Chapter 10
MEDCEST!
With the rise of ‘fake’ dating, does that imply the existence of ‘fake’ patients? As in, someone who pretends to be a doctor to someone who isn’t really their patient?
And if the patient-physician relationship is ‘fake,’ does that also mean rules about dating patients also become ‘fake?’
Now, who would ask such a ridiculous hypothetical question?
Clinical pearl #10: Never fall for your patients.
Yours most entertained,
THANATOS
My muddy shoes tap against polished linoleum, idling by my usual MoonMonies pickup spot, wondering why Kane’s making me wait. He’s ignoring my texts, and my anxiety is sprouting like weeds, poisoning my mind with fears of an impending fake breakup.
I’ve grown fond of our morning rendezvous, breakfast heists, and delivering random trinkets of joy I’ve found to him.
My latest hauls include: a lucky penny on the street (which he told me was worthless, while tucking it into his wallet), a flower I stole from the school garden (invasive, he claims, folding it gently into his backpack), and another picture of the sunrise (a danger to my sleep health, he chided, as he opened his wallet and put it in the photo I.D.
spot, right on top of the other picture I gave him).
But he’s nowhere to be found, and I’m twitching like a matcha addict in withdrawal, deprived of her morning dose.
Where is he?
I’ve already worked an entire night shift, and my lids feel as heavy as my heart, envisioning having to tell everyone why (yet another) relationship won’t work out.
Dread coils and writhes within me like a snake, more nauseous by the second.
At least Golden Boy has left me alone so far, and hopefully will for the foreseeable future. So… was this all a success, even if it left me feeling like a massive failure?
If he’s really not coming, maybe it’s time to go…
Once my last shreds of hope fade, I peel myself away from the wall, resignedly shuffling to make it to the bus before the next group of staff leaves. Snow assaults my exit, the first icy bites hitting the 7 A.M. shift change rush, and my watch pings, knocking me to a halt amid the throng.
Jade
SOS
Buzzes shake my wrist. For a second, I stare at my watch, dumbfounded that she’s asking me for help, while healthcare workers push and weave around me like breaking waves.
Then I pivot on my heel and sprint back in, fighting the confused crowd, skittering on the poorly salted ice.
The heat from the hospital hits me like a blast as the next few texts bombard my senses.
Jade
It’s for Kane
Please answer
My heart drops to the floor as I pick up, holding it to my ear.
What happened?
She answers in a rush. “Can you meet us in the big janitor’s closet in the basement?” Her voice sounds rough, like she’s been crying. Or screaming.
“Jade, are you okay? Is Kane—”
“We got hit by a car,” she answers, and amidst background protesting, Jade says, “It’s too late now, demon! I already called her!”
I’m already surging down the stairs as she spits, “It was a hit and run, we think. Kane was driving my A-Wagon—”
“Jade, do you need help getting him to the ER?” I ask, numb and assessing. It’s only a few minutes to triage, and if he’s still talking, his airway is still intact. Breathing, probably, too. “Is he bleeding?”
My chest tightens with every step, head thundering with guilt for not suspecting something was wrong sooner. No wonder he wasn’t texting back, especially when we were back in a routine. “Is he hemorrhaging? Why not call the paramedics to bring him to the bay? Do I need to call a code?”
“No to everything,” she says. “He’s got a huge laceration on his arm, but he’s walking and—hey! Trying to steal my phone. Okay, okay!” she gasps mid-argument. “Please don’t call a code or anyone else. We don’t want anyone to know.”
“Why?” I ask, reaching the main hallway, where I stop dead in my tracks.
Scarlet blood, splattered like spilled coffee, trails all the way from the entrance to the janitor’s closet. Still wet, it’s dripping down the walls, marking the shape and path of his limp.
“Jade!” I yell, bursting across the hall and flinging open the closet door.
The static overhead lamp illuminates Kane, bloody arm lacerated open to the fascia, sitting defeated on a rusty bucket while Jade paces around the shelves of cleaning supplies. Sutures, gauze, and miscellaneous stolen paraphernalia are stacked high in her hands.
But I run straight to Kane, flicking on my phone light to look at the wound.
“Kane!” I cry.
He winces. Glass shards poke out from his forearm, and my shoe shatters a piece on the floor into shards, making us both jump.
“Careful,” he warns. “You have on good shoes, don’t you?”
“Kane, what happened?” I ask, looking between his ragged, slow-breathing face and the dripping wound. Blood droplets bounce off the glass on the floor, splattering over my white shoes like macabre art.
“Hit and run,” he breathes tersely. “Some idiot skidded on ice and slammed straight into us. I threw my hand out to shield Jade’s face.”
