Chapter 7
Seven
Tabitha
My eyes shoot open.
The sun is up, and—
“Oh no!” I say out loud.
I forgot to set my alarm last night. I grab for my phone on the nightstand, but in my haste, I end up pushing it onto the floor with a clatter.
I scramble out of bed, pick it up—
“Shit!”
My seminar starts in exactly twenty minutes.
“Oh my God. Oh my God…”
No time for a shower or to do my hair. I rush into the bathroom and look in the mirror.
Remnants of last night. Swollen eyes from crying, red nose. I turn on the faucet and splash cold water onto my face.
“Great,” I say to my reflection. “Now I look worse.” I take a washcloth, wet it, and scrub my face clean of yesterday’s mess.
The attacker. The fear. The police.
No.
Can’t think about any of that now.
I brush my hair out and pull it into a messy bun. My face is red from the scrubbing, but I don’t have time to care. I throw on a pair of loose jeans and a Steel Vineyards T-shirt that Angie gave me, grab my purse, iPad, textbooks, and backpack, and race down to my car.
Bad move.
Traffic is awful. I should have walked. I’d be there by now.
I arrive at the medical school with only two minutes to spare. I pull into a parking space that isn’t mine. Who cares? It’s summer break. No one is here. I’ll pay the ticket if I get one.
By the time I reach the classroom, I’m the last to arrive.
“Ah, you must be Ms. Haynes,” the instructor says.
“Yes. Sorry. Traffic.” That’s all I offer as I look for an unoccupied seat.
I smile when I see my friend Elijah Garrett in the last row. What’s he doing here? Last I heard he was home in Mississippi for the summer, doing some summer internship that was so important he couldn’t make it to Angie’s wedding.
Now?
I guess two spots opened up for second-years.
It’s great to see a familiar face. We make eye contact, and he raises his eyebrows at me.
Unfortunately, both seats beside him are occupied. I take the one available seat…right up front.
“Dr. Landers will be here off and on for several lectures,” the instructor says. “Today is pretty much an orientation day. I’ll go through the syllabus and the required reading. You all completed the advanced assignments, I assume?”
Murmurs of yes.
I’m technically a yes, though I honestly can’t recall a thing I read yesterday. I’m not sure I slept last night, though I must have, because I woke up late.
“My name is Blake Jennings,” he says. “I’m the teaching assistant. I took the seminar last summer, and I’ll begin my internship in the fall. Dr. Landers will be teaching advanced surgical techniques, and yes, there will be labs where you can practice.”
A hand shoots up.
“Yes?”
“Will we be practicing on actual patients?” a woman asks.
Blake stifles a laugh. “Uh…no.”
What a moron. Of course we won’t. We’re not physicians. Not yet. We’ll get to practice on actual patients once we’re surgical residents.
“The seminar will begin with simple skin incisions on synthetic practice pads, and then you’ll progress to more complex procedures like suturing and knot tying.
The final two weeks will be spent in the cadaver lab, where you’ll get to apply everything you’ve learned.
” He pauses and gazes around the room. “Any questions so far?”
Silence.
“Good. I don’t have to remind you that your selection for this seminar was based on your academic performance in your first years of med school along with your interest in surgery.
This is an opportunity for you to explore your future potential and to decide if surgery is the path you want to pursue.
Dr. Landers is one of the best in the field, and learning from him will be a journey that will not only expand your capability but also your understanding and appreciation of the medical profession.
Dr. Landers expects commitment, dedication, and, most importantly, a drive to learn and improve.
If you’re not ready to give your all to this seminar, then you’re in the wrong place. ”
Silence.
“Any questions?”
More silence.
“Good,” he continues, turning to the whiteboard behind him. “Let’s get started, then.” He begins to outline the structure of the course, the specifics of each module, and the expectations for each one.
My mind, however, is still racing, the adrenaline from my mad dash to class mixing with the lingering unease from last night.
