge, grey furry beanbag. Her legs stretch before her as she digs a spoon into the ice cream tube. “Umm . . . ” She moans with the spoon still in her mouth.
Victoria, Kayla, and I keep watching her, now a little less patient.
“For goodness sake spill it already, gurl,” my sister grunts.
“Oh,” Pandora turns to us in feigned surprise. “Are you waiting or something?” She brings one hand to rest on her chest then loads another spoon with a little mountain of ice cream, a sinful smile tugging at her lips. “So I decided to just call him. No text. No heads up on social media. Straight up early 90’s communication, you know, phone the other human.”
“I like that,” I say while loading hummus on a carrot stick.
Pandora laughs as an afterthought. “He sounded genuinely happy when he realized it was me,” she laughs again. “After poking some well-deserved fun at me.” She smirks. “Well, he said I gave good tipsy.”
“Tipsy . . . ” Victoria rolls her eyes. “More like drunk off your ass.”
My voice comes out deliberately singsongy as I ask, “Oooh, who sprinkled the bitchy dust?”
Kayla snorts a chuckle, leaning back on the sofa with a thin side smile, watching us.
“It went so well. He was charming and funny and we talked for like an hour, no awkward silent pauses,” Pandora resumes.
I love the smile she has. It’s of the genuine, hopeful variety and it looks perfect on her. I extend my bowl of kale chips, wordlessly offering it to my friends. When they reject it with mocking horror I roll my eyes.
“So you had a good chat, and?” Kayla asks, always practical.
“We’re meeting for dinner on Saturday.” That earns Pandora three approving smiles.
The conversation flows with random boosts of laughter, munching, and passing around of plates and glasses, with the occasional profound and intellectual declaration such as:
“God, I swear, I want to burn all my bras and just let them run free all the time.” Kayla, adjusting her bra somewhat frustrated.
“Can you believe the guy asked me if I gave naked yoga classes too? God, and that creepy smile. Blargh.” Me, pretending to throw up.
“I can’t believe I’m going to have a property in my name.” Victoria somewhat baffled.
“We’re such victims of consumerism! Revolting. Fuck this, I’m getting the shoes!” Pandora clicking on my laptop somewhat vehemently.
“So,” and then I decide that it’s high time I told my friends about my recent online object of attraction. It’s been over three weeks! Thinking about it, I’m surprised I haven’t mentioned anything about it to them so far. It gives me a pause – it’s a first for me. Had I not had three sets of eyes waiting for me to speak, I’d dig a bit further down this one.
Then, I tell them.
For a brief moment, I contemplate taking shelter, what with the many questions I’m bombarded with for what feels like forever.
“Anna Heidi Nielsen, you show us the photo right now!” Victoria says just before giving me a threatening look that does nothing but amuse me. What with the neon-orange fake cheese smear at the corner of her mouth, her messy bun, and my burrowed, oversized sweatshirt that boasts “Adult-ish” in dark blue. Yeah, a true portrayal of authority.
I grab my phone and pull up the photo.
“Oooh, they’re both cute!” It’s Pandora.
“Which one do you think is him?” Kayla asks, and adds, “Also, a great show of restraint not looking him up!”
And then I tell them about the grocery store incident today. Leaving out the part about the poor banana I left with a bad case of blue balls. “I know it sounds like I lost my mind, but he really resembled the guy in the photo. And the scrubs and everything. Not to mention the store is right next to Virginia Mason.”
“Which actually makes it less reasonable. Every Joe Smo in scrubs can pop by easily,” says Victoria. She shugs her shoulders at the blank stare I give her. “Just saying.” Victoria, the eternal voice of logic, pokes doubt in my already uncertain assumption.
When the show starts, we each snuggle with a throw blanket and a glass of wine. My beverage of preference tonight is kombucha. I try to minimize my alcohol intake to weekends and special occasions.
In the middle of a dramatic scene, my phone lights up with a new email alert. I hold it in my hand, watching the scene on the TV screen with my breath held, an ordeal that lasts ten minutes. Then I finally check my inbox. I’m not sure what I’m transmitting, but whatever it is prompts my friends’ attention to leave the screen and focus on me.
Something is happening inside of me. It’s a mixture of excitement and incredulity. Utter shock. Liam is from my neck of the wood. I look back at my friends with an astonished frown. “Guys, I’m pretty positive it was him today, the guy from the store.”
Black Clouds & Silver Linings
We exchange a solemn stare. He nods, wordlessly telling everyone in the room that we’re done. Nothing more to do but declare the time of death.
I step away, walk to the door that leads to the sterile core, even though I want to run. I push the door open with a flat palm. Once it swings shut behind me, I find the nearest concealed alcove behind a packed case cart. I lean my back to the wall and close my eyes. I yank down the surgical mask, momentarily gasping for air. I take a few deep breaths, pushing down the frustration and heavy load weighing on my chest. I’m frozen, needing time to collect myself and carry on as we’re trained to do. When I finally compose myself, as much as I can, I quickly go back to join Dr. Wong where we’re headed to deliver the news to the family.
It’s not the first time, and unfortunately won’t be the last time, but I’ll probably never get used to it. We dealt with severe trauma. I assisted the attending surgeon in this surgery that went from a one-hour estimated ordeal to a five-and-a-half-hour procedure. One that ended tragically. Dr. Wong is one of the best surgeons around yet even he couldn’t save the kid.
My shift was over a couple of hours ago, but since the operation took much longer than anticipated I had to stay. Now that I can finally go home, for a few good minutes I walk aimlessly, haunting the busy halls, physically present but mentally I’m in a different troubling space. Ultimately, I head to the locker room, the heaviness gripping my stomach weighing heavy on each breath. Everything from changing into jeans and a sweatshirt to walking home I’m doing on autopilot.
“Freddie,” I call a few times. “Fred?” He’s probably out, the apartment is sullenly quiet. Way too silent for my unyielding depressed mood. I keep the lights off, put on loud music, and drop onto the living room sofa. Planning on spending the evening in the same position, I stretch my hand for the phone, just in case. I set up the alarm for tomorrow morning. There’s a message from Anna waiting for me. A response to the one I sent her just before going into the operating theatre. She asked where I live and I answered. It was a brief message due to my haste to get back to work; glaringly lacking our usual easy-going, flirtatious vibe. She sent me another message an hour ago asking how my day was. I answer with another brief message, not in the mood for one of our long email conversations that has become a new favorite practice.