Jocelyn
Emotions aren’t things you should crush or try to change. They’re communications from deep within. Listen to them.
—My Therapist
OB call is the worst.
I’m already annoyed because my sister left today and I have no idea when I’ll see her again, and now I’m stuck at the hospital
until this woman delivers. She’s been eight centimeters for ten hours, and she’s adamantly refusing a Cesarean—despite that
it was recommended four hours ago—and Pitocin—the only medication that could help her deliver vaginally.
It will give you adequate contractions.
It will progress your labor faster.
It will get a living, breathing baby in your arms.
But no. She’s stuck on this idea that Pitocin is straight up devilry created by hospitals to disempower women or some shit. Somewhere, someone convinced her that natural is the only real way to have a baby, and women who do it differently are a weaker subset of the species. Her birth plan doesn’t
allow for any medications or pain relief, and it ends with an all capitals command:
DO NOT EVEN MENTION A C-SECTION TO ME. I WILL REFUSE.
The nurses say she fired her OB when he proposed it earlier. Now the hospitalist is caring for her.
Or attempting to, at least.
We should have a bucket of fortune cookies at the entrance to L&D, and all the fortunes say the same thing: You don’t get
points for doing it the hardest way imaginable.
If this woman broke her leg and her femur was sticking out of her body, would she want to heal naturally? If she contracted
a flesh-eating bacteria and her skin melted off her body, would she decide to deal with that naturally?
It’s natural to die. Does she realize that?
All of that only means one thing. At some point, her baby is going to crash and this will become an emergency, so I’m spending
the night at the hospital tonight, and I want to stab knives into the walls. At least the cafeteria is open. I can drown my
irritation in French fries and Tropical Vibe Celsius.
I’m halfway there, taking the shortcut through the busy emergency department, when a desperate voice shouts for help from
one of the trauma rooms. An entire battalion of nurses and doctors darts inside, and I peek through the glass at a bloody
mess of a man lying on the table. The monitors above him show his vital signs just fell to the floor.
A woman stands beside him, holding his limp hand while screaming for answers—“What happened? Why isn’t he breathing?”
Someone gently shoves her to the side to make room, and the professionals take control—doing chest compressions, shouting
for meds. They run the code with cold perfection, because they’ve done it many, many times before this. Because this is the
emergency department, and sometimes people don’t make it out of here alive.
But I’m not watching the code. I’ve seen people die. I’ve performed those compressions myself. No, instead, my entire focus
is zeroed in on the woman. Her tears. Her disbelieving cries of “He was fine!” I’m watching her hope dwindle with each minute that passes, as the odds of this man surviving grow dimmer. I’m beholding
the exact moment she realizes she’s lost something precious tonight. I’m witnessing her soul be shorn in half.
This is the picture of heartbreak.
And I can’t watch anymore.
No longer hungry, I head blindly back upstairs. My skin tingles as memories rush beneath the surface despite my attempts to
push them away.
Icy skin.
A fall beneath a roiling flood.
Laughter I’ll never hear again.
A panicky gush of cold rises up, and I’m tempted to retreat to the hill in my mind, where I’m always safe and alone. Better
to be alone than hurt. Why have I been forgetting this lately?
Proceeding gracefully—i.e. stomping—toward my call room, I smile at the night nurses before throwing myself onto the rickety,
uncomfortable bed. At least these call room TVs have HGTV. I can continue my nighttime research on the mystery of how an elementary
school teacher and a professional organizer can afford a 1.3-million-dollar home.
Lights off, I curl up under the thin blankets that keep my feet too warm and the rest of me too cold, and resign myself to misery. But as soon as I’m idle, my mind dredges up the memories of that photoshoot, just like it’s done during every second of downtime since it happened.
Goddamn traitor, my mind is.
I knew that photoshoot was a bad idea. Before, how it feels to be held by Asher was a mystery to me. A faraway imagining. Now my
stupid fantasies are on overdrive, flaunting the exact degree of warmth in his hands, the thin band of green that disappears
when his eyes dilate, the absolute safety of his arms around me.
False safety, I have to remind myself, remembering the heartbreak I just witnessed downstairs.
This is Asher’s fault for opening up to me. Deep down inside, I am female, and he plucked right at those very feminine instincts, the ones that urge me to nurture. I want to nurture the shit
out of that man. And I sort of want to fuck him, too.
