Chapter Twelve
From: Keegan Baldwin [email protected]
To: Luna Oliver [email protected]
Date: March 20
So…
From: Luna Oliver [email protected]
To: Keegan Baldwin [email protected]
Date: March 22
So… Forest told you about my trip to Boston, I see.
From: Keegan Baldwin [email protected]
To: Luna Oliver [email protected]
Date: March 22
Let me get this straight. Forest hooked up with your college roommate, and that was bad. You hook up with his best friend from Medical School and that is…
From: Luna Oliver [email protected]
To: Keegan Baldwin [email protected]
Date: March 22
Different. Trust me on this one.
My life has become small. In medical school, sure, studying took up a lot of my time, but it’s nothing like being a resident. Most weeks, I spend eighty hours at the hospital. I try to spend at least fifty hours a week sleeping so I don’t entirely lose my mind, and that leaves only thirty to forty hours a week to do everything else. And everything else revolves around studying cases, doing laundry, and trying to nurture relationships with those in my life. It’s not enough hours.
Today I’m on hour twenty-two of a thirty-hour shift, and even though I try to take every opportunity to sleep between patients, we’re short-staffed and my pager goes off constantly. It’s more painful to fall asleep and be woken up than trying to stay awake.
There is also nervous energy in the hospital today. On my walk here, the air was still, and the temperature was stiflingly hot. The sky was an eerie orangish pink color, and it feels like a storm is on the horizon. I’ve felt anxiety all day, but I can’t pinpoint the source of it.
And when I finally start to come down, we’re alerted that several ambulances are on their way because of a school shooting. All trauma one centers are asked to prepare for several gunshot victims. Raven rushes to a room, Myles follows Dr. Lanson, and I follow Dr. Parse into an exam room where the attending physician is already with a patient.
“Female, sixteen. Gunshot entered through her upper abdomen. No exit wound.”
I help take her vitals. “Patient’s in tachy. Blood pressure is low.”
“I think she has internal bleeding. We need to get her to CT now and see where the damage is,” the attending says with urgency.
I rush the patient down with Dr. Parse. She turns and looks at me. “It’s my birthday.” The words are gurgled. “My friends. I think they’re all dead.”
“We’re going to do everything we can to fix you up.” I squeeze her hand, and then she is rushed into CT.
Once the attending reads the CT results, our patient is rushed into surgery. She’s bleeding out. I scrub in.
“We need blood,” the surgeon yells. “O negative. Stat.”
The surgeon opens the patient, and blood shoots out in every direction and fills the chest cavity. Dr. Parse and I suction. My surgical gown is covered.
“Damn it,” the surgeon says. “Her aorta is almost completely dissected. She’s not going to make it.”
He works to repair it, while we simultaneously transfuse blood. I watch the trauma surgeon, fascinated by how many different procedures he needs to know in his line of work. The patient’s blood pressure drops, and then she flatlines. We all work to do what we can, but the chest trauma is too great and she lost too much blood.
“Time of death, sixteen, thirty-two.”
I stare at our patient and glance at her chart. Ella. Long, beautiful, blond hair. Her sixteenth birthday. I pinch my nose on the outside of my surgical mask. There are so many people from the shooting that still need attention.
I go back to the emergency room to check on a new patient. A man, or is he just a boy? Dr. Parse attends to him.
“Dr. Oliver.” He looks at me. “Wrap the entry point, and let’s move to the next patient. He’s not emergent.”
The patient looks at me, tears streaming down his face. “Is Ella okay? My girlfriend. I think she was brought here.”
His chart says Ethan. “You were at the school too?”
“Yeah.” He grimaces when I wrap his shoulder. “Some fucker. I don’t even know his name. Have only seen him around. Had an AR15 and several magazines. He shot up the entire World Studies class. There were thirty students in there. How’s Ella?”
I check his vitals and rush out of the room. But before I leave, I turn to him. “I don’t know how she is,” I lie. “I’ll send someone in to update you.”
“Thank you.” He nods.
I join Dr. Parse, just as he calls the time of death for another teenage girl who took a shot directly to her neck.
Then I enter a room surrounded by police officers and am told that it’s the shooter, and he’s being wheeled up from CT. I glance at the film. The bullet entered and exited, and appeared to have not caused any serious damage. It’s a handgun wound and must have been shot by one of the officers.
The killer gets to live today, but all the people that he pointed a semi-automatic rifle at weren’t so lucky. It hardly feels fair, and now we do everything we can to ensure he lives and to keep him comfortable. A murderer. But we’re doctors, and we try to help everyone. We don’t choose who lives or dies. But the urge runs strongly through me to let him die. To rot.
In all, we received nine patients from the mass shooting, and other victims went to other hospitals. Of the nine people that came through our door, we were able to save three, one being the shooter, another looks like she’ll be a quadriplegic, and the third, a man, who faced so much carnage today, may wish he didn’t survive. Security is everywhere in the hospital, trying their best to keep the new’s crews outside.
