4. Sophie
CHAPTER 4
SOPHIE
M y first week went by in fits and starts: long stretches just waiting in between calls, then five or six calls jammed back to back. Then we’d cram in some paperwork or a rushed, greasy lunch, and then back to waiting, or a fresh batch of calls. The waiting, I found, was the worst part. Miles didn’t say much, except to pick holes.
“You need to speak up if a patient’s too heavy. I saw you struggling back there, and what if you’d slipped?”
“That’s twice now I’ve seen you snag on the tubing. You need to watch when you switch patients off the house tank, and keep the O2 tubes clear of the gurney.”
“Never make promises — are you nuts? Never tell patients they’re gonna be fine. Stay in the present tense: you’re doing great. That’s all they need to hear, and it’s all you can tell them. You don’t know what’s coming, so no promises. Ever.”
I hadn’t screwed up on anything major, at least not in a way that’d got anyone hurt. But sometimes at night I lay awake and I wondered, was I just scraping by? Messing up more than most? Would Clive call me in with a serious face, and tell me thanks, but I didn’t have what it took? But, no. No. I did . More and more, I could feel it. I’d get in this rhythm sometimes on the job, where it all came together, and I felt cool and sure. I was where I belonged, doing the job I was meant for. And Miles… well, Miles was doing the same. Pulling me up where I needed it. That was all, nothing more.
Still, it bugged me I hadn’t scored one single head pat, one single good job at the end of the day. How long would it take me to earn his trust?
We were coming off a graveyard shift my sixth day on the job, and Miles stood scowling into the back of our rig. Our last call had been messy, a kid who’d chugged bacon grease, and my efforts to comfort him had paid off in puke.
“I’ll clean up,” I said.
Miles shook his head. “No, you go shower. I’ll deal with changeover.”
“But—”
“Just go. You’re covered in barf.”
I wasn’t covered , just spattered across the cuffs of my pants. But I went anyway, and I stood in the shower, and I groaned as the heat drove the chill from my bones. All the sitting had left me with an ache in my back, and the lifting had worn on my shoulders and knees. All I wanted was to go home and crawl into bed, but I had reports to write, and I had to go shopping. And I’d promised Mom I’d meet her for lunch. Would I even have time for a nap before then, or would a splash of cold water be the best I could do?
I fought back resentment — this was my first week. I was settling in, was all. Next week would be better. My body would adjust to my new, crazy hours, and my head would adjust to the Miles of it all. To his moods and his silence and his pick, pick, pick . If I just kept my head down?—
I dropped the shampoo.
It slipped out of my hand and smacked down on my foot, and maybe the sudden pain jarred me to action. Because that’s when it hit me, as it bounced off my toe — I could just talk to Miles. Ask how I was doing. He could vent his frustrations, then I’d ask his advice. Make him see me as the eager student I was. Even the worst grumps loved feeling like experts.
I washed my hair in a hurry and scrubbed myself clean, then dried off and changed into clean, puke-free clothes. Miles hadn’t left — I could hear him with Jones — and I smiled to myself as I tied my hair back. I’d approach him respectfully, hey, Miles, could we talk, and no matter what he said, I wouldn’t quibble. I’d soak up his criticism, then ask his advice, and he’d see I was serious, not messing around.
“She can’t be that bad,” said Jones.
I froze where I stood. She , was that me? And how bad was that bad?
“Believe me, she’s worse.” Miles cursed. “More puke.”
“You can’t blame her for that. Kids suck at barf bags. Either they can’t aim or they’re too scared to try.”
I bit my lip hard. I had got the kid to aim for the bag, but we’d hit a bump right when he blew. I thought I’d done good catching most of the mess, but of course Miles would have other ideas.
“It’s not the puke,” he said. “Or, eugh, not just that. Hell, that bleach spray makes me want to hurl. No, she’s too… ugh. You know what? Forget it.”
Jones cleared his throat. “I have to work with her too. If there’s a problem, I ought to know.”
