Christmas at Watson Memorial (Watson Memorial Hospital #7)

Chapter 1

Alexia

In less than an hour, I'll crack open an eight-year-old boy's chest and stop his heart. The thought sends a familiar chill down my spine — different from the December frost biting at my cheeks as I hurry through the New York streets toward the hospital.

Glass doors whoosh as I stride through the rotating entrance, my mind already fixed on Kai Chen's face. His shy smile during pre-op haunts me, along with his parents' trembling hands as they signed consent forms without reading a word. I inhale deeply, mentally walking through each surgical step while my fingers find my lucky pen — another irrational habit that's stubbornly survived years of scientific training.

“Morning, Dr. Winters,” one of the surgical nurses calls out as I enter the OR.

I manage a curt nod. Small talk is just noise right now, as annoying as the Christmas carol Dr. Rodriguez hums when I'm about to make my first incision.

“Can you shut up? They pay you to keep patients sedated and monitor vitals, not butcher holiday tunes,” I snap.

Miguel clasps his hands in mock prayer. Outside this room, he might be the closest thing I have to a friend, but he knows I need silence to work. I'll never understand how other surgeons operate to music, especially Dr. Arya Kumari with her blasting heavy metal.

The steady beep of monitors centers me as we crack through the sternum, exposing the heart for better access. My hands steady, my breath even.

“Mom's making her famous tamales for Christmas Eve,” Miguel whispers to one of the nurses.

“Just shut up! Suction here,” I command.

Someone sighs. I can picture the eye-rolls, the shrugs, maybe even the younger surgeons mocking me behind their masks. Wouldn't be the first time.

“Vitals?” I ask, eyes locked on my suture.

“All stable. BP 110/70, heart rate 75. Oxygen sat 98%.”

“Need more gauze, Dr. Winters?”

“Yes, two more. We'll irrigate the area,” I respond mechanically.

When I tie off the final suture, my satisfaction remains clinical and distant. Another successful surgery. Another life saved. It's what I went to med school for. It's my job. Unlike Dr. Kumari, I don't feel compelled to drag my team out for celebratory beers.

***

Four-thirty PM, and these hospital corridors feel like a gauntlet. I'm trying to reach Holly Thomson in 305, but in this damn place, you can't walk ten feet without someone ambushing you with pointless questions.

“Alexia, can I put you down for the Christmas dinner this year?” Dr. Jackie Stone practically jogs behind me, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

“No.”

“Everyone's coming! We're raising money for the sick children's presents and-”

“I said no,” I cut her off, my voice sharper than intended, but this woman never takes a hint.

I reach room 305 before Stone can utter another word. Holly sits cross-legged on her bed, her blonde hair a wild mess, her skin a shade paler than yesterday, spinning tales about Christmas elves to her mother.

“Dr. Winters!” Her endless smile lights up the room, showing off her fresh gap where a tooth fell out yesterday.

“How are you feeling today, Holly?”

“Have you seen the Christmas elves at Watson Memorial? Dr. Arya Kumari says they show up on Christmas Eve with presents for all the sick kids.”

“Dr. Kumari says a lot of things,” I mutter while checking her vitals.

“She says they've got so much magic they help doctors heal kids on Christmas.”

“Take a deep breath and stop talking,” I press my stethoscope to her chest.

Her heartbeats grow fainter, the murmur more pronounced. She's fading, though she doesn't know it.

“When I'm better, Selene's gonna let me fly her helicopter over Manhattan. I'll be a helicopter pilot like her and-”

“What did I say about not talking?”

The subsequent echocardiogram confirms my fears. Her heart's failing faster than anticipated. Our transplant window shrinks by the hour.

“Mrs. Thomson, could I speak with you outside?” I gesture toward the door while Holly makes helicopter sounds, flying her toy through the air.

Vivian Thomson recognizes that tone — the one all parents of sick children learn to dread. Fear clouds her eyes as she waits for words she knows won't bring comfort.

I sigh, double-checking numbers I wish weren't true.

“Her BNP levels have doubled since last week,” I lower my voice. “It's a hormone the heart releases under excessive strain, suggesting rapid deterioration. The left ventricular dysfunction has worsened, too.”

“That's bad, isn't it?” Her voice trembles.

“I'm updating her transplant status to priority. She needs a new heart within days. Otherwise…”

I pause, watching pain contort her features. She bites her index finger, tears streaming down her face. Through the door, Holly continues playing with her plastic helicopter.

“But… it's Christmas. She's so excited about the holidays-”

“Her illness doesn't care if it's Christmas or summer, Mrs. Thomson. We'll find that heart, don't worry,” I squeeze her arm awkwardly, attempting comfort.

Back in my office, I update Holly's transplant status. She requires absolute priority, or she won't see New Year's. A child's laughter echoes down the hall — that helicopter pilot telling more impossible stories.

I shake my head, close my eyes. For a moment, another little girl appears. Different bed, different hospital. Different time. Laura's laughter rang out until the very end too.

Passing the nurses' station, hushed whispers trail me like shadows.

“Who's stuck with the Ice Queen for Christmas and New Year's Eve shifts this year?” the head nurse asks.

“She's taking both again?”

“Like every year. No surprise there. Not like she has a life,” a third nurse adds.

They either think I can't hear them or don't care if I do.

In my office, Holly's priority status confirmed on screen, I sink into my leather chair.

My eyes drift to the sole photograph on my meticulously organized desk.

Two eleven-year-old girls smile through time. Flour dusts their faces as they point to freshly baked cookies. Christmas lights twinkle in the background. My fingers trace the glass, brush Laura's curls, wild around her face, covering her left eye. We knew true happiness that day. The last Christmas I spent at her house before everything changed forever.

The photo's turning yellow after twenty-four years, but the memory stays crisp.

That night, curled up in Laura's bed, we whispered our future dreams in the dark.

“We'll be doctors together. The best doctors,” Laura declared, moonlight glinting off her braces. “We'll cure every disease and throw huge Christmas parties.”

Three months later, her health problems started. Six months passed before her first hospital admission. The following December twenty-third, I held my best friend's hand while she tried to smile, and I promised to become the kind of doctor who could save her.

She died two days later.

Maybe I did become that doctor. One who might have saved her with today's medical advances.

As for Christmas parties... I never found the strength to fulfill that promise.