Chapter 8
Lo
My clogs squeak along the freshly polished floor as I come to an abrupt halt at the sound of a familiar woman’s voice.
“The children will be so excited to hear ‘Come Here to Me.’?”
It’s Aidan’s mom, Ruth. Engrossed in their conversation, he and his family haven’t noticed me yet. I consider hiding, but there’s a tragic lack of potted plants or abandoned wheelchairs in this hallway. He’s here along with his parents and sister.
Aidan used to visit the pediatric ward every week on top of working full-time as a solicitor, even when Marie wasn’t here.
He’d perform in the recreation area, then go from room to room, playing special requests for the kids who were too ill to get out of bed.
That act of kindness had endeared him to me so much.
Against my will, my heart stirs at the thought of him bringing much-needed smiles to our most vulnerable little patients again.
Aidan readjusts the strap of the guitar case more securely on his shoulder. An atrocious sweater covered in knit instruments and musical notes dials down his trademark sex appeal. Well, money can’t buy taste.
“Ehm, ‘Come Here to Me’ isn’t on the set list today.”
“But everyone loves it!” Ruth insists. “And that’s what we need more of these days. Good, clean, wholesome music.”
Marie snorts. “Mam, it’s far from wholesome.”
Their mother looks offended on Aidan’s behalf. “Why would you say something like that?”
“?‘Let’s make up and bury the hatchet deep’?” she quotes from the chorus.
Ruth slaps a hand over her sternum. “Marie!”
“Don’t look at me, your son wrote it.”
“Aidan Francis O’Toole. My friends at church have heard this song. I’ve bragged to the whole parish about it. I sent a link to Deacon Kelly himself.”
Marie does nothing to hide her delight.
Aidan ducks his head. “To be fair, I wasn’t thinking about little old church ladies when I wrote it.”
“Obviously not!” His mother sniffs before scrutinizing her husband, James—a silent witness to the conversation thus far. “And you never said a word, even when I included it in the parish newsletter!”
“I thought you knew,” James replies.
“Our son is singing about—about that . I’m mortified!”
“Mam.” Pink rises on Aidan’s cheeks. “Can we talk about it later?”
Finally noticing my presence, he takes me in with an embarrassed smile. I’m probably the last person he wants interrupting this conversation.
“Lo!” Marie shouts. Exuberance radiates from her as she throws her arms around my neck. Plastic ID badges clatter on the lapel of my white coat.
“Hey, Marie.” I pat her on the back as casually as possible. “You look amazing!”
I all but ghosted her for two years. Yes, I’m an ass for that, but are you really supposed to keep in touch with your ex’s family after you break up? Marie was fifteen at the time; I’m sure she understood that our friendship was collateral damage. Even if it hurt both of us.
“I’m so happy to run into you,” I tell Marie. “Hi, Mrs. O’Toole, Mr. O’Toole.”
“Call me Ruth.” With her maternal pat on my arm, the knot of tension in my stomach loosens. “It’s good to see you, Cielo. Are you coming to the performance?”
Aidan steps forward. “It’s just a little thing for the kids.”
“I only have a minute, then I have to get back. Maybe one song?”
Construction-paper acorns and pumpkins line the walls of the rec room.
Oncologists in cartoon-print scrubs look me up and down with curiosity while children in knit caps and pajamas gather in a semicircle.
Every one of these kids ignites my protective instinct.
They deserve to grow up, follow their dreams as I have.
It’s my purpose to help that happen; nothing in this world feels more important.
Aidan sits in a chair at the front of the room, plucking at his guitar strings to warm up. The kids are interested, but meeting Aidan O’Toole is no one’s Make-A-Wish dream. “Any requests?”
“Can I get orange jelly today instead of the green?” one girl asks. “I don’t like the green—”
James stifles a laugh and Ruth pinches her husband’s arm. Aidan’s mirthful eyes bounce to me before he answers her. “Erm, I don’t handle the food. Sorry, love. If anyone has any requests…”
“Jaffa Cakes!” a bald boy shouts.
Aidan clarifies, “Song requests,” but it’s too late.
“Chocolate Hobnobs are better!” a girl missing a front tooth asserts.
Overlapping high-pitched voices start to yell the names of snacks, not even asking Aidan anymore. If anything, they are just naming every processed treat they know. I adore them.
Aidan blinks, and I have to laugh. “Well, there’s my ego-check for the day.”