And of course, underneath it all, Henry Simpson.
“Ms. Haynes?”
I jerk at my name from Blake’s lips. “Uh…yes?”
“Can you answer the question?”
Crap. What question? I’m getting off to a great start here.
“Sorry. Could you repeat it, please?”
Blake looks at me, clearly annoyed, but he repeats the question. “What’s the most common suture material used in surgery?”
I rack my brain for the answer, the information from my readings trying to surface through the fog of stress and exhaustion. Finally, it clicks.
“Polypropylene?” I reply, hating myself for adding the inflection of a question. This isn’t the time to be doubting myself.
“Correct,” he says, his tone lighter now. “Good job, Ms. Haynes.”
A sense of relief washes over me as I sink back in my chair. I’ve stumbled through the first hurdle. Now all I need to do is keep up with the rest of the seminar.
“Next question,” Blake says. “Can anyone explain to me the difference between absorbable and nonabsorbable sutures?”
Eli raises his hand, and Blake nods at him.
“Absorbable sutures are designed to break down over time in the body, and they’re usually used internally,” he replies. “Nonabsorbable ones are used externally or in areas where a long healing time is expected. They have to be manually removed.”
“Excellent,” Blake says. “Next question. Can someone list a few types of surgical knots?”
A girl in the third row raises her hand. Blake nods.
“There’s the square knot, the surgeon’s knot, the surgeon’s loop knot, and the instrument tie.”
Blake smiles. “Very good. Knowing your knots is extremely important in surgery. A badly tied knot can result in complications post-surgery, including hematoma, seroma, and wound dehiscence.”
Wound dehiscence? What the hell is that?
I’m sure not going to ask. I’ll look it up later. I scribble a note to remind myself, hoping that I’m spelling the second word correctly.
Blake continues with a few more questions, and then he takes us through the syllabus and structure of the seminar, which he outlined on the whiteboard.
Eventually, Blake wraps up the discussion. “Remember to review your notes from today’s class. Tomorrow we’ll be covering surgical instruments.”
“Will Dr. Landers be here tomorrow?” a student asks.
“He may,” Blake says. “But if he isn’t, rest assured that I’m more than capable of introducing you to surgical instruments.”
As the students stand, I gather my things as quickly as possible, eager to escape. If this were a normal day, I’d be racing to hug Eli and grab coffee, but—
A hand on my shoulder stops me. I jerk in response, still very on edge.
It’s Eli.
I sigh in relief.
“Hey, are you okay, Tabitha?” Eli asks. “You seem a little out of it today.”
I’m not anxious to recount last night’s events. Or the rest of the weekend, for that matter.
“I’m good.” I cock my head. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a job this summer. One that was so important you couldn’t make it to Angie and Jason’s wedding?”
He shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I did, but I had to come back after they offered me a spot in this seminar. I couldn’t pass it up.”
“I see,” I reply, feeling a stab of irritation. It isn’t like Eli to be flippant about commitments. On the other hand, the fact that we both got into this seminar at the last minute is a pretty big deal. I wouldn’t have been able to pass it up either.
“Well, I’m glad you could make it.”
He studies my face for a moment, a frown forming between his brows. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem…off.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, a little more sharply than I intend. “Just tired.”
Eli doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “All right. If you need to talk, though—”
“I’m good,” I cut him off. “Thanks.”
Angie told me last semester that she thought Eli had a thing for me. That she got a “vibe” from him.
I’ve never gotten that vibe. Eli is so driven to become a world-renowned surgeon that I doubt he plans to have any kind of relationship for the next ten years. Besides, he’s not my type. He’s thin with black hair and dark eyes. Put on some eyeliner and he’d pass for goth.
Nope. My type is blond and blue-eyed and named Henry Simpson.
But I can’t pine for him. Not now. And I can’t obsess over my near assault last night.
I don’t have the time.
Surgery.
That’s my focus for the next month.
And for the rest of my life.