Aarthi
IGNORE THAT PART
Then a message rolls in from a number I saved last week:
Jules
Good luck today, Ella! You're stronger than you think. See you Saturday
I press the phone against my chest. I have people who believe in me and know what today means. My own parents have barely reached out since I moved in with Jason. To be fair, they don’t call him much either.
It’s too scary to trust their faith in me, though. It’s like this thing with Bernard…it tastes sweet, but feels fleeting. All dependent on me actually passing a test that really seems impossible.
Bernard walks around the counter and begins to rinse his mug, opening the dishwasher, wrinkling his nose adorably at the odor that wafts out. “When do you need to be there, Ella? I’ll drop you off.”
I set my own mug down. "Bernard."
"Yeah?"
"I think I should take the bus to the testing center."
Something shifts in his face. "Let me drive you."
"It's better if you keep your distance today. Jason could wake up, and?—"
"Ella."
"I need to do this on my own." I press both palms to the ostentatious marble countertop. "And honestly …after my boards, I'll be out of both your hair."
He goes still. "What do you mean?"
"If by some miracle I pass, I'll have a real paycheck. I can find my own apartment. Get out of your room. Give you back your bed and your closet and your drawer." I try to smile. "And if I fail — which, let's be realistic — I'll head back to Minnesota to my parents’ house and figure out next steps."
He stares at me like I just told him I'm moving to Mars.
"Either way," I say, "it's time for me to stop crashing with my brother."
He grips the edge of the counter and frowns. I watch him choose his words the way he does when something matters — carefully, slowly, fighting his own instinct just to say the first thing that comes to mind.
"Okay," he says.
That's all. But his jaw is tight, and his hand on the counter has gone white at the knuckles, and I know that okay is not what he wanted to say.
I finish my coffee and start gathering my things, putting on my coat and pink sneakers. I smile, remembering I had them on at the airport when Bernard picked me up. But I shouldn’t smile about Bernard. Not in that way.
Instead, I remind myself of his visualization advice, give him a wave, and walk toward the door.
The bus to the testing center takes forty minutes. I sit by the window, close my eyes, and picture the ER. The feel of a blood bag in my hands. The steady beep of a monitor. The calm that settles over me when a patient needs me, and my body knows what to do.
I don't think about passing or failing. I just put myself in a place where I know what I'm doing.
The testing center is a beige building in a strip mall between a sub shop and a dry cleaner. Inside, it smells like carpet cleaner and anxiety. I check in, lock my phone and bag in a cubby, and sit down at a computer terminal in a room full of strangers who all look as terrified as I feel.
The first question appears on the screen. A patient presents with acute chest pain radiating to the left arm. Which intervention should the nurse perform first?
I read it twice. The words try to swim, but I hold them in place, hear Bernard's voice asking the question out loud in my head, and click my answer.
The next question loads. And the next. And the next.