I heard a thump, then a creak, as Miles sat on the back step. He sighed. “I don’t know. It could just be she’s new. But every call’s taking longer, and she’s… she’s na?ve. We had a callout this morning for an allergic reaction, guy’s girlfriend called in blaming a peanut. And I see the house, and the yard’s full of weeds, and I’m thinking right off?—”
“Potential OD?”
“That, or a meth cook gone horribly wrong. Then we get inside and he’s snoring away, not gasping or whistling like his throat’s closing up. But Miss Sunshine hears that and still goes for her epi, never occurs to her it’s anything else.”
I flushed. I had gone for my epi, sort of. I’d wanted to have it ready to go. I wouldn’t have stuck him without being sure, but maybe?—
“She doesn’t trust what she sees. That’s her whole problem. I’d get if it was just, y’know, tunnel vision. Like, he’s breathing weird and the callout said allergy, so, yeah, okay. Let’s go with that. Everyone falls for that, especially rookies. But with her, it’s more… ugh. She has no confidence. She doesn’t trust what she sees, or her own judgment. She’s like a kid with her hand up to answer a question, waiting for the teacher to tell her she’s right.”
I leaned on the wall, feeling lightheaded. Sick. I’d been so sure, so sure I was hitting my stride.
“Like this slip-and-fall yesterday, she kept repeating the checklist. Going over and over his mental state. The poor guy got sick of it and asked her who’s president, and she just kept on asking?—”
“He was slurring,” I said. I hadn’t meant to say anything, but the words just burst out, and I heard Jones hiss, and Miles muffled a curse. His dark eyes burned as I stepped into view.
“How long were you eavesdropping?”
“I was coming to see if you still needed help.” Anger rose, and I breathed through it, trying to hold back. “Listen, I’m fine with you giving me pointers. I’m fine with you yelling if I screw up. But talking behind my back?—”
“How thin is your skin?”
“—maligning my competence, when I’m not even wrong? I took my time with that slip-and-fall because he was slurring. Because he wouldn’t let us touch him to examine his head. I kept asking questions to help him calm down. And I wanted to hear if that slur was just natural, or if we were dealing with a concussion. You want me to rush, and maybe I’d miss that?”
“You examined him, didn’t you? Checked his vitals? His eyes?”
“Yeah, but his speech?—”
“You wasted ten minutes when we had other calls waiting, and even the guy’s wife said he just cracked his knee.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been angry like this, face hot, blood boiling, pulse loud in my ears. Miles was making this face, like can you believe this, like he’d be laughing if he wasn’t so mad. I balled up my fists, my vision gone red.
“You don’t see people,” I snapped. “Just vitals. Checklists. A little compassion?—”
“Compassion is saving them, not wasting their time. Not messing around when there’s other calls waiting.”
“He was about to let me check his head for bumps. Isn’t it better to be safe than sorry?”
“He was safe. He’s fine. Jones, tell her… Jones?” Miles spun around, but Jones had noped out. My hot flush of anger gave way to embarrassment. All I’d meant to do was present my side. Explain my position in a rational way. Instead, I’d got sucked into a loud, stupid scuffle, yelling at Miles while he scrubbed out the bus.
“He ditched us,” he said, and his ears were red too. He pushed his wavy, dark hair back and turned away.
I swallowed. “I’m sorry. That was, uh…”
“Tempers run high here. It comes with the job.”
I wanted to tell him, it didn’t for me. I wasn’t the yelling type, never had been. But the way he went on got under my skin, that superior look. Those snide little jabs. How he saved up his grievances to blindside me later. What was he, five? Though, I was hardly much better. I’d come out here to talk to him, not get in a fight.
“You should head home,” he said. “I’m almost done here.”
“You sure I can’t help?”
“No, I’ve got this.” He didn’t look up, but he slumped where he sat, hunched over the cot with a bottle of bleach. “You were all right this week. So relax, okay?”
I guessed that was as close to an apology as I was going to get. “Okay,” I said. “See you Monday.”
“He’s a bully,” I said. “A self-righteous dick.”
Mom chuckled. “You said that.”
“Well, it’s still true.” I wiggled my toes in the bubbling footbath. In the chair next to mine, Mom stretched out and sighed.
