Pulse Read online

  So here I was, gazing out a window, drinking pretentiously French-pressed coffee from a glass mug (to seal my incredible level of pretentiousness) and hoping to God that my cell phone didn’t ring.

  But on that fateful Friday evening, it did. And despite my initial temptation to ignore the buzzing in my pocket, I picked up.

  “Alex Greene,” I said, curt as usual.

  “Dr. Greene,” I heard the familiar voice of one of the nurse staff from the hospital – warm as a cordial. “We need you here at the hospital. Dr. Weisman can’t make it in, and we have several patients here in need of a Cardiology consult.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “And someone should finally speak to the board about Weisman. What good is he if he spends more time consulting that secretary than spending time with patients? Somebody needs to take him out back and give him the bullet. Or, you know, drop a hint to his wife.”

  She laughed.

  “I’ll see you in a few, Dr. Greene.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  After hanging up, I tossed back the rest of my coffee, grabbed my coat, and headed out, knowing well that I likely wouldn’t make it back until the streets were heavy with morning fog; thick and rolled out as if the streets themselves could breathe.

  As I turned into the parking lot, glancing around at the cars, I wondered exactly what kind of havoc was in store for another sleepless night On Call. And I nearly considered peeling away, flipping the bird, and cruising down the highway, towards Nowhere.

  I thought about going to the ocean. I thought about standing on the white beach. I thought about stepping into the sea-foam, and maybe disappearing.

  But God, I’m glad I didn’t.

  Here’s the biggest truth, I’ll tell you: we love to romanticize the life of a Doctor. Money, prestige, respect. The first one is true. The second and third? A fantastic amount of bullshit.

  But if you make enough money, most people will toss away any grievance that you have. You’ll get the scoff, the eye-roll. You make enough money – how could you be so sad?

  Doctors. We aren’t just in the business of treating the sick. We can also, apparently, buy happiness. You can frequently find it on sale at Target.

  Reality Check: the daily shuffle is mostly comprised of immense fucking exhaustion. Drowsy mornings spent making rounds about the hospital corridors, scribbling my signature away on patient forms, dealing with various prognosis and lab-work and treatment release forms (nurses, you know, never get enough credit for their own wares). Afternoons spent tapping a pen against my lacquered desk and gazing at my array of diplomas, or trying my best to listen for the dozenth time as a patient recants why they weren’t taking their prescribed medication accordingly – and resisting the incredible urge to stand, throw my hands up, and walk out. Sleepless evenings pouring over paperwork, pondering malpractice insurance, and succumbing to – if I was lucky – a few hours worth of actual, REM-driven sleep.

  Then, repeat. On and on it goes.

  And, aside from the occasional cocktail party or black-tie event, there’s little space to meet women. Sure, I could pick up someone at a bar with relative ease – but I was never that kind of guy. I preferred some kind of connection, and was never able to really get off – intellectually, physically – without feeling that (sure, call it cliché) spark.

  But despite it all, there’s never been a moment where I truly wanted to give it all up. Even with the little stains that I’d occasionally find on my scrubs, or the realization that I hadn’t actually shaved in three days, it was worth it for the occasional thank you, Dr. Greene when I managed to do something right. Pills for a heart-murmur, or surgery to mend an artery.

  That night, after shrugging on my lab-coat and trying my best to straighten out a tie that wouldn’t quite flatten, I reminded myself to tuck in my shirt, ran a hand through my hair, then readied myself to cross the River Styx.

  The halls were already bustling with gurneys and nurses; it was all a mesh of varied-colored scrubs and bland white walls.

  Leaning over the counter of the nurses station, I tapped a finger playfully against a stack of paperwork.

  “Which of these is mine?” I asked, grinning. “Or should I assume all of them are? It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  One of the nurses laughed, slightly exaggerated. I could see that they were all already checked-out for the night. It was written all over their faces.

  “We appreciate you, Dr. Greene,” she said, playfully sarcastic, then handed me one of the clipboards. “But luckily, there’s just one left tonight. The other two checked-out AMA. They didn’t want to wait around.”

