Authors: Liv Hayes
Chapter 27
MIA
Regret is
a funny thing. Not in a literally humorous way, of course. But like a peculiar,
abrasive, grating kind of way. It's the kind of thing that you never really pay
much attention to until you've managed to do something stupid, and the
consequences come spinning straight around to bite you in the ass.
And oh, I
was feeling it.
Rolled up
in bedding, with the blankets pulled over my head, I tried to shield myself
from that one jagged slant of sunlight that wouldn't yield, leaking in through
the sliver-sized gap between my drapes.
What had
started out as hunger pains, an incessant gnawing, had morphed into a settled
dent in my stomach.
My bones
were sore.
My eyes
were heavy.
I hadn't
eaten anything aside from half an apple and three Saltines. I couldn't eat. I
could barely keep water down. I just stayed curled up like a wounded animal, my
earbuds plugged in, playing “Love The Way You Lie” about a thousand times, and
crying, and then playing the song again.
I
guess that's what happens when a tornado meets a volcano.
My coping
skills were impeccable.
And on
the floor, in the far corner of my room, my phone had yet to make a sound. Not
a single text, nor a single phone call.
I had
half begun to doze-off, less from actually being tired and more from lack of
nourishment, when a knock came to the door.
I ignored
it.
Go
away
, I thought. It was probably nothing. Maybe it was the Census Bureau.
Had I filed that weird form out?
Another
knock. The slow click of the lock sliding open, the dragging of the door
against linoleum tile.
“Mia?”
Aimee's
voice was both melodic and masked with worry. I could feel her flittering
about, peeking around the kitchen, the living room, until she finally found me.
“What's
going on?” she asked, alarmed.
“Being a
stupid, melodramatic twenty-something-year-old. Isn't that what Millennials are
all about? Attention-seeking, Aimee. That's what I'm doing. And it worked.”
I didn't
sit up, or draw the blankets back, so I'm not sure what she actually heard. It
could have well been a garbled collection of nonsense.
But I
felt her hand against my shoulder-blade.
I heard her sigh.
“You've
got just slightly over a month until you're leaving here for good,” she said.
“And here you are, drunk on the devastation of losing someone who was never
yours to begin with.”
She
peeled back the blanket, and I groaned.
“Oh my
God,” she said. “You're completely gaunt. When was the last time you ate?”
“I don't
remember,” I said. “It doesn't matter.”
“Let me
make you something,” she insisted. “You need to eat, Mia.”
“I can't
eat,” I told her. “I can't make myself do anything.”
I could
feel her rise to her feet, walk over to the drapes, and adjust them so that
even the sliver of sunlight was gone. There was the sound of her kicking up
laundry, her exacerbated, over-drawn sigh.
“Have you
given Cambridge your answer?”
“Yes. No.
Not applicable,” and then, decidedly, I peeked my head out of the covers. “Yes.
It's the one thing I've been able to muster up doing. It's in the post.”
“Good,”
she said. “Now I'm going to make you something. You have soup, right?”
“In the
pantry,” I told her. “Campbell's something. Tomato, I think.”
And like
magic, my phone sounded.
I sat up,
slowly, weakly, and turned in the direction of the little lit-up, noise-making
rectangle. Science. It was all so crazy. And I was so starved, my bones all
chalk and dust, that when I started to stand, a rush of dizziness overthrew me.
The room
began to flicker, like static on a screen.
Aimee grabbed
my arm.
“Mia,”
she said. “Mia, sit back down.”
“I need
to get that...” I said. “It could be him.”
I never
found out, of course. I hit the ground, and the room when dark, before I even
had a chance to answer.
I
regained consciousness as two EMTs were loading me into an ambulance. Aimee was
right next to me, holding my hand.
“No,” I
said, trying to sit up. The blinding strike of a headache sent me straight back
down. “I'm fine. I can't go to the hospital. This is too much.”