The adults chuckle at his humility as he looks past them and straight to me, knowing that I’m delighted he’s being upstaged by junk food. My heart trips against my will.
“How about some music? Maybe you’ll know this song.” He strums the guitar and half the kids immediately jump up when they recognize it as the theme of The Magical Adventures of Havarti & Plague Rat . Marie sits next to a friend, watching her brother win over these young hearts in only a few notes.
Some children join in, singing adorably off-key.
Every nurse on the floor huddles around the doorway.
There are a dozen things to do at any given time, and yet they’re mesmerized by Aidan.
It doesn’t really matter who his audience is: rowdy college students at a pub, old-timers, or little kids.
Sharing a song is just how he connects with people.
It’s beautiful. His rich tenor voice is beautiful.
He’s beautiful, doing a goofy dance in that horrible sweater.
It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself to enjoy his voice.
Aidan’s smile is infectious. Then again, so is tuberculosis. Being good at lifting the spirits of these kids doesn’t mean he’s good for me.
I stand next to his parents as Aidan transitions into a Disney sing-along classic. We clap to the beat, and soon everyone joins in. One girl’s IV cannula jangles as she dances in a momentary reprieve from the gravity of her illness.
Music was a lifeline when I was a teenager isolated in a hospital without my usual outlet of swimming. Even on the hardest days, I could always find a song or genre that brought me solace.
In my med school application essay, I’d written about the firsthand patient experience that galvanized my desire to practice medicine.
Only 2 percent of physicians in the States are Latina, yet our community has disproportional rates of blood cancers.
One empathetic member on a medical team can make all the difference to a scared little kid—especially one who looks like them.
A lot of cancer survivors do their best to avoid hospitals, but I needed to pay it forward.
No one gets into such an emotionally demanding specialty for the money. This was personal.
Aidan pours himself into this performance, the same as he would at any venue.
Pride shines in James’s eyes as Ruth rests her head on his shoulder.
They’ve been through the same nightmare as my parents, yet somehow, they managed to come out stronger on the other side of Marie’s diagnosis. Unlike mine.
Tension returns to my shoulders when I glance at the clock and realize it’s time I got back to the A&E. I give Aidan’s family a polite but rushed goodbye as he wraps on the sing-along. I gesture to my wrist to let him know it’s time to get back to work and head to the door.
I slip down the hallway, and hear Aidan call my name. He jogs over with his instrument still strapped to his shoulder.
“Thanks for coming here for the kids. When I was in a unit, the most entertainment we ever got were some dingy sock puppets.”
Aidan rubs at his bearded jaw. “The white coat looks good on you.” He knows how hard I’ve worked to get here.
Countless nights he’d clock out of his solicitor job and come rub my shoulders after I’d been hunched studying for hours.
I did the same for him when stress over his sister’s health and parents’ finances kept him up at night.
Sweet memories that carry a bitter aftertaste.
“Thanks.” I gesture to his obnoxious sweater. “Nice outfit. Are you trying to trigger an ocular migraine?”
“My mam knit it for me, actually.”
Oof. Ruth is a sweetheart. I’d never want to hurt her feelings. “It…really suits you.”
“It’s an eyesore. Ready for the party this weekend?”
“Aye-aye, cap’n.”
“Oh, and it’s a very small boat, so just bring yourself. No date.”
I realize for the first time that Aidan might bring a plus-one to the wedding. Watching him dance and flirt with someone else sounds like a special kind of torture.
He must have noticed my face drop because his expression grows serious. “Did you invite someone already?”
“No, there’s—” There’s been no one since you. My tongue transforms into cotton at the thought of saying that out loud. I clear my throat. “I’m focusing on school. No time for that.”
“Right, right.” Aidan nods vigorously, the way he does on those rare occasions he’s nervous.
“Are you bringing a plus-one?”
We’ve never had a post-relationship debrief, no sense of closure.
One day, he got the call every struggling musician dreams of, but it came at a cost: us.
We both knew things couldn’t be the same between us if he was on the road.
For the sake of my sanity, I decided I’d rather not know what his shiny new life looks like.
For all I know, he has a famous girlfriend.
“I’m taking some time with my family. Working on new material,” he says. “Keeping out of trouble.”
Relief rushes in and my mask of casual indifference slips into an unconscious smile. Fuck fuck fuck . The corners of my mouth drop. I jerk my thumb back toward the A&E unit like a hitchhiker. “I need to get back to work now.”