Chapter 7 Mia #2
My throat constricts as I flip to the next page, and there he is in his garage, teaching me how engines work.
His hands are grease-stained, his expression serious as he explains the intricate dance of pistons and valves.
It was his way of teaching me medicine before I knew that's what I wanted—showing me how to diagnose a problem by listening, by paying attention to the subtle signs others might miss.
"See how it sounds different when the timing's off?" he'd ask, revving the engine. "Medicine's the same way. The body tells you what's wrong if you know how to listen."
The memory collides with today's loss—Marcus Ellis gasping for breath as his systems failed one by one. I'd listened, just like Dad taught me. I'd heard the wrong notes in the symphony of Marcus's body, but I still couldn't save him. Just like I couldn't save Dad.
I turn another page to find Dad in his hospital bed, thinner but smiling, tubes snaking from his arms as I sit beside him studying for boards.
The timeline of his illness unfolds across the next few photos—his hair thinning from treatments, his face growing gaunt, but his eyes always bright when looking at me.
The ice cream sits forgotten on the coffee table, melting into a puddle of chocolate and vanilla as I trace Dad's features in each photo.
"He was like you," I tell the image of my father. "We missed something with Marcus, just like they missed something with you."
The words catch in my throat as tears begin to spill down my cheeks. I'm not even sure when they started, just that suddenly my vision is blurred and hot tracks mark my face.
"I should have pushed harder for you," I whisper, the familiar guilt rising like a tide.
"Should have demanded more tests, second opinions, something.
And now I'm doing the same thing with patients.
Questioning everything, breaking protocols, pissing off Sebastian because I can't just follow the rules when someone's life is at stake. "
Sebastian's face flashes in my mind—the unexpected gentleness in his eyes as he sat across from me in that closet, the way his thumb felt against my cheek. For a moment, the tears slow as confusion replaces grief.
"What was that about, Dad?" I ask the photo, as if my father's frozen smile might offer some insight.
"He hates me one minute, then shares his deepest professional regret the next?
Makes me feel like an incompetent child, then.
.." I trail off, unwilling to even voice the thought that he might have been about to kiss me.
The last photo in the album is Dad and me at my medical school graduation. It was a good day—one of his last good days before the rapid decline. His arm is around my waist, and we're both beaming at the camera, neither of us knowing we had less than a year left together.
"I'm trying, Dad," I whisper, running my finger along the edge of the photo. "I'm trying to be the doctor you believed I could be. To see the whole patient, not just the symptoms. To fight for answers when everyone else gives up."
The tears come harder now, no longer just about Marcus or Dad but about everything—the pressure of the fellowship, Sebastian's hot-and-cold behavior, the exhaustion of always feeling like I have to prove myself.
I curl into the corner of the couch and let myself cry, really cry, for the first time since Dad's funeral.
Great, heaving sobs that leave me gasping, that release all the pent-up emotion I've been carrying for too long.
I don't know how long I sit there, crying into the worn cushions of my couch. Long enough that when I finally stop, my eyes feel swollen and raw, my throat scratchy from the effort. The ice cream on the table has melted completely, a sad puddle of what was once comfort food.
Standing, I wipe my face with the back of my hand. The grief isn't gone—it never really leaves—but it's quieter now, settled back into that familiar hollow space beneath my ribs where I've learned to carry it.
The forgotten ice cream goes down the drain, the spoon into the sink. I gather my strength with each small, ordinary action. By the time I head toward the bathroom, I feel emptied out but somehow lighter, like I've released some poison that's been circulating in my system all day.
What I need now is hot water, as much as my ancient water heater can provide. I need to wash away this day, this grief, this confusion about Sebastian Walker and what almost happened in that supply closet.
I need to remember who I am and why I'm here. Dad's voice echoes in my mind as I reach for the shower knob. That's what Phillips do. We get back up and try again.
The shower feels like salvation, hot water pounding against my skin with enough pressure to wash away at least some of the day's weight. I turn my face directly into the spray, letting it flatten my curls against my scalp, run in rivulets down my neck and back.
I stay under the spray until the water starts to cool, my skin pink and tingling. By the time I step out, wrapping a towel around me, the bathroom mirror is completely fogged, hiding my reflection. Probably for the best—I don't need to see the evidence of my earlier breakdown in my swollen eyes.
The routine of post-shower moisturizing and hair detangling brings its own comfort, the familiar movements requiring just enough attention to keep my mind from wandering back to dangerous territory.
I run a wide-toothed comb through my wet curls, wincing at the tangles.
The frizzy mess is beyond saving tonight, so I twist it into a loose knot on top of my head and secure it with a clip.
In my bedroom, I bypass the dresser drawer with my actual pajamas in favor of what I really sleep in—a pair of soft cotton shorts and my faded Johns Hopkins t-shirt.
The shirt's seen better days, the once-vibrant blue now a muted shade that speaks to years of washing, the neckline stretched and fraying slightly at the hem.
But it's the most comfortable thing I own.
The bed calls to me with its siren song of clean sheets and weighted blanket.
I pull back the covers, every muscle in my body aching for horizontal relief after the day's emotional and physical marathon. My phone shows it’s not even ten yet, pathetically early for a woman my age to be going to bed, but I couldn't care less.
Let the other twentysomethings have their late nights and recovery powers.
Tonight, I'm embracing my inner octogenarian.
I've just turned off the bedside lamp when I hear it.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound freezes me mid-crawl into bed. I hold perfectly still, wondering if I imagined it, if the exhaustion has finally pushed me into auditory hallucinations.
Then it comes again, more insistent this time.
Knock, knock, knock.
"What the hell?" I mutter, reluctantly sliding back out of bed. It's probably Mrs. Gonzalez from down the hall, wanting to know if I've seen her cat again. Or maybe the building manager.
I shuffle toward the door, flicking on the lamp in the living room as I pass. I'm halfway there when the third set of knocks comes, louder and more urgent.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"I'm coming," I call, a flicker of irritation breaking through my exhaustion. "Hold your horses."
I reach the door and rise on tiptoes to peer through the peephole, a habit my dad drilled into me from the moment I got my first apartment. "Never open the door without checking first, Mimi. Not even if they say they're the police."
The fish-eye view of my hallway comes into focus, and my heart slams against my ribs with enough force that I actually gasp.
Because Sebastian Walker stands on the other side of my door.