They took
my pulse. Listened to my heart.
“We'd
like to have you checked out,” the EMT insisted. “Your pulse is high, Miss
Holloway.”
Not so
unusual
, I thought.
I let my
head fall against the gurney, and turned to Aimee.
“Did you
pick up the phone?” I asked.
She
nodded.
“And who
was it?”
“It was
who you had likely anticipated it to be,” she said mildly. “He told me to call
for an ambulance.”
Aimee
brushed a bit of hair away from my forehead; her palms were cool, her fingers
dry. Neither of us spoke for the whole ride. It wasn't until we were alone, in
a room divided only by flimsy curtains, that I said.
“You
know, I'm not some scorned girl. I left him. I walked out.”
Aimee
made no motion, said no words.
“What
happened?” she asked. “When you two saw each other?”
I didn't
want to tell her.
We had sex. Cried. I left him in a puddle of his own
tears.
I glanced
at the tape wound around my wrist, at the needle where, through an IV, fluids
were being pumped through blue veins.
“It went
too far, is all.”
Aimee
couldn't stay, but Eric popped in briefly for a visit before collecting her. He
brought yellow roses that smelled like those from the hospital gift shop. I
thanked him, staring at the flashy-colored flowers in the bright pink, plastic
vase. A temporary distraction, if nothing else.
It felt
like a solid century before someone actually showed up. Most of my time spent
in the ER was listening to the ugly sounds of pained moans and wet coughs. The
wheels of wheelchairs or beds against the uneven floors. The sounds of fingers
against keyboards.
I wanted
to go home. But I was also, deep down, hoping he would show up.
And he
did, because of course he would.
When he
drew back the curtain, he looked as I was partly expecting: worried, shaken. He
tried to keep the facade of the mild-mannered, pleasant (but not too pleasant)
doctor going, but when he touched my hand, I saw his expression fall.
“Little
fox,” he said gently. “You have someone looking out for you, it seems.”
He
approached me warily, seating himself down on the fold-out chair beside my bed.
Adjusting his stethoscope, his lips fell to a straight line as he listened to
my heart.
“Your
heart-rate is all over the place,” he said quietly.
“So
everyone has said,” I told him. “Normal occurrence. You've said there's nothing
wrong with my heart, so...”
He was
balancing my file on his knees, his legs wobbling anxiously. He flipped it
open, glancing at results from the ordered lab-work.
“Well,
you haven't been eating,” he said. “And you have a low-grade fever.”
“So what
does that mean?”
His eyes
met mine, and it felt like a blow to chest. How could looking at someone, such
a simple thing, feel so impossible.
He had
told me that he loved me.
I had
seen him cry.
I had
seen him collapse, like a mannequin, to the floor.
But I
don't want anyone else
, he'd said.
“It means
I'm having you kept overnight for observation,” he answered. “Get your fluids
up, get your levels right. You're malnourished. And once you've eaten, and can
keep it down, we'll let you go.”
“And when
will that be?”
“Tomorrow
morning, most likely,” he said. Standing, he stood awkwardly until finally
settling on his parting remark: “I'll let nurses know you've been assigned a
room. Expect your chariot to arrive soon, milady.”
I gave a
small smile. Which was nice in the mix of all the terrible things I was
feeling.
“Could
you take me?” I asked. “To my room, I mean. Or are you busy?”
His hand
brushed against the fabric siding. I was suddenly all too aware of the fact
that there weren't actually walls around us. Every little thing just shy of
whispers could be heard.
“I have
two other patients to see,” he told me. “I'll be back.”
It took
an hour, but he returned with a wheelchair in tow. He wheeled me, silently,
through the quiet halls that were soaked in twilight. We rode the elevator up
four flights, and briefly I felt his fingers – accidentally, I think – brush
against my neck as he he moved the wheelchair forward.
