Chapter 2 - Bianca
Fingers trembling with the remnants of adrenaline, I slowly push the needle through the thickness of the skin, wincing internally when I feel the resistance and hear the almost inaudible pop each time I pierce through the layers . It’s not real , I remind myself, probably a remnant of the days when I got sick at the sound back when I was beginning my residency. It isn’t just me—when I previously assisted during surgeries, the last few steps are usually the most nerve-wracking ones. They are so final . And now I’m the one calling the shots. But it’s still not over , I remind myself. Not until the patient has woken up from the anesthesia. Not until they have fully recovered. Until then, I’ve done nothing at all.
There’s something exhilarating but innately terrifying about having someone’s life literally at your fingertips. It’s always the same—the process feels like second nature now. Whenever I enter the operating room, I immerse myself in the zone, a place where everything in my life fades into the background and nothing but my hands and the patient exists. It’s tiring, but it brings the freedom of having a blank mind—not having to run circles in my mind about my family, myself, and the loneliness. No one ever prepares you for the loneliness that creeps up on you in your late twenties, so the peace the operating room brings me is something I wouldn’t give up for the world.
Oftentimes the mental space I find myself in means that I am only able to wake up back into my own world once I’m sliding off the blue nitrile gloves and washing my hands. It’s usually the cold liquid that shocks me back into the present, but today is special. As the cool water hits my skin, I can’t help but smile to myself. Today I’ll allow myself some praise. I finally did it. My first operation as an operating department practitioner.
Maybe I’ll crack open a wine bottle once I get home and revel in my little victory, or even allow myself to watch a movie and relax—a practice I haven’t allowed myself to indulge in since work became more demanding. More than a decade of med school for today deserves a little celebration.
I find myself yanked out of my inner monologue by Luke, one of my long-time friends here and, coincidentally, the scrub nurse on duty with me today. I glance up at his lopsided grin and sparkling blue eyes, responding with a smile of my own.
“Great work out there today,” he remarked. “But also, most importantly, happy birthday to my favorite colleague here.” He winks teasingly, but I find myself scrambling to look at the calendar. Oh my God. Was the past week of continuous shifts finally frying my brain? I could feel the tips of my ears grow hot. How embarrassing, forgetting my own damn birthday.
“Don’t tell me you forgot,” Kyle starts, mouth open wide with an almost offended expression on his face. “Get those damn scrubs off and go celebrate, girl!”
I roll my eyes at him playfully, feeling my smile grow even wider. “As if,” I mutter. “The only thing I really crave right now is my bed. Maybe a glass of wine and a movie. I’ll fall asleep standing if I stay here any longer.”
He leans on the sink, shaking his head from side to side, and feigns a disappointed expression, but I know he understands. He was there in the theater with me for the past six hours, so he knows the fatigue that the adrenaline crash post-op brings. His fatigued brown eyes probably reflect the state of my own gray ones. I must look like a tired mess.
I tap the metal of the sink with my nails, somehow hoping it’ll reignite my waning energy levels and propel me out of her faster. I remove all my scrubs with practiced precision and head to the rest of the operating staff to congratulate them before leaving for the night.
The parking lot is empty now, only my modest Fiat and Kyle’s own Toyota parked at the far edge. Glancing around, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and feel the customary surge of elation before deflating again. I may have grown plenty in my twenty-nine years of life, but I still feel a disappointed glumness settle over me whenever I catch myself perking up each time I receive a text and hoping it’s from my father. Each time, I shuffle my phone out, giddy like a little girl, almost begging for his acknowledgment.
It’s pathetic and I hate it, but I guess that’s what having only one parent does to you. One parent and that horrible, mean witch . Calling her that is another bad habit I picked up in childhood when I was first introduced to her—my father’s wife. Stepmother. Though calling her a word containing the word mother feels much too generous a title to grant her, and her name— Sasha— feels much too pretty for someone as venomous as her. With a preparatory breath, I open the text.
Father: Happy birthday, bella. I’ll be coming back later this week. See you then.
So that’s it then , I think to myself. Well, at least he remembered my birthday . It’s okay that he forgot that it was the first surgery I did as the head surgeon. After years of studying and half a decade of residency. It could be worse. But once again, the searing weight lodges itself deep into my chest. Though, to be honest, it feels more like good old fashion numbness nowadays. When I was younger and even more desperate for his approval, it felt more like thick red-hot lava eating me from the inside out, reminding me that whatever I did, I wouldn’t be good enough.
The drive back to my apartment is quick enough, the streets of Queens being much more drivable this late into the night. A few spots still teem with life despite it being a Tuesday night and the neon lights that light almost every inch of the town glint in an almost ethereal way. The rain drizzling down onto the road reflects the colors everywhere, making everything seem even more alive than it was during the day. I feel myself smile, reminiscing about my own Monday and Tuesday escapades back when I was an undergraduate. Back then, nights offered solace from the stress and constant pressure of day-to-day responsibilities.
Just as I’m about to park I feel my phone buzz again, confused at the recurring messages. I must be getting too popular for my own good. Finding it’s from Giorgia, I feel my heart fill with genuine joy. Though when I read through the content of the message, I groan audibly.
Gee: Happy b-day, sis and congrats on your first surgery, miss surgeon.