“Why would you do that?” Jade interrupts, erratic and frantic. “Look at your arm! It’s your right arm! You need that thing for surgery!”
“As opposed to you not needing your face?” he says sharply. He swivels to face her, then cringes, dropping his arm to his thigh.
“Kane, are you just doing this for Jade? You need a real doctor,” I say.
Jade nods vigorously.
“Do you know how those residents view me?” Kane asks, exasperated. “I’ve pushed back on so many of their admissions that as soon as they see me, they’re going to send in the most petrified, sniveling M3 to come stitch me up—”
“Leave the M3s out of it—” Jade interrupts.
He snorts. “Or worse, they’ll do it themselves and ‘forget’ the lidocaine—”1
“Kane, I know they’re more professional than that,” I say gently.
“My father will find me in minutes if I end up there,” he bites out. “And he’s already old and stressed, and I don’t want him worrying about me.”
“He won’t worry when he sees you with stitches?” I ask, sliding my hand under his arm to see it again. His shoulder rotates while his teeth grind, facing away like he can’t bear to look.
Jade holds out a piece of gauze. I debate whether I should start immediately packing the wound or pick out the glass shards.
“He won’t notice if I put on a sweater as soon as I get home,” he says evenly, like this dingy closet is an appropriate room for this. Like he’s considering what I think he’s considering.
“But wouldn’t your father want to know—”
“My father just had triple bypass surgery. He can’t take any more stress.”
“That’s true,” Jade pipes in. “But he won’t let me do it.”
“You don’t treat family, Jade,” Kane says, pressing his good hand to his forehead like he’s warding off a headache. He speaks through gritted, clenched teeth, like he’s tired of arguing with her.
“Why not? You tried to stitch it up yourself!” She points to the bloody stitches bulging from the top of his arm.
“Kane!” I gasp, deciding to grab gloves and gauze to pack the wound first. “Why would you try to stitch it up yourself?”
“Because I’m a surgeon!” he says, like it’s obvious. His whole body tenses like he’s got tetanus, then he abruptly breaks, rigidity coming in scattered bursts like he’s agonized but terrified to show it.
My adrenaline skyrockets.
“I’m calling for help,” I announce, pulling out my phone with one hand while I apply pressure with the other. “You may need IV antibiotics and painkillers, and I can’t do that alone. I haven’t had my E.R. rotation in nearly a year; I can’t be in charge of your care.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, while Jade paces around, handing me more gauze.
I dial a number, and Kane begs, “Percy. Please. Just do it yourself.”
He sounds so pained, I almost consider it.
“Why,” Jade and I say in unison.
“Because I can’t do it,” he says, “and family can’t treat family.” He levels a glare again at Jade.
“But Percy can treat you?” she growls, looking like she wants to throw the gauze at him.
“She’s not family.”
“She’s your girlfriend,” she presses, emphasizing the last word.
“Jade, if you treat me and mess up, it’s going to haunt you forever—“
“And it won’t haunt Percy forever?!”
Her eyes are red. Kane won’t even look at her.
I feel like I’m interrupting something private, like I’m watching them fight over some long-standing, unsettled feud, but I’m missing all the context. My eyes dart between them, wondering if I should step out and give them a moment to calm down.
Jade blinks hard, wiping at her face. Kane sits slouched on the bucket, breathing heavily, his injured arm hanging stiffly at his side.
“She. Is. Your. Girlfriend!” Jade continues, saying girlfriend again, the way I imagine most would say wife.
Kane finally lifts his head, focusing on me with a pleading look.
Oh. I know why he called me now. I quench the inkling of disappointment.
Despite all appearances of a budding friendship, we’re still just strangers to one another. That’s why he wants me to do it.
We share a glance—where the agony in his face almost ruins me—before I admit, “Jade, we aren’t really—”
“We haven’t consummated anything,” he says plainly, like he’s talking about the weather. “So in the eyes of God, we aren’t anything yet.”
“EW, Kane, did I ask?” Jade coughs, momentarily disgusted enough to be distracted.
I almost laugh at the absurdity.
I shoot him an incredulous look.
He blinks a stern, matter-of-fact one back.
Then his arm twitches, and we all flinch.
A shard of glass clinks against the floor.
“Let Percy do it!” she says, thrusting a pair of tweezers into my hand. “You’re going to give yourself an infection!”
“Little late for that,” he grumbles. But he goes still. Or tries to.
I amble around him, assessing the damage.
Blood streaks down his forearm. The bucket he’s sitting on is too small, making him look comically large as he fumbles over it. His legs are spread, his injured arm resting on his right leg, while his torso leans awkwardly to the other side.