Eight
Oliver
It’s the third night in a row that I’ve let Elle babysit Thor, and I’ve regretted it pretty much every moment since I agreed to it.
Elle told me she had a work outing tonight, and while I offered to get a dog walker, or leave Thor in my apartment, she insisted that her friend visiting from out of town would want to meet him.
I pointed out how her leaving him isn’t different from me leaving him, but I didn’t get very far with that argument.
Since my schedule is backwards today, I should be home not long after she leaves.
Hopefully Thor will be okay for a little while.
So to prove to me that Thor is having a “good time,” she sent me a collection of photos she took of him before she left for her event.
In every one Thor is wearing a different band t-shirt.
The last one was Ed Sheeran. The most recent one is the Jonas Brothers: Thor is sitting on a green chair, perfectly composed, with a pair of huge white sunglasses on his face.
He has beaded necklaces around his neck, a bandana tied around one leg, and a cut-up t-shirt that has “Burnin’ Up” written on the front in bold red letters.
I’m never letting this woman near my dog again.
I’m pretty much dead on my feet tonight, having worked two twelve hour shifts over the last two days.
My smart watch has yelled at me no less than seven times that I’ve hit my standing goal.
The last time I yelled, “No shit, Sherlock!” at it, much to the surprise of all the nurses at the desk I was standing next to.
The same watch also notified me of another missed call from my father. I took the damn thing off after that.
My father has called me three times this week and I’ve ignored him every time. I’ve barely spoken to my parents since I moved back, not including the “welcome home” gathering my mother planned at the airport for my arrival. My father wasn’t there. Shocking.
I spoke to my mother last week, and she regaled me with all of the stories of Sophia’s first two weeks in Italy.
It’s astounding to me how parents can treat two children so differently.
For as long as I can remember, the expectations for me were clear: Go to Stanford, just like my dad.
Become a surgeon, just like my dad. Probably marry another doctor, just like my dad.
Provide for my family. Live a stable life.
All this time, I’ve never stepped a foot out of line.
Meanwhile, Sophia never had to contend with any expectations.
At least, not to my knowledge. She was always bright in school, but there was never any pressure on her to carry on as my dad did.
I got a C in Organic Chemistry sophomore year, and I had the fear of God put in me, but Sophia graduated and wanted to “see the world,” and my parents didn’t bat an eye.
I would love for someone to explain these double standards to me, truly.
It’s almost nine, and I’m counting down the hours until I can go home and faceplant into my bed.
Well, Sophia’s too-small-for-my-long-ass-legs bed.
Which will be replaced as soon as I have a spare moment to drag myself to the store.
I walk past the nurses’ station at the entrance to the department and file some manila folders I’ve been carrying.
I eye up an empty chair behind the desk and consider that maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to sit in it, but my attention is drawn elsewhere.
When the Emergency Department doors open behind me for a brief moment, I overhear a conversation—a loud one—going on in the waiting room.
“Please explain to me how this is my fault,” I hear a feminine voice say.
“You called my name, I turned, I fell. Your fault.”
“I didn’t call your name. I asked Elle, ‘Where’s Anne?’ That’s not calling your name.”
My head snaps around at the mention of her name.
Instead of plopping in the uncomfortable swivel chair, I take a few steps backwards towards the double swinging doors that mark the entrance to the emergency room.
I linger for a moment, trying to catch a glimpse of the waiting room without being too conspicuous.
It doesn’t take me long to find the source of the squabble.
I see Elle’s big, curly blonde hair bouncing up and down as she paces past two women sitting in waiting room chairs.
One of them is older, with dark hair and glasses that only accentuate the scowl on her face.
The other is younger, with longer brown hair, and appears to be trying to comfort the older one.
And then there’s Elle.
Holy shit, Elle.
She’s wearing a dress that hugs every inch of her curvy body—her breasts, her hips—and exposes her legs, her muscles working with every step she takes in her boots. She flips her hair, revealing her bare shoulder where her dress cuts out.