“Maybe he just needs a nice mani-pedi.”
“Maybe he just needs a kick up his butt.” I blew out through my teeth, but I couldn’t stop fuming. I’d been so excited coming on my first shift, and then Miles had hit like a shot of cold water. If he had a problem, why not say so? Why go and badmouth me to the rest of the squad? Now Jones wouldn’t trust me, and who knew who else? Had he been to Clive, dripping poison there too?
“It’s the weekend,” said Mom. “We should make a new rule, no work talk on weekends.”
I stuck out my tongue. “Friday’s not the weekend.”
“If work’s done, it is.”
I stared at my feet, all red in the footbath, sore from the week I’d had. Red, blistered heels. I didn’t feel done with work, but Mom was right. This wasn’t me, this sour, sullen mood. “He did say I was all right, and I should relax.”
“You should relax. Soak in the bubbles.” Mom checked her chipped nails. “I think I’ll go red this week. Or maybe some nail art.”
I tried to picture Miles’s face if I showed up with nail art, cute little sparkles or rainbow decals. Bright smiley faces in yellow and black. He’d hate that so much. His whole face would twist up.
Mom raised a brow. “What are you smiling at?”
I chuckled. “Nothing.”
“Come on, share the funny.”
“It’s stupid.” I bit my lip, holding back giggles. “I was picturing Miles, if I showed up with nail art. The look on his face, if he saw something cheerful. Like the Grinch seeing Christmas, before his heart grew.”
“You should do it,” said Mom.
“I can’t. Health and safety.”
“What, no nail polish?”
I smiled as the bubbles tickled my feet. “It could flake off and contaminate wound sites, or chip, and then dirt can get in the cracks.”
Mom frowned for a moment, then her smile came back, impish. “How about your toes? You can still do those, right? I mean, you’re in boots when you’re out on a call.”
I laughed. “Well, I guess I could. But Miles wouldn’t know.”
“But you would. You’d know you had cute, sparkly toes, and no mean old grump could dull down your shine. Whenever he snipes at you, you can wiggle your toes, and let his bad mood slide right off your back.”
I pictured myself doing that and couldn’t help laughing. “All right, I’ll do it. Bright yellow smiles on all ten of my toes.”
Mom made a humming sound, and her smile softened. “You know what this reminds me of? Me and your dad.”
I’d chosen that moment to sip my cucumber water, and now I spluttered and nearly choked. “I’m sorry. What? ”
“The way you two bicker. It’s like me and Dad.”
I set down my water. “Okay, no, it’s not. Dad was a good guy, and Miles is a jerk. Dad was funny and silly and he made me laugh. He took me go-karting. He made us French toast. Miles is the anti-Dad. He’s mean. He’s an ass. And we don’t bicker . He monologues at me, and once in a while, I stand up for myself.”
Mom held up her hands, a gesture of peace. “All right. I don’t know him. You could well be right.”
“But?”
She smiled a bit sadly. “ But you’re making me laugh. You remind me of me when I first met your father, and he drove me crazy. He was so… smug. We were like cats and dogs, tearing strips off each other, but then, this one night, all that tension boiled over. He looked in my eyes and I looked in his, and next thing I knew?—”
“Oh, God, Mom! ” I covered my ears.
“Fine, fine, I’ll stop. I’m just saying, those were good times. Good kisses too, all that passion built up.”
I let out a yell, not wanting to hear it. Not wanting to picture Mom and Dad getting busy. Or me, for that matter, lip-locked with Miles, in the back of the ambulance. Pushed up on the wall. His hands in my hair, pulling it out of its bun, his five-o’clock stubble rough on my cheek. He’d kiss like he talked, rough. To the point. Push me around a bit, but in a hot way. And I’d push back, shove him down on the cot?—
“There’s no passion in Miles,” I said. “Just a stick up his ass.”
Mom didn’t say anything, just leaned back in her chair. I stretched out too as our nail techs came over. This was my Miles-free time, and I was going to enjoy it. And get some smiley decals on my toes.