After my thirty-hour shift, I sit in the changing room, with my head in my hands. Why did I choose this life? My mind flashes back to all the people I saw die today. How does one see this and then show up for work the next day? How can I witness what I did, then smile, laugh, and act like my entire life and perspective didn’t just change? At first, I’m numb, but then reality hits me like a lightning bolt to the chest.
I need Forest. I change into my clothes, leave the emergency room, and head to the cardiology building. I take the staff elevator to the fourth floor where his office is. I peek in, but he’s not there. I’m about two seconds from breaking down, and I rush down a narrow hallway to the exit. It’s hard to breathe and feels like I’m suffocating.
“Luna.” The low, gravelly voice of Keegan rings out. He takes one look at me and asks, “Hey. What is it?”
I close my eyes, willing the tears to stay at bay, and shake my head. I can’t even look at him, or all the emotions of the day will pool over.
“Come with me.” He takes my hand.
Keegan pulls me into a room, with his name on the outside of the door. Keegan Baldwin, MD. Cardiothoracic surgeon. It’s a nice office, with a window and a desk directly in front of it. To my left is a small sitting area. A loveseat and a chair, with a round table anchoring the space. Keegan leans back against the edge of his desk and lays his palms flat on the dark wood surface.
“Luna,” he says again. “What’s going on?”
“I was looking for Forest.” I bite my bottom lip which has started to quiver. Then I start tapping my finger against it.
“I’m sure he’s with a patient. Should I page him?” Keegan’s blue eyes pierce into mine.
“No. No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to bother him.”
The intense emotions inside me reach their peak, and my control is slipping away. Suddenly, I can’t hold back any longer, and a sob erupts from deep within me, causing both of my hands to shoot up to my mouth to contain the sound. But it’s already too late, and tears start to flow down my face, like a torrent of water being unleashed.
Grief envelopes me like a prickly, wool blanket, and I need to escape these intense feelings. My eyes land on Keegan, who stands frozen in shock, watching me. Without hesitation, I rush toward him and throw my arms around his neck, seeking refuge in his embrace.
He pulls me into his chest, with his one hand on my lower back and his other on the back of my head, brushing my hair off my face and away from my tears. I soak his blue dress shirt, and his hand strokes my head and then my upper back. He holds me close to his body. The pounding of his heart against my ear.
“It’s going to be okay, Luna,” Keegan says quietly. His fingers spread across my back, keeping me pressed against him. I breathe in the clean, freshly laundered, scent of his shirt.
“I can’t do this,” I say the words into his chest. “I hate this world. They were just kids.”
My voice trails off. Keegan rubs his hands up and down my arms rhythmically. “I didn’t realize you were in the ER today.”
“Why do we do this?” I ask, and his hands tighten around me. “I’m not cut out for this.”
Keegan takes his hand, and with his thumb, brushes away new tears that begin to fall. His eyes narrow in on me. He reaches for a box of tissues on his desk and hands me one. I dab my eyes.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Keegan cups my face, keeping my hair out of the way of my tears.
Keegan’s mouth turns up slightly, and his big eyes are kind, accepting, and nonjudgmental. I’ve been so wrapped up in my breakdown, that I didn’t realize all of my weight is pressed on him as he leans against his desk.
I feel relief from my grief being in Keegan’s presence. I take my hand and push back a strand of hair that always ends up in front of his eye. It’s this pesky piece of darkness that always tries to hide the lightness in his eyes.
“Hey.” Keegan grasps my wrist, and I drop my arm to my side. “You’re not alone. Ever.” With two fingers, he makes circular patterns on the inside of my arm.
I make the mistake of looking at his lips. They are full, and a pale shade of pink. It feels good to be comforted by Keegan. I want to be transported somewhere else and have the ability to think of anything but the past few hours. I’m tired. Emotional. I need the pit in my stomach reminding me of the carnage I witnessed to disappear.
For all of those reasons, I inch forward, and place my hand on his face. Keegan is unwavering, pressed against his desk, and frozen. Our faces are inches apart. I squeeze his shoulder with my other hand, then slowly remove the gap between us until my lips are pressed against his. Keegan’s mouth opens slightly, and his hands drop to his side. His lips are soft and taste like peppermint ChapStick.
His hands squeeze my shoulders. “Luna,” he says against my mouth. “Not like this.”
“I don’t know…” My hands shoot to my mouth. “That—”
“Luna.” Keegan takes a step toward me, but I move toward the door. “It’s okay. It’s just that—”
“I have to get out of here.” I shake my head, cutting him off.
“Please. Can we talk?” Keegan says, reaching for me.
I grab the doorknob and bolt out.
“Luna,” he calls after me, but I’m already halfway down the hallway.