I shake my head to divert my thoughts. This is Elle. Nosy, pushy Elle who lives downstairs and is annoying as hell. She just happens to be wearing a flattering dress. That’s all.
I walk out into the waiting room and approach them with caution. Elle seems to sense me immediately, because her pacing stops as I approach. When she sees me, what appears to be joy spreads across her face for just a moment before she catches herself.
“Anne, you cannot sue me for workers’ comp.
That’s not how it works. I don’t even work for you anymore—” The brunette cuts her sentence short when she sees where Elle’s attention has gone, and the expression on her face when she sees me is comical.
Her jaw drops and her eyes practically bulge out of her head, like a cartoon.
“Elle—” she starts, clearing her throat.
“Elle,” I repeat with a welcome nod to both her and her companions.
“Oliver,” she says on an exhale.
“That’s Oliver?” the brunette says a bit too loudly, considering I’m standing right here.
“Lucy!” Elle whispers harshly. She turns her attention back to me and gives me a half-hearted smile. “Oliver, this is my friend Lucy and my boss, Anne.” She gestures to each of the women. Lucy still seems a bit lost in wonder when I shake her hand.
Anne, on the other hand, is laying back in the chair with her hand over her face. “I’d shake your hand, whoever you are, but I’m dying over here, which no one seems to care about—”
“Anne, you’re not dying,” Elle corrects, crossing her arms.
“I’m in a hospital, Eloise, people rarely come here when they are well!” Anne replies forcefully.
“Eloise?” I ask Elle with a questioning gaze.
“It’s not really my name. Lucy calls me that when she’s pissed, and now Anne has picked up on it. Super fun.” Elle pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. “Anyway, Oliver, maybe you can help us.”
“I’m sure he can, given he’s a doctor,” Lucy mumbles, pursing her lips at me. She eyes me up and down like she’s evaluating me. She gives a satisfied nod. “A fine doctor.”
Elle widens her eyes and shakes her head quickly, seemingly trying to regain some control over the situation.
“I’m guessing your event didn’t go well then?” I ask, raising my brows.
“Given there was an assassination attempt on my life, I would say no,” Anne interjects. Lucy smacks her palm to her forehead, defeated.
“Anne fell off of the stage, accidentally. She hit her head and seems to have twisted her ankle,” Elle explains. “The cops at the event suggested we bring her in to make sure she doesn’t have a concussion.”
“Cops?” What kind of book event has cops?
“It was a book signing for a pretty famous author. There were a few patrol cars outside for extra security,” she explains.
Intriguing. I find myself wanting to know more about this event and her job.
We’ve been texting over the past few days—pretty exclusively about Thor—and I’ve had to stop myself from trying to move the conversation beyond him.
I want to ask her more questions, but I stop myself.
Those kinds of intentions always get me into trouble.
I clear my throat and look away. “Do you have any pain in your head, ma’am? Nausea?” I ask Anne. I hear a small giggle come out of Elle when I say the word “ma’am.”
“I’m a woman in my fifties, I have head pain and nausea every day,” she grumbles, finally making eye contact with me. Elle and Lucy share the same look of disbelief.
“We’ll get you triaged and get a head CT to rule out a concussion,” I say. “Once you’re in the back I can examine your ankle and we’ll go from there.”
“And how much longer do I have to sit here before that happens?” Anne asks.
“Anne!” Elle scolds. She matches Anne’s gaze and narrows her eyes at her.
“I’ll have them call you back now,” I say, with the reassuring smile I save for the rowdy patients.
“Oh, there were other people here before us—” Elle starts, but Anne pinches her.
“Well, you have an in,” I reply with a wink. I can hear Lucy hmm in satisfaction as I walk away.
“How do you know that guy again?” Anne whispers as I turn my back.
A beat passes before Elle responds, “We’re neighbors.”