So yeah, I’ve been working longer than our recommended ten to twelve hours since mid-March. The extra cash will go toward my medical school tuition in the fall.
“Murderer!” I hear the moment the automatic sliding doors open to one of the many side exits of the Ottawa General Hospital Campus.
Before I know it, I have a six foot three to my six and a half feet of a lean, mean, fighting machine in my face—fist first.
The moment his knuckles make contact, I see blood. Head wounds are gushers, and I’m now the new owner of split skin above my left eye, or so I suspect. The sight of the scarlet fluid does nothing for my attacker because he keeps at me.
“You’re the fucking nurse who killed my wife!” A sucker punch to the gut has me bending over with the wind knocked out of me. Then a knee to the chops has my teeth rattling and my lip stinging with the taste of copper flooding my mouth.
Another fist comes at me, but I dodge it, catching two medics and a doctor running toward us from the corner of my one good eye.
“Sir,” I groan, barely able to keep calm. I know precisely which case he’s referring to. After all, I don’t make it a habit to lose patients on the regular, and up until today, I hadn’t crossed paths with a loss for the last four months in my ER rotation. The man’s wife was my first COVID loss to boot.
“I’ll sue you for your ineptitude.” He takes another swing and misses. “I’ll sue you and this shit hospital.”
“Hey! Hey! Calm down, sir,” one of the paramedics says, as he winds an arm around my attacker’s left side.
“I will not! He killed my wife!” The man tries to pull away, but the second medic secures his other arm while the doctor waves a security officer toward us to help subdue the bereft man.
The first medic leaves his post to the officer, then approaches me with a shake of his head and a smirk. “You okay?” Steve, according to his name badge, hands me a wad of gauze from one of his uniform pockets. “He got you good.”
“Just a few scratches,” I say. I don’t want to admit to the headache that’s beginning to brew or the fact my vision is a little blurry. I’m not new to brawls, but I sure as shit hadn’t expected what I was met with just now. “I’ll be fine.”
“You might need some stitches; at worst, a CAT scan.”
I shrug. “I’m on my way home. I’ve got a kit there. It’s nothing I can’t handle with a few butterfly bandages.” True. I’ve been known to superglue cuts and other assorted wounds where I come from. Growing up in the Ottawa valley, the son of a farmer, means I came from stern stuff.
“I still think you should get checked out,” Steve says.
“I agree,” Dr. Bourne interjects, “unless you have someone who can make sure to look after you in case you have a concussion. Being a hospital employee, I’d advise staying here until you get the all-clear.”
A half hour later, I’m the recipient of a butterfly bandage across my left eyebrow, an ice pack, and one hell of a fat lip. Dr. Bourne gave me a quick once-over to rule out broken ribs, but he did state I’d be sore for the next few days, citing I should look at taking additional time off.
I nodded where I needed to, accepted the doc’s recommendations, stated I wouldn’t press charges, and went off on my merry way, hoping Johanna would be home—alone.
Johanna
The house is dark, due to the window coverings. It’s mid-June, and the Ottawa humidity is catching up with us homeowners who like to save pennies on our air-conditioning usage. It’s also why I live with Rett, well, did up until March when his folks brought over their trailer and parked it in the driveway. That’s where Rett lives now, so we can minimize direct contact, since we both work essential positions that bring us into direct proximity with the general public.
So, he lives in his folks’ trailer, and I’m in the house, whenever I’m home and not traveling as an emergency responder for the Canadian Red Cross. I just got home from a deployment out in Fort McMurray, Alberta, thanks to numerous forest and grass fires, not to mention the continuing Red Cross efforts post-flooding. Suffice to say that COVID has rendered these operations much more complicated.
To be honest, I miss Rett even when we’re both home, which is why I’m a little annoyed he’s not here when he should be. That and the fact I just got into town, picked up a pizza from our favorite neighborhood pizzeria, and I’m currently stuck waiting on his ass to get home. We have a standing date, whenever I get home from a deployment and his hours allow it, where we eat together and catch up while social distancing.
Tonight, however, I have some big news for him, and I need my best friend to celebrate.
The pizza’s gone cold, and I’m not quite sure what time it is when I hear the front door snicker shut as someone comes into the house, waking me.
“What in the ever-loving fuck?” I whisper, as I jackknife onto my feet and hurry toward Rett, who’s standing there, beaten and bruised.
“You should see the other guy,” he says with what would have been a smirk but looks more like a grimace. My hand reaches toward his bandaged eyebrow, and I smooth my fingers gently down his cheek, stopping to skim his busted lip.
“Rett.” I grab on to his hand and pull him toward the couch, forcing him to sit. He winces but settles and leans back with his eyes closed.
“I’ll be fine. Nothing a little rest and Tylenol won’t cure,” he assures me.
“Have you stopped at the trailer to take anything?” He shakes his head, so I head for the medicine cabinet on the main floor powder room. Tapping a few tablets in my hand, I rush for the kitchen, grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and return to Rett.
“You’re the best,” he says before he pops the two Tylenol Extra Strength, breaks the seal off the water bottle, and starts to chug.
I sit down next to him, observing the man before me. The way the muscles in his neck undulate as he swallows his water, the scruff on his jaw that tells me he hasn’t slept much over the last few days because that’s the only time he won’t shave, and even his swollen eye. None of it does a thing to dull the attraction I feel for this man. But he’ll never know about that last bit as I’m pretty sure my feelings for Rett are all one-sided—unrequited.
“Uh, Jo?” Rett whispers, knocking me out of my reverie.
“Huh?” I mumble with my thumb at Rett’s mouth, collecting the bead of water that sits on his upper lip after his drinking. Shit. Get it together, girl! I snap my hand back with a, “Sorry, what?” and a shoulder shrug.
His lip quirks up on the uninjured side. “Got our pie?” he asks, sitting up. I nod. “Good. Pop it in the oven. I’ll head over to the trailer and get cleaned up and changed; then we can eat.
Without another word, Rett gets up and heads out the front door.
Scurrying to the kitchen, I find myself fumbling to get the pizza onto a pan, shove it in the oven, and turn on the appliance. Leaning back against the counter, I try to calm my racing heartbeat, all the while chastising myself for my schoolgirl crush demeanor.
Must be the lack of sleep over the last few weeks.