Chapter 8 Emma
Mrs. Ellis was crashing.
I'd seen the signs five minutes before the monitors started screaming: oxygen saturation dropping, respiratory rate climbing, that particular kind of restlessness that meant someone's body was shutting down.
By the time the alarms went off, I already had the crash cart positioned and was calling for the attending.
"V-fib," I announced, watching the monitor. "Starting compressions."
The next ten minutes were controlled chaos. Compressions, intubation, meds pushed, everyone moving in the choreographed dance we'd practiced a thousand times. The attending called it, adjustments were made, we shocked her twice, and then—
"We've got sinus rhythm," the attending said.
I stepped back, breathing hard, my hands aching from compressions. Mrs. Ellis’ monitor showed a steady heartbeat. Still critical, still touch-and-go, but alive.
"Good catch, Emma," the attending said, making notes on her chart. "You got ahead of it."
I nodded, too wired to speak. This was what I was good at. This was what I'd trained for. Reading the signs, acting fast, keeping people alive.
This was mine. No one could take this from me.
"Take your break," the attending added. "You've been on for six hours straight."
I stripped off my gloves, washed my hands, and headed for the break room. My legs felt shaky, but that was normal: adrenaline crash, always happened after a code. I needed to sit down. Drink some water. Breathe.
The break room was empty. I sank into one of the plastic chairs and pulled out my phone.
Seventeen blocked messages.
All from David.
I'd blocked his number the day after I kicked him out, but the messages still showed up in a separate folder. Filtered and quarantined, like spam. I didn't have to read them if I didn't want to.
But sometimes, when I was tired or the shift had been particularly brutal, I looked.
Not because I missed him. Not because I was considering responding. But because there was something satisfying about watching his desperation play out in real time, knowing I didn't have to do anything about it.
The first week had been predictable.
Emma, please. Can we talk? I love you. I'm so sorry.
Standard cheater apology template. Nothing original. Nothing that suggested he actually understood what he'd done.
Week two got more specific. Long paragraphs about how he'd made a terrible mistake, how Sarah meant nothing, how he'd end it (like it wasn't already over), how he'd do anything to fix this. Promises. So many promises.
Week three, after I'd filed for divorce, the tone shifted. Anger crept in.
You're really going to throw away eight years over this? You're not even willing to TALK to me?
Like I owed him a conversation. Like I was being unreasonable.
Week four, back to desperation.
I signed the papers. I did everything you asked. Can we please just meet? Just once?
Week five:
I lost my partnership. They demoted me. I know you probably don't care, but I thought you should know.
He was right. I didn't care.
Week six:
Sarah won't talk to me either. I lost everything, Emma. You, her, my career. Was that what you wanted?
Like I'd orchestrated his downfall. Like his choices hadn't led here all on their own.
This week—week seven, eight? I'd lost count, really, but the messages had gotten shorter. Sadder.
I miss you.
I'm sorry.
Please.
I scrolled through them without opening any. The most recent was from this morning. Just three words.
I love you.
I deleted it. Deleted all of them. It felt good. Final.
My phone buzzed. A text from Jess.
How's your shift? Staying hydrated? Eating actual food?
I smiled despite myself and texted back:
Just coded a patient. She's stable. I'm good.
That's my girl. Dinner tonight?
Can't. Night shift tomorrow, need to sleep. Rain check?
You got it. Love you.
Love you too.
I put my phone away and stood up. My break was almost over. Mrs. Ellis would need monitoring, and there were three other patients on my roster who needed meds and assessments.
I was halfway to the door when my phone buzzed again.
I almost didn't check it. Probably just Jess sending a meme or something.
But I looked anyway.
Unknown number. A text.
Emma, it's David. I know you blocked me. I'm using a different phone. Please don't block this one too. I just need five minutes. That's all I'm asking. Please.
I stared at the screen.
Five minutes. Like that would fix anything. Like there was anything he could say that would change what he'd done.
I blocked the number and went back to work.
Eleven hours into my shift, I was standing at the nurses' station updating patient charts when I heard the commotion.
Raised voices from the elevator bay. Someone saying "Sir, you need to check in at the front desk." Another voice—male, insistent—saying something I couldn't quite make out.
I looked up.
David was walking toward the ICU.
My stomach dropped.
He looked terrible. Unshaven, hair uncombed, wearing jeans and a wrinkled button-down like he'd thrown on the first things he'd found. Dark circles under his eyes. He'd lost weight.
He saw me and his face… God, the relief on his face, like he'd been searching for me and finally, finally found what he'd been looking for.
"Emma." He kept walking toward me even as a security guard hurried after him. "Emma, please, I just need to talk to you—"
"Sir." The security guard caught up, putting a hand on David's arm. "You can't be back here. This is a restricted area."
"I'm her husband," David said, not taking his eyes off me. "Emma, please—"
"Ma'am." The security guard looked at me. Young guy, maybe mid-twenties, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation. "Do you know this man?"
Every nurse at the station had stopped what they were doing. Watching. Waiting.
I looked at David. At the desperation in his eyes. At the way he was standing there like he had any right to be in my space, in my workplace, demanding my time and attention after everything he'd done.
"Not anymore," I said.
David's face crumbled. "Emma—"
"Escort him out." I turned back to my computer, my hands surprisingly steady as I clicked through screens I wasn't actually seeing. "And if he comes back, call the police."
"Emma, please, just five minutes—"
"Sir, you need to leave now." The security guard's voice was firmer now, his hand tightening on David's arm. "Let's go."
"Emma!" David's voice was getting louder, more desperate. Other nurses were standing now, a few of them moving toward us. "I know I fucked up, I know, but we were together for eight years… that… that has to mean something—"
"It did," I said, not looking at him. "It doesn't anymore."
"Ma'am, should I call for backup?" The security guard was steering David back toward the elevators now, but David was resisting, trying to turn back to me.
"That won't be necessary." My charge nurse—Karen, a woman in her fifties who'd been an ICU nurse longer than I'd been alive—appeared at my elbow. "But I want him logged and flagged in the system. He's not to be allowed back in this unit. Or the building, if we can manage it."
"Yes, ma'am." The security guard nodded and finally managed to get David moving toward the elevator.
David called back one more time, his voice breaking. "I love you!"
I didn't respond. Didn't turn around. Just kept staring at the computer screen until I heard the elevator doors close.
Then my hands started shaking.
"You okay?" Karen was still standing next to me, her expression concerned but not pitying. She'd been through enough divorces herself to know better than to offer platitudes.
I took a breath. Let it out. Waited for my hands to steady.
"Yeah," I said. And meant it. "I'm good."
"That took guts," she said quietly. "A lot of people would have at least heard him out."
I finally looked up from the computer screen. Met her eyes. "He had eight years to talk to me. He spent five months of them lying."
Karen nodded slowly. "Fair enough." She squeezed my shoulder. "You've got two hours left on your shift. Think you can make it, or do you need to take the rest of the day?"
"I'll make it." I pulled up Mrs. Ellis’ chart. Her vitals were stable. Everything was under control. "I've got work to do."
Karen studied me for a moment, then smiled. "Yeah. You do."
She walked away, and I went back to my charts. Around me, the other nurses gradually returned to their own work, the drama already fading into just another Tuesday in the ICU.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably David, from another new number, probably some desperate follow-up to whatever scene he'd just made.
I didn't check it.
I had patients to take care of. People who actually needed me. People whose lives depended on me staying focused, staying sharp, staying present.
David could wait.
Actually, David could fuck right off.
I had work to do.