In the
room, which was blessedly a single, he watched me with an almost mournful look
on his face as I got into bed. He adjusted the IV accordingly, ensuring that I
wasn't too wrangled up in tubes. And when I had the blankets snugly yanked over
my legs (because even despite the doctor-patient dynamic, hospital gowns are
never sexy), I looked at him.
“I'm
sorry I left like I did,” I said. “The other night. I shouldn't have just
stormed out. It was immature.”
“It was
immature of me to keep things from you,” he said. I felt the creak of the
mattress as he sat down on the end of the bed. “It was fucked up. I shouldn't
have done that. I just didn't know what to do.”
“But the
baby isn't yours.”
“No,” he
said, and the word fell in such a way that it sounded raw. “It's not mine.”
He moved his body away – not directly, but the
shift in his unspoken language, the language of limbs, was unmistakable.
“Did you
want the baby?” I asked. “Answer honestly.”
“I'm not
sure what I wanted,” he confessed. “And that is being honest. I think I just
got caught up in what I thought was happening, and was trying to do the right
thing.”
“Do you
ever want children?”
He looked
so sullen. He touched a finger to the face of his watch.
“I want
everything that most men want,” he confessed. “Something to fill my empty
office. Photos of smiles, of memories. Of people I love.”
I said
nothing until the only thing I could think to say wasn't what I wanted to, but
rather what only seemed necessary.
“I
couldn't give you those things,” I told him. “I'm too young.”
“I know.”
“Maybe if
we had met each other at a different place, a different time,” I said. “But not
now. I'm not ready.”
I
faltered briefly before adding.
“I've
accepted the spot at Cambridge. I'll be living in England in a little over a
month. And I've decided, for the time being...” I took a breath. “I'm leaving
Orlando. I'm going to spend the rest of summer in Arizona, with my mother.”
“Arizona,”
he repeated, his breath light, pained. “With your mother.”
My eyes
fell. I clutched the woven blanket.
“I was
foolish to fall for you,” I told him. “And you're foolish to love me. You can't
love me. And if you do, you need to turn it off. Move on.”
“Impossible,”
he said, stubborn.
“It's not
impossible. You need to,” I stated firmly. “Don't put me on a pedestal. That's
not fair to either of us.”
His
fingers crawled across the bedding, settling on my hand, soft as snowfall.
“Do you
love me, too?” he asked.
My throat
clenched. Why did he need to do this now?
“I've
already told you.”
“No, not
directly,” he said. “And
I think you've
wanted to. Back in my car, in the parking lot, when you were looking at me
through pieces of wet hair. I think you wanted to say it, then. But you were
afraid.”
“You have
no idea what you're talking about,” I said. “Self-indulgent thoughts. Like that
fancy watch of yours.”
My
defense was up. I snapped at him like a gator – and for Florida, this was
appropriate.
Dr.
Greene shifted closer. My heartbeat, which had been steadied, started running.
And he knew it, because the line jumped and fell like one of those amusement
park rides. The slow rise, the quick drop.
“Please,”
he begged softly. “Leave. Never speak to me again. God knows I deserve it, Mia.
I know I do. But if nothing else, at least leave me with having known.”
Before I
looked at him, I found myself taking another glimpse around the hospital room.
Through the wide window, I could see the reflective light belonging to
some-hundred other rooms; their respective key-slot windows shining like
candles. It bled gently through the glass, making these little golden orbs
dance across Dr. Greene's body.
That's
how I wanted to remember him. Beautiful. The doctor I fell in love with, as the
patient he had never expected to fall for.
I looked
at him, his green eyes full of promise, and swallowed.
“I love
you,” I whispered. “Now goodbye, Dr. Greene.”
Chapter 28
ALEX
No amount
of alcohol or lack of food – despite the hazy, hunger-induced hallucinations –
was going to bring her back. I knew this. I knew I needed to stop drinking,
pick myself up, and continue forward. This was the only logical move; the only
move that made sense. I would meet another woman at some point. I'd fall in
love once more.
