TWELVE
JORDIE
One of the Filipino nurses once told me typhoons in the Philippines used to be given only female names. Something about being unpredictable and prone to violent outbursts, like a woman with too much on her plate.
At the time, I laughed it off.
Now?
Ira feels personal. Endometriosis with wind speed. A full-blown hormonal meltdown in meteorological form.
And honestly, same.
It feels fitting, given the storm I’ve been weathering.
Two weeks ago, I put on a rom-com to kill time because my pristine copy of Pride and Prejudice was too nice to ruin with greasy cheese-fry fingers.
Not the takeaway kind. The sad kind that you make from scratch when money is tight.
Slice potatoes. Fry in batches. Melt whatever questionable cheese is left in the fridge.
Delicious? Sure. Worth the hour and three dirty pans? Debatable.
So there I was, licking greasy cheese off my thumb, wondering if Hugh Grant’s dimples could carry me through another ninety minutes of denial, when my phone rang.
“Jordie, it’s Rhonda.”
Rhonda Mayhew. Casual Nurse Manager. Arbiter of my employment fate.
“Uh, hi, Rhonda,” I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around woman disposing of evidence. “How’s it going?”
“You’re reinstated.”
Relief hit so fast I almost dropped the fries.
And then came the fine print.
“You’ll stay off high-acuity and critical care units. Consider it a cooling-off period. You’re on maternity and geriatrics.”
Just like that, my sad cheese fries seemed a whole lot sadder.
Still—beggars, choosers.
Now I’m here. Banned from my usual stomping grounds and exiled to the maternity ward, of all places. To be fair, midwives are some of the most intuitive, badass clinicians I know.
It’s just hard to be in this place that’s all baby powder, fresh linens, and glowing moms cooing over newborns. It’s all so soft. Everything I’m not.
Meanwhile, I’m over here with a uterus determined to ruin my life.
I’d give anything to be one of them; but instead, I’m the nurse who can’t even glance at a bassinet or hear a heartbeat on the Doppler without that familiar stab of bitterness.
It’s hard to be surrounded by everything you’ve been told you might not have.
I skip the staff lounge with its aggressively cheerful talk of nursery themes and baby name spreadsheets, and opt instead for a lunch break on the fire escape. Lunch—if we’re being generous—is a banana peanut-butter sandwich.
If we’re being honest, it’s a cry for help in edible form.
The wind picks up. I feel it rustle my hair as I take another bite. The scent of rain lingers in the air, thick with humidity.
The door behind me creaks open.
“Hey, Mitchell.”
Zola. Midwife. Dry as toast. Sharp-eyed. Allergic to unnecessary words and the concept of coddling.
“Rhonda’s looking for you,” she says. “Wants a chat.”
Nothing good in human history has ever followed the phrase “wants a chat.” It’s code for “brace yourself.”
I groan. “Appreciate the warning.”
Zola nods once and disappears inside, leaving me alone with a dreaded sense of oh no and a sandwich I no longer trust.
I throw it in the bin and head back.
Rhonda’s waiting by the nurses’ station. She spots me, her sharp eyes locking onto me like a raptor that has just spotted a particularly slow-moving rodent.
“Mitchell,” she says, tone brisk. “Walk with me.”
I fall into step. Her heels click. My heart does the same.
“So,” I start, keeping my voice light. “Am I about to be fired twice in one month? Because if so, I think that legally makes me an overachiever.”
Rhonda doesn’t even crack a smile.
I keep going, because apparently when I’m nervous, I choose to audition for stand-up. “If this is an execution, at least let me update my emergency contact. Leith should know where to send the flowers.”
She sighs. One of those long, managerial sighs that says, “I have neither the time nor the patience for your verbal jazz hands.”
“Mitchell. Shut up and walk.”
We weave through corridors until she stops at a meeting room. “In.”
I hesitate. Because I’ve seen enough mafia movies to know that when someone in power leads you into a windowless room, you might not walk out alive.
I enter the room anyway.
She shuts the door and fixes me with a flat stare. “Give me your availabilities for upcoming shifts in anesthetics.”
“Sorry—what?”
“You’re back in anesthetics.” She taps her pen against the clipboard, already looking mildly irritated. “And everywhere else except ED. Now, give me your shift preferences.”
My jaw opens. Closes. Opens again, like a goldfish trying to make sense of taxes.
“Wait. I’m reinstated?”
“I’m telling you anesthetics needs skilled nurses for the cyclone. And certain people”—her tone tightens—“believe your talents are wasted elsewhere.”
Certain people.
Which people?
Not the time.
I straighten, trying to keep my voice level. “Thank you. I’m happy to be back in critical care.”
“Cyclone’s set to hit in two days,” she says. “What are your shift preferences?”
“All of them. Any shift. I’ll sleep when Ira does.”
Rhonda raises an unimpressed brow. “Disaster team or relief team?”
No brainer. “Disaster team.”