But I also want to toss him out of my safe space. He doesn’t belong behind my walls. With him there, that mystery pain has
taken up permanent residence in my chest, tugging, tugging, tugging. All the staring into his eyes and suffering the wonder
of his skin against mine makes the pain worse.
I think Ali’s right. I’ve caught feelings, and I need a cure. Fast. They aren’t worth the risk.
I retreat to the lonely hill in my mind, searching for serenity. It doesn’t work. My phone provides little distraction, but
I try anyway. The hospital has sent another mass email to all physicians regarding optional Dragon training. This is, what? Email number forty-seven?
What exactly is the point of this?
“If I wanted it, I would have let you know by now,” I mutter to the empty room. I start to delete it, then pause when a familiar name catches my eye. Asher has Reply All-ed to the email.
Two very quick questions:
Will the dragons be provided by the hospital?
What kind of dragons will we be training?
If they are provided, I would like to train the following kind—
A picture of Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon is attached in the body of the message. He closes the email with a professional, Thanks, Asher Foley, MD.
I am dying.
He sent this to the entire medical staff? I snap a screenshot and send it in a group text to Asher, Geoff and Yayoi.
??
Asher: I know
Asher: But listen
Asher: I’m so sick of Dragon training emails
Asher: I got desperate
Yayoi: omg who all is CC’ed on that?
Geoff: Basically the whole hospital
Yayoi: Haha. You trying to get fired?
Asher: I’m trying to improve my wellness.
Titty
I sigh at the last one. I don’t know why my phone still does that, but at this point, my friends know it’s a typo.
Asher: Titties? Where??
Very funny
Still giggling, I turn my attention to the TV. Halfway into a rerun of House Hunters, a red light on the ceiling distracts me.
I sit up and stare at it. The device is small. Round. Black. The red light gleams, pointing right at me.
Is that . . . a camera?
My mind blanks. How long has that been there? In my call room? Where I binge trash TV?
I scramble out of bed and hightail it down the hallway. The break room oozes the scent of hazelnut coffee, and a couple of
nurses eat snacks at the large center table. They look up at my entrance, eyes going wide at my likely frazzled appearance.
Luckily, I recognize them.
Charice and Preeti.
I brace my weight on the table. “Did they install cameras in the call rooms?”
Charice glances at Preeti. “I don’t know. Isn’t that illegal?”
“There’s a camera in the anesthesia call room.”
“What?” Preeti stands. “No way.”
Both women follow me back to the room in question, where I point at the device on the ceiling.
Charice gasps. “I’m checking the locker room.” She flees down the hall while Preeti whips out her hospital phone.
“Who are you calling?” I ask.
“Charge.”
Right. The charge nurse always knows what to do. Charge nurses are like magicians, only their magic is real.
“Candi,” Preeti says into the phone. “Can you meet me in the anesthesia call room? I have something you need to see.” She
hangs up and pockets the phone, then stares up at the camera, narrow-eyed.
Charice returns in short order. “No cameras in the locker room.”
“This is . . . weird,” Preeti says.
Candi’s taken aback when she enters, pausing to eye each of us in turn. “What’s going on?”
All three of us point at the camera, and Candi’s eyes follow. When her gaze lands on the device, she scowls. “What the actual
fuck?”
I throw both arms out toward her, palms up. “That’s what I said!”
Candi pulls out her phone.
“Who are you calling?” Preeti asks.
“Security.”
Yeah. That makes sense. Get ’em, Candi. Find out who the hell thinks they can spy on me while I’m lusting after TV homes?
This is unconscionable.
The three of us dive deep into conspiracy theories while we wait for the security team, each of them more ridiculous than
the last. The leading hypothesis is that it was placed by mistake.
Because, just . . . Why?
I glare at the offending red light.
This can’t be real. Something is up.
Two pudgy men arrive after a full quarter hour, and I thank the Powers That Be that this wasn’t a real emergency.
Pudgy Man Number One squares his shoulders. “What’s the problem, ladies?”
Candi points up. “Is this a hospital camera?”
Pudgy Man Number Two squints at the device. “Uh—”
“That doesn’t look like one of ours,” says PMN1.