Staring
into the empty glass, I repeated this over and over again. A silent chant.
Cait had
given birth, though I had only found out due to the delivery having taken place
at the hospital while I was on shift. Grace told me that she had seen the baby,
and that she was beautiful.
I didn't
doubt it. But I never made a point to visit. The blood still hadn't dried from
that open wound.
And, like
always, I found myself in the room where I had last spoken to Mia. She had
already left, but the sheets were still rumpled, and her gown lay in a heap at
the foot of the bed.
I picked
up a hair elastic that was left nearby the pillow. It was pink, like the ones
she usually wore.
Slipping
it inside my coat pocket, feeling all the more pitiful, I told myself again:
Move
on
.
The rest
of the week seemed to slip by as followed:
Managing
to locate some a distant relative of Mr. Moulton, who was then able to locate
more local relatives. None of whom had heard from Mr. Moulton in years – and
who was, apparently, an uncle, a grandfather – but still agreed to help with
funeral arrangements.
Cleaning
my loft. I had scrubbed the windows at least a dozen times, but they never felt
clean enough. I swore, every time, that I could still see a smudge of Mia's
hand-print.
Throwing
out the glass she drank from. I had stooped that low.
And
having lunch with Weisman, who was officially in the process of drafting
divorce papers with his (soon to be ex) wife.
As we
talked, I forced myself to eat. The tomato and mushroom risotto sank into my
stomach like a lead brick.
“You
know,” I said, swallowing another forkful. “The patient I told you about. If it
weren't for you, we'd never have met.”
“What?”
he scowled. “You're not blaming me for your mess, are you?”
“No,” I
said hastily. “I'm just saying: if you had come into work that night, I would
never have met her. She'd have been assigned to you, not me.”
He gave a
tepid side-nod, but didn't quite look at me.
“I'm
sorry, Al,” he said. “I mean it.”
I leaned
back in the iron-wrought patio chair. I was wearing a polo and jeans, but the
heat was smothering.
“She's
leaving,” I confessed. “So it's not like it matters anymore.”
The art
of suppression: arguably one of the best skills a doctor can learn.
How else
do you think we cope?
Later
that night, she called. I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and getting
ready to attempt some kind of sleep when the ring-tone – the chorus to Peter
Schilling's “Major Tom” – sounded and startled me.
My
toothbrush clattered into the ceramic sink. I bolted into the bedroom, picked
up my phone, and saw her name flash across the screen.
I picked
up.
“Wait,” I
said. I set the phone down, ran into the bathroom to quickly rinse, wipe my
mouth, then returned. “I'm sorry. You caught me off guard.”
“What
were you doing?” she asked quietly.
“Brushing
my teeth and getting ready for bed,” I answered. “Nothing particularly
interesting.”
“But it's
only half past seven.”
“I know,”
I told her. “I guess I'm just tired.”
And I
was. The lack of sleep for weeks on end had finally caught up to me. I felt
sluggish, lethargic.
She
wavered for a moment before speaking again.
“I'm a
little embarrassed to be calling,” she said. “But I didn't know who else to
call. Aimee is away with her boyfriend, and even if she wasn't, I don't think
she could help me with this.”
“What's
wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing's
wrong,” she said. “It's just, I have some boxes that still need to go over to
the Salvation army before I leave tomorrow. Some are heavy, though, and I can't
lift them.”
“Give me
five minutes to dress,” I told her. “I'll be over.”
Her
apartment was the cleanest I had ever seen it. Everything was scrubbed and
wiped down. There was no dust, nor any piles of clothes, nor any of her odd
nick-knacks hanging from the ceiling or door knobs.
I glanced
around at all the boxes, my heart sinking.
When Mia
appeared, dressed in a tank-top and sweat-pants, her hair messily
tied back, she looked equally exhausted.