  I grinned inwardly (thank the Gods for the impatience of some patients), gave the nurses a half-wave, and went about my business.

  I glanced at the file, flipping through the pages to quickly pick apart the bits of immediate, imperative information:

  Name: Mia Holloway.

  Age: Twenty-two.

  And she was dealing with chest pains. I scratched my head, nodded, and stalked off to find her assigned room.

  Dodging the gurneys and wheelchairs and sea of people that crowded the halls sometimes felt like navigating though a video game, but the room was easy to find: 184. A room in the corner of a hallway that always felt too quiet.

  I knocked, a typical courtesy, and opened the door.

  “Mia Holloway?” I asked, with my eyes still glued to the clipboard. “Would that be you?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  Her soft voice seemed to catch the air in a way that traveled, as if by wire, into my brain. My skin prickled immediately, and I glanced up at her.

  Two wide, almond-shaped eyes immediately met mine – the darkest brown I had ever seen. And though she looked so childish with her crinkled nose and darting expression, and I was slightly ashamed, something immediately gripped me by the shoulders. I was shaken awake.

  One thing to make clear: I wasn’t in love with her. I was merely disarmed.

  But which was worse?

  “Hello,” I said, extending a hand. She grasped mine with a surprising firmness. “I’m Dr. Greene. I’m the attending Cardiologist. I understand that you’re dealing with some chest pain?”

  Mia nodded. She wore an over-sized hospital gown, with a blanket draped over her shoulders. Beside her, in a fold-up chair, sat a blond-haired girl who was busily texting. When she stopped, she looked at me, and I knew immediately what she was thinking: Hello, Doctor McDreamy.

  It’s not an ego thing, I swear. It’s just a thing that, after what feels like a million faces you’ve scanned in examining rooms, that you pick up pretty damn quickly.

  When I turned again to Mia, she appeared as I could have only expected her to: concerned. Worried. Afraid.

  “She thinks she’s having a heart attack,” the un-named friend proclaimed, setting her phone aside. “But she’s twenty-two. Is that a thing? Can it really happen?”

  “All sorts of things can happen for all sorts of reasons,” I explained, placing the clipboard down on the end of the hospital bed. Mia’s feet poked out from beneath the covers, and I saw that she was wearing socks with Pandas on them. “But for the time being, I’m going to need to ask you to please wait in the waiting room while I examine Miss Holloway, if that’s alright.”

  “Are you going to be okay, Mia?” she asked, and Mia replied: “Yeah. It’s fine. Go home and get some sleep, Aimes. You have that big Sociology presentation tomorrow. I’ll call you when I get home.”

  The Friend (who now had a name) gave me the once-over, pausing as if uncertain whether I was a doctor or simply a man dressed the part, then gave Mia a hug and told her that she loved her.

  When she was gone, with the final click of the door, I felt an odd feeling of relief. We were alone.

  I pulled up a chair and sat down next to her bed, loosening the stethoscope from around my neck.

  “I really thought I was dying,” she said quietly. We locked eyes again, and for a second, I coul
d feel my lips part – but I couldn’t say anything. I just clasped her hand – for sake of bedside manner, I swear - and smiled as she added: “Do you think it’s serious?”

  “Your pulse rate was very high,” I admitted. “But your oxygen levels are normal. No history of heart ailments with your family, or with yourself. I’d say no one is dying tonight, but to be safe, I’d like to keep you here overnight and run a few tests.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But what kind of tests?”

  “I’d like to order an expedited chest X-ray, and some blood-work,” I explained. “For now, do you think I could take a listen to your heart, Miss Holloway?”

  “You can call me Mia.”

  “Mia, then. Is that alright?”

  She nodded again, and I adjusted the earpieces snugly, and gently, I said:

  “I need you to draw back the blanket, Mia.”

  Mia let the blanket fall from her shoulders, and I pressed the stethoscope to her chest. As her heartbeat, a loud, quickened thud hit my ears, I could feel my own start to pick up. You’re never taught, in all the years that you spend doing these seemingly tedious practices – listening to heartbeats, pulses, breathing – how intimate they actually are.