PMN2 looks around the space. “Isn’t this a private sleeping area?”
I flap my hands about the room, pointing at the bed, the pillow, the piles of scrubs. “Yes!”
PMN1 stands tall, puffing his cheeks out. “It’s illegal to place recording devices in places where there is a reasonable expectation
of privacy.”
Candi stares at the man, her mouth a flat line. “Thanks for the mansplaining. We are aware it’s illegal. That’s why we called
you. Can you please remove it?”
PMN2 shakes his head. “Can’t touch it. It’s not hospital property.”
Preeti choke-laughs. “You’re kidding—”
“Nope.” PMN1 rocks on his heels. “Not our jurisdiction. But we can call the police, and they’ll take care of it.”
By now, we’ve attracted a crowd, and the hallway behind the pudgy twins is clogged with curious nurses.
“Oh, for the love of—” I wave toward the nurses in the hallway. “Someone get me a chair.” As an afterthought, I shout, “Please!”
A wonderful nurse named Sarai carries one of the break room chairs down the hall, and I climb atop it, Charice and Candi spotting
me. Neither security guard moves to help.
Thanks for the help, fellas.
The plastic of the device is cold as I slide my fingers around it, searching for a button or a release. My fingernails hook
behind the groove where it meets the wall, and . . . it loosens?
I yank. The device detaches and falls into my hands. Three two-way tape strips line the back of it.
It isn’t wired in? What on earth? I shake it—isn’t this too light to be a camera? The base of it is plain black plastic with a covered battery compartment.
I turn it over. “What the—”
“What’s wrong?” Candi asks.
A small square of paper is taped to the back. I peel it off to find a note on the other side.
Gotcha.
A.F.
My hand clenches around the plastic and I laugh. “That motherfucker.”
Charice reaches for the note. “What is it?”
“It’s a fake camera.” I hand it to Candi. “From Foley.”
Charice takes the note and a fit of giggles overtakes her. “Doctor Foley?”
Whispers spread down the hallway.
“Doctor Foley?” PMN1 straightens. “Do we need to report him?”
Candi glares at him. “Don’t even think about it. We’re no longer in need of your services. Thank you.”
Preeti helps me from the chair while the security guards wind through the maze of nurses in the hall, seemingly glad to be
rid of us.
“Doctor Foley did this?” one asks. “I just love him.”
“He is so funny,” says another.
“Yeah, so funny.” I roll my eyes. “I’m cracking up.”
Even no-nonsense Candi is laughing. “Oh, that man. If I wasn’t married . . .”
Yeah, yeah. We’re well aware of his fuckability. No need to remind us. I snatch the note back from Charice and grab my phone
to take a picture. I send it to him even though it’s the middle of the night and he’s probably asleep.
You.
How dare you?
Surprisingly, the three dots appear almost at once.
Sounds like you probably deserved it.
For making people think they left instruments inside other people or something.
I will pay you back for this.
I am still the reigning king. Pay homage at my throne.
I had security up here and everything!
??
I hate you.
He sends a picture of his puppy-dog face, and I melt immediately. He’s so frickin’ cute.
Tug!
Why are you even awake?
Masturbating
I snort, but that single word conjures up images of naked Asher—not something that will help this pain in my chest go away.
Ew. Don’t be extra.
Can’t sleep.
Probably a guilty conscience for doing evil things.
Guilty conscience for something, that’s for sure.
Hmm. Wonder what he means by that.
“Doctor Mattox,” says a nurse at the end of the hall.
“Yeah?”
“Room nine has agreed to a section.”
I chuckle. “But that’s not natural!”
She shrugs. “I think she’s decided modern medicine might benefit her.”
I have to go, but you watch yourself. I’m coming for you.
His last text of the night is the meme of Homer disappearing into the hedge. I release a soft laugh, then scroll up to his
puppy-dog face, losing myself for a moment. The pain deep in my chest tugs a bit harder than normal, and I shove my phone
into my pocket. Out of sight, out of mind.
But the softness of his voice floats back to me. My head resting on his heart, camera clicking, he spoke the words just for
me, like he knew how overwhelmed I was standing in his arms. Like he understood my confusion in wanting to stay there.
I’m sorry it hurts.
Yeah.
I’m sorry, too.