“Just
those over there,” she said. “The rest will get picked up tomorrow and brought
to campus for the scavenger students to pick at.”
“What's
in them?” I asked.
“Clothes,”
she said. “And a few odds and ends.”
She
looked at me, dressed in a simple black T-shirt, jeans, and having left behind
the fancy watch.
“You look
terrible,” she said.
“I'm
aware,” I said.
“I'm
sorry,” she fumbled. “It's just, you need to take care of yourself. You have an
important job. I hope you're sleeping.”
I nodded.
It was all I could bring myself to do.
Mia
stepped forward. At first I thought she might run her hand along my forearm, or
fall against my chest in an embrace.
“You're
wearing cologne,” she said, just looking up at me, flustered and desolate. Her
eyes were slightly blood-shot, and I wondered if she had been crying. “Why?”
“I'm not
sure,” I answered honestly. “Because you like it.”
“If this
was a bad idea...” she paused. “Then you can leave, if you want. I can leave
the boxes behind.”
“Please,”
I said. “Don't. I want to help.”
She
looked hesitant, dubious. But eventually, disappearing to grab a bag that was,
to my assumption, full of clothes, we tucked our hesitance away for the time
being and got to work.
I loaded
my car full of boxes, she threw the bags into the back seat.
The car
ride was quiet. Mia tapped a finger against the window, curled up in the
passenger's side. She didn't ask for music, or try to make small talk.
Maybe
this really had run its course.
And when
it was over,
and it was just the two of
us, sitting in the familiar spot where I had fucked her and she had looked so
fucking lonely, I said.
“Mia,” I
stopped short, my insides curling. “Spend the night with me.”
“I don't
think that's a good idea.”
“Maybe,”
I admitted. “But do you want to?”
I took
her hand softly, and she didn't pull away. She just stared quietly at our
joined hands, torn. I could see it all over her face.
“The
beach,” she said. “Let's go the beach.”
So we
did. I watched her dance on white sand, kicking up the grains like snow. I
watched her run into the water, the sound of her laugh so sweet after weeks of
silence, dripping IVs, ticking clocks.
We walked
along the pier, barefoot and eating ice cream. As we strolled along
side-by-side, our fingers occasionally brushing, Mia eyed the Ferris Wheel.
She
grabbed my hand, pointing.
“I want
to see the top of the world with you.”
So we
did. On the Ferris wheel, we gazed down towards the ocean and sand and
scattered people, all bathed in pink-and-blue twilight. The colors of cotton
candy.
Mia
touched my wrist. My heart skipped like a stone across the ocean.
“I'll
miss this,” she said quietly.
We were
soaked by the time we got into the car. I bought two overpriced towels from one
of the stands and draped them over the leather.
“Where do
you want to go now?” I asked. “We can go anywhere. Anywhere you want.”
She
smiled, but it was weak.
“Home, I
think,” she said, and part of me fell. “I really am tired. It's not you.”
“I
understand.”
So I
drove her home. We listened to generic radio as we sped along the winding
roads, and in the parking lot, after the engine had silenced, she turned to me:
“Come
inside,” she said. “I want you to.”
“Are you
sure?” I asked.
“Yes,”
she said. Nothing else.
We both
knew what this meant. My heart strummed erratically as I climbed the steps,
stepped through the threshold of her barren apartment, and turned to look at
her again. She looked so timid, frail.
“Dr.
Greene,” she whispered.
From the
short distance between us, I could see that she was trembling.
“Little
fox,” I said gently.
She shook
her head, her eyes falling.
“Don't
call me that,” she said. “It will make this too hard.”
I walked
towards her carefully, and she moved towards me slowly. The entire span of
footsteps seem to happen in slow-motion, broadcasting the fear we both felt.
What were
we doing?
Mia
reached out, pressing a palm to my chest. The other took hold of my hand. Our
fingers interlaced, slow and uncertain, and she said:
“The next
one who finds you will be so lucky.”