  And this time, I felt it. With each beat, the blood sped through my veins like wildfire. I could feel my skin start to heat, with each beat almost forming almost something melodic. A song only I could hear.

  When I drew away, and removed the earpieces, our eyes met again. I hoped she couldn’t see how dilated my pupils must have been – a tell-tale sign of interest. There’s some free advice for you.

  “It’s still a little tacky,” I said, and she laughed at that – tacky. “Are you stressed, honey?”

  Shit. I called her honey. As soon as the word tumbled out, I could have strangled myself with the stethoscope. A Freudian slip.

  But Mia appeared unphased.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “I mean, there’s a lot going on right now. I don’t know if I’d say that I’m stressed, exactly, but I have been trying to work through a few things. I guess it’s been a rough few months.”

  I picked up the clipboard – for the sake of needing to do something with my hands – and jotted that down: stress is a potential factor.

  “And I have to ask,” I said, and for the first-time, I was embarrassed about it. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Is it that easy to tell?”

  “Roughed cheeks,” I murmured. “And,” I cut another glance at the file. “Your initial blood-work shows a slightly elevated alcohol level.”

  “Well, I did go out, but it was just one drink,” she explained. “I needed a mind-eraser. Today kind of sucked, to be honest. But I don’t really want to get into it.”

  “And do you smoke?”

  “Never.”

  “Good,” I told her. “Pulmonary issues are a real drag.”

  She smiled, lovely and sincere.

  “But you think I’m okay?” she asked. “I mean, you don’t think it’s serious?”

  I leaned forward, noting that she still smelled of whatever perfume she’d decided to wear that night; something almost too sweet. But it suited her.

  Extending my palm as an offering, she took the bait herself. Our hands folded together perfectly.

  “I don’t think so,” I assured her. “But I’d like to keep you here for the night to be sure.”

  With a final squeeze of her hand, trying to maneuver the gesture into a handshake that had lingered just slightly too long, I stood.

  “Thank you,” she said, and I said: “You’re very welcome.”

  I had to force myself to walk out.

  At the nurses station, I ordered that the first open room be assigned to Mia.

  “I’d like a Chest X-Ray and lab-work run to test for any blood-borne virus,” I said. “Run a full panel, and expedite them, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Of course, Dr. Greene.”

  I spent the next two hours wandering aimlessly through the halls, without any work to do, but not being able to tear myself away.

  This was a first.

  Eventually, while sitting in the empty cafeteria after closing and nursing a cup of black coffee, one of the nurses – an kindly, late-aged woman who went by Grace, touched my shoulder.

  “Why don’t you go home, Doctor?” she asked. “It’s late, and we’ll see you in the morning.”

  I shrugged.

  “I’m going to wait around for a little longer. There’s a patient I’d like to check in on before I leave.”

  “Oh?” she asked. “Was this the patient from earlier? The doe-eyed girl – she looked kind of startled.”

  “That would be the one.”

  “She was very sweet. I ran her IV. Barely flinched when I had to stick her a few times. What was her name again?”

  This was another first: the first time, for reasoning that I still couldn’t pinpoint, that I felt compelled to lie.

  I thought about Mia, and her flushed cheeks, and the way her eyes cut away from mine.

  “I don’t remember her name,” I answered. “Holloway, I think. Mila might’ve been her name.”

  “Mia! Her name is Mia,” Grace declared, smiling. Of course, I already knew. “Either way, she’s on the fifth floor. Room 506.”

  I smiled tightly.

  “That’s why you’re one of my favorites,” I said. “Have a good night, Grace.”

  She smiled with no hint of question, no scrutiny. Why should she, after all? I was a doctor. The kind of rapport we had with patients were strictly professional.

  “Enjoy the rest of your night, Doctor.”

  “To be sure,” I said, then I watched her walk away and disappear around the corner.