She’s one of the few people I feel comfortable letting know whenever I’m too tired or sad, the former being the one I most definitely am now. And she most definitely wants to celebrate. The moment I send a message detailing just how drained I feel, the screen of my phone vibrates with a call from her. I text her, quickly letting her know I’m about to drive—I know the white lie will only buy me so much time.
By the time I open the door to my apartment I’m so tired I forget I promised to call her back. Though, just like clockwork, Giorgia’s smiling face pops up on my screen. I pick up, even less enthusiastic than before, to answer. I grimace as her shouting happy birthday assaults my eardrums, setting her on loudspeaker just in case. I’m already in the kitchen and about to pop open a bottle of wine when I start registering what she’s saying.
“ So , now that my older sister is officially a surgeon and just had her twenty-ninth birthday, we need to go celebrate! I was thinking this club downtow—“ I find myself cutting her off.
“You know I’d love to, Gia, but I really can’t.” I drawl the last word like a baby, hoping she’ll feel the fatigue through my words. That, however, is futile, seeing as she’s always a ball of energy to my sluggish, constantly sleep-deprived self.
“Oh, come on , sis. There’s no way in hell I’ll let you sleep through your birthday and not celebrate you being a full-fledged surgeon! What the hell! My older sister is so cool!” She shouts the last few sentences into the mic, and I begrudgingly start to crack, giggling at her mischievous antics.
“Okay, just for a little bit— maybe. If we stay too long, I will fall asleep on you like the embarrassing older sister I am.” I laugh and hear her squeak in joy.
“Okay, so, don’t get freaked out, but I’m actually already waiting for you,” she starts, “and I kind of ran away from my bodyguards?”
“Hold on— you what ?” I half-shout into the phone. “You know how dangerous that is! Giorgia!”
“Yeah, yeah. No need to give me a lecture. I know I’ll get one from mom in the morning anyway. But if you really want to keep me safe, then you need to get dressed nicely and hurry to come get me.” I can hear the smirk in her voice and can’t help but roll my eyes in amusement.
“Drop your location, I’ll be there,” I reply, and with that, she ends the call.
It takes me no more than ten minutes to line my eyes with some brown eyeliner and quickly slip into a violet corset top, accentuating my more than ample cleavage. I decide on some basic flared trousers to pair with it, not too extravagant but still nice.
I decide on a cab when I check out the location on maps, which is luckily only ten minutes by car. The streets are already dimly lit, and luckily, the pleasant looking driver was feeling about as talkative as I was too, so I could observe the flowing cityscape in peace.
Once we round the final corner, I spot Giorgia leaning against the dark brick wall of a closed restaurant. It’s situated right next to a loud, overly bright neon-lit club with a tacky sign that perfectly encapsulates the whole place — Inferno . We pass her and I’m dropped off a bit further, but I run towards her as soon as my heels touch down on the concrete. Even under the chaotic lighting I can’t help but notice how pretty Gia looks—standing out even amongst the mass of people behind her as she focuses on something on her phone.
Gia was always beautiful. Though now, being in her early twenties brings out her model-esque looks so much more. She is a vision to behold—all dolled up in a black minidress and knee-high platform shoes. Her dress clings to her slender frame, and I notice a sly smile stretching across her face when she looks up and notices me in the now crowdy street, her eyes sparkling with excitement. The contrast between Giorgia's bubbly, easygoing demeanor and my own introverted self is something I love about us—we completed each other so well, even back when we were kids.
“B, there you are!” Gia shrieks, her boisterous giggle permeating the thudding of the bass coming from the club. She lights up a cigarette, dragging out the smoke slowly.
“Gia, you almost gave me a heart attack.” I scold her with affection, knowing she won’t take it to heart and that I don’t expect her to truly change her ways. She’s too much of a wild child for that. “So glad you’re safe.”
She twirls a strand of her glossy auburn hair between her fingers before going in for another drag. “Well, tonight is a special night. I thought we could celebrate, just the two of us. And, you know, have a little freedom without those two meatheads tailing us the entire night.”
“Don’t you usually have three?” I quip my brow, wondering if the third quit. Giorgia loved messing with her bodyguards, so it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for new faces to come and go frequently.
“No, my current boytoy is inside. Insisted he’d be invaluable to us, but I think it’s a good opportunity to mess with him some more.” She smirks, waiting to gauge my reaction, and laughs when she notices the shock on my face that quickly turns into a salacious smile.
“Giorgia?!” I half-shout and swat at her playfully but raise an eyebrow at Giorgia's daring ensemble to tease. "So the getup is just so that you could make this random guy’s life hell?” She laughs in response.
"Do you know how fun it is to tease that man? I warned him to not interact with us today though, or I’d have his head."
“You’re crazy,” I smile at her, but then it dawns on me just how much trouble she is getting herself in. “Just checking though, you’ll be alright if Sasha and Dad find out?”
Giorgia shrugs in dismissal. “Hell yeah, I’m crazy fun! And come on, B! Live a little. It’s been aaaages since we had a little sisterly night out. Besides, it’s not like we’re getting involved in our family business .” She wiggles her brows overenthusiastically, drawing a chuckle out of me. “I just want us to have some fun together.”
Resigned but feeling more assured now, I concede, "Okay, but if this ends up on the family drama radar, I'm blaming you."