The final
arrow. I was gone, running on fumes, only living for this moment.
I caught
her face in my hands when she went to turn away, and her eyes cut into mine. I
could practically feel her heart slowly tearing in half.
I kissed
her, falling to my knees, her face still cradled in my palms. It was hard,
harder than I wanted it to be, but weeks of starvation had halted any shred of
rationale.
I pulled
her against me, her moans soft, her eyelids heavy.
She let
me pick her up, carry her into the bedroom, lay her down. When she started to
pull of her top, I stopped her.
“No,” I
said. “I want to.”
I slowly
took off her clothes. Her shirt, her bra. I rolled her pants down, tossing them
aside. I caught her underwear with my fingers, slowly sliding them down her
thighs.
She gave
a small sigh, her face already flushed. Her breasts rose and fell with each
exhale; the shadows pooled against the crevices of her bones.
“You're
so beautiful,” I whispered. I had to stop myself from saying
little fox
,
and the void, the absence of something so simple as a term of affection, was
real.
I was
already hard. I yanked off my T-shirt, unbuttoned and zipped down my fly, let
my jeans fall. Mia responded with wide eyes, gripping hands, a sharp inhale.
“You're
so perfect,” she said softly. “Sometimes it's hard to believe you're real.”
I freed
my erection from my boxers, hovering over her.
Before
sinking in, I took a moment just to study what she looked like, right then,
full of longing and heartbreak.
“Why are
you waiting?” she asked, though it sounded like begging. Her breath had grown
shallow.
“I want
to remember your face,” I whispered. “I want to remember this.”
Her hands
pressed against my back, drawing my body closer to hers. We kissed again
gently, tongues dancing lightly. I grazed my teeth over her throat, feeling the
warmth against my mouth. Her skin was hot as foil.
Blind
with lust, I slid into her slowly, sinking into her delicate frame and feeling
every wire in my body snap. I kissed her more deeply, our eyes closed and skin
pressed against one another, sinking into each other, with everything just a
collective mesh of moans and the sound of her creaking mattress.
With each
thrust, I felt myself growing closer. Her fingertips skimmed down the length of
my spine, sending a course of shivers over me. She wrapped her arms around my
waist, forcing me in deeper, pleading without words.
And I
gave her what she wanted, begging with my own harder, frantic thrusts, until I
couldn't hold back any more.
“Mia,” I
gasped. “Oh, God...”
We both
came together. A flash of lightening struck. And when the final cord fell, and
the music died, and we were just two bodies on a bare mattress, I took her into
my arms.
She
didn't protest.
When the
room grew quiet, I asked:
“Should I
leave?”
“No,” she
said. “Please stay.”
Her heart
was still pounding. I could feel it against my chest.
I kissed
her again, lingering until she pulled away away. She looked at me, but I
couldn't tell what was going through her head.
She
wasn't going to let me read her. She wouldn't let me in.
So this
was how it would end.
Early the
next morning, when the sky was still dark, I dropped her off at the airport. We
drank our coffee quietly, and she was relatively bundled up when we got into
the car.
“I know,”
she muttered. “But I always get cold on planes. It doesn't matter where I'm
traveling to. I need a sweater.”
I smiled,
wanting to share her anticipation, her excitement. But this was, above all
things, the worst day of my life.
I wheeled
her luggage to check-in, and we stood for a second longer, the air filled with
a sort of awkwardness. As if all of the things that had gone down between us
over the concluded months had never happened. We were strangers. Capable of a
second chance; void of the positions that had cut us down from the very
beginning.
Hello,
my name is Alex. You don't have to call me Dr. Greene. Just Alex.
It was
all so fucking unbearable.
“Well,”
she said softly. “I'll see you around.”
A part of
me almost said:
you know that's not true –
but I resisted.
“I'll see
you around,” I told her. “Have a safe flight. Take care of yourself over there.
Enjoy seeing your family.”