When we do the morbidity portion of the class, I’m in a delightfully spiteful mood, so I make Charlotte handle the corpse—another female mule—and then take off to my clinicals without a second glance. It’s a long day, but this is what I want to do—be in the ER, treating patients, surging along with the demands and keeping my mind closed to everything else.
I’m the only one of my class in the ER rotation; they all did theirs earlier in the semester. It gives me a chance to be on my own—not effectively treating anyone since that isn’t allowed, but I can fix small things or talk a patient through a difficult procedure.
It’s easier to care for someone I don’t know. I can fake that. And, it helps assuage some of the guilt I carry from childhood. The only guilt I truly feel.
Cutting through curtains, I follow Dillon to the back. There’s triage, and a few banged up patients, but it’s quiet for the late afternoon. I know it’ll get worse as the day progresses, and my adrenaline spikes with anticipation.
“Collins,” Dillon says, snapping his fingers.Has he been talking?
Judging from the tilt of his lips, he’s annoyed. So most likely, yes, and I missed it.
“Sorry,” I reply, sheepishly. “It was a long night. What did you ask?”
“How your studies were coming.” He grabs a few clipboards, passing them to me for review. “I know this term can be a lot to balance for students. It’s the last push before you head into your residency, and then the extra lessons for the board exams. It can tire a student out.”
On top of rounds, lectures, and the usual lab courses, we also had the coursework to study for the boards. Boston University School of Medicine wanted us to pass, so we were required to sit through extra classes, going over board questions to prepare.
Luckily for me, I wasn’t worried about the test.Much. I did all the practice exams for years in high school with Pops drilling me after our impromptu dissection lessons.
Swallowing, I shake my head as the rogue memories try to drown me. The smell of formaldehyde still turns my stomach. But I can tell you what causes erythropoietin deficiency every time I smell it.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I nod. “It’s going.” Reading the charts, I scan the incoming cases—stomach pain, fevers, a stubbed toe. The broken arm of a child causes me to pause. “Can’t complain.”
“I mean, you could.” He smiles, white teeth bright and straight. “It’s normal. It’s a balancing act. I’m pretty sure they make all of us go through it, so we’re ready for the floor.”
I hum, scanning my senior resident as he keeps step with me. Sandy brown hair and hazel eyes, he’s lean and athletic. He’d fit right in at a country club. He dreams of the days he can have the perfect trophy wife. “Probably.”
Gesturing to the chart, I ask, “Has anyone seen this patient yet?”
“Not sure.” He doesn’t look at where I’m pointing, placing his clipboard back into the bin. “If you need help studying, I took the boards a few years ago.”Obviously.
“Uh-huh. I’m going to see him.”
Turning on my heel, my white sneakers squeak along the linoleum floors. Dillon follows at my elbow, tall height forcing him to duck under the scaffolding.
“I’m a good study partner,” he continues, darting through the running nurses. “We could get dinner before.”
“He’s ten.” I sidestep an ECG machine. Why is he talking about dinner? “A broken arm should be taken seriously.” Something in the back of my head tingles—this is important.
“I’m partial to Mexican food.”
“Do you see his nurse?” How could he think about dinner or—God forbid—a date right now, when there was a little boy with a broken arm?
We come up to bay seven, pulling the curtain away. Automatically, I know this is a beaten child.
The signs are clear. The sunken eyes, the bruise on his cheek, the mangled elbow. He flinches at the curtain whipping, freezing when he sees Dillon. A man beat him, maybe a father or father-figure, and he’s traumatized by it.
I saw the same signs in Sloane.
Guilt rises up my throat. I knew Pops was hitting her—and I kept my mouth shut. Hell, I tried to reason with Sloane, make her understand that he would stop if she wouldjustplayalong.
Not like I didn’t try to stop him. I did once—and only once. He grabbed my arm so tightly, then threw me into the wall. I must have hit my head because I blinked and he was in my face, snarling,“If you interfere with this again, I’ll do worse to you and bring back those lessons. I don’t take kindly to disobedience. Do you understand?”
After that, I kept my head down. As guilt ridden as I was—am—I admired Sloane. She never backed down, never submitted. She was a flame battling against a raging storm and she never bowed to him.
I should have tried harder—taken those hits for her, consequences be damned. But I’m selfish and cruel. The lessons had just stopped, and I couldn’t go back to that.
Carefully, I step closer to the young boy, blocking his view of Dillon. Sitting down, I lower myself to seem smaller and smile. “I saw you hurt your arm.”