  Crushing the paper cup in my hand, I tossed into the nearest bin, walked to the Elevator, hit Number 5, and waited.

  The ascent upwards seemed to take a slow eternity, and when the doors opened, the halls were eerily empty and bathed in the gentle blue of nightfall. I had always found it amusing how the first floor – as if exemplifying Hell itself – was so chaotic, and yet the higher you climbed, the quieter the halls were.

  And the fifth floor, just below the sixth and final, was nearly silent.

  At Room 506, the door was partly open. I could see the flicker from the television set, and from the small opening I could spy with perfect visibility that Mia was still awake – staring at whatever program she was watching with a drowsy kind of focus. Hooked up to an EKG, the incessant beep was ever-present, and for a moment, I watched the line dance carefully – noting that it appeared, at least in that moment, normal.

  When I stepped inside, giving a small knock against the wall, she looked at me, and the EKG monitor began to dance.

  “It’s you,” she said, sitting up. Reaching over towards the remote, she turned off the TV. “Do you ever go home and sleep?”

  “Sometimes,” I answered. “But I wanted to check in on you. How are you feeling?”

  “Sleepy,” she said. “And my chest still feels a little funny. But maybe it’s just my head at this point.”

  “What were you watching?” I asked, motioning towards the television.

  She shrugged. “Some terrible reality show. It’s all that’s on at this hour.”

  I walked over, seating myself at the edge of the bed. One of her wrists was heavily bandaged, and beneath the layers of opaque tape, an IV needle punctured her skin. Typical fluids for the sake of hydration.

  I took her free hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers, and searched for her pulse.

  Tick, tick, tick. There it was. Steady, but fast.

  “Your pulse is up, but your EKG line seems normal right now,” I glanced at it again, then removed my stethoscope. “Here. I want you to take a deep breath, and hold it.”

  I took a listen, noting the subtle yet sharp breaths. She was nervous, or something else.

  When finished, I hung the stethoscope around my neck and suppressed a sigh.

>   “Are you anxious?” I asked, and she shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “Not anxious. I’m not stressed, either.”

  I wanted to understand her. And despite the subdued signal I was picking up from her body language, or the light in her eyes – a faint glimmer, like flint against stone – she was completely guarded.

  “Then what?” I asked gently.

  “You’re different from other doctors,” she said. “Like, you wear the same clothes. You have a fancy watch. All doctors seem to wear nice watches. But you…” she paused. “You called me honey. Do you call other patients that?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “It was a slip of the tongue. I’m sorry if it upset you.”

  Mia was quiet for a long time before speaking again.

  “It didn’t,” she said softly. “I liked it.”

  I nodded. I didn’t want it to seem stern, but I almost had to be. I couldn’t start threading this needle. I had to break the string while it was tightened, before it knotted itself up into something incapable of untangling.

  “Well,” I said, standing. “You need rest. I’ll come and check on you in the morning.”

  “Okay,” she said, then, as I reached the door. “Can I tell you something?”

  As I stood in the doorway, I could see that she was already half-asleep.

  “Of course,” I told her.

  “You’re a very nice doctor,” she said, then nothing else.

  I waited for a moment longer, but she was gone. It was only the sound the EKG – the soft and subtle beep, beep, beep.

  “You’re a very nice patient,” I told her.

  I knew she couldn’t hear me. But it was better that way.

  That night, in bed and beneath the ceiling fan’s draft, I lay in bed completely strangled in thoughts of two wide-eyes and the incessant drum of a beating heart.

  Or the sound of Mia’s breath, timid and soft.

  The way the EKG line jumped when I walked into the room.

  The feeling of her pulse.

  The warmth of her skin and how fragile the bones of her wrist were – dainty and feminine.

  Fuck.

  I pressed a hand over the fabric of my boxer briefs, covering the aching erection. I tried diligently to calm myself down – closing my eyes, silently reciting the Pledge of Allegiance - and when that failed, I reminded myself that I was a thirty-two-year-old man, and a learned doctor, and not some fourteen-year-old boy-child who crumbled at the thought of a pretty girl.