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She heard the dog. Of course she did—Lydia Ritter knows everything happening in the ICU at all times, often before it happens.
She marches toward me, her usually kind face pinched together with unfamiliar anger. Useless excuses prickle on my tongue.
“You’re on again?” Lydia’s wearing gray scrubs and gray Crocs, and if it weren’t for the spots of red on her cheeks, she’d blend into the gray walls. “I thought you were taking a few days off after the wedding.”
“Rosalie called in sick.”
“You mean Rosalie called in lazy. I’m on my last stitch of patience with that girl. I swear Gen Z, or whatever they’re calling themselves now, is going to be the death of me.”
“She sounded sick.”
Lydia shakes her head. “You’re too trusting. She’s taking advantage of you.”
Tessa accused me of something similar when she picked me up outside a bodega on a Manhattan street corner. Considering I’d justspent my last two dollars on a rock-hard bagel, I wasn’t in a position to argue with her.
“Or maybe she’s actually sick.” In my mind, the words are snarky and strong. In my mouth, they’re lame.
“Don’t get mad. I’m just looking out for you.” Lydia sighs. “If Rosalie calls you again tomorrow, do not answer. I don’t want to see you back here for at least three days. No. A week. You’re no good to me if you’re burned out. In fact, you should use the time to finish your application. I just spoke to my friend who works in admissions for the University of Rhode Island’s nursing master’s degree program. He received my letter of recommendation but hasn’t received your application. He wanted to make sure it didn’t get lost in the mail.” Lydia crosses her arms over her chest. “Did it get lost in the mail?”
“Oh,” I breathe, an entirely new set of excuses stinging against my lips. “No, I missed the deadline.”
Tension dissolves from her face. She tilts her head and flattens her mouth. “This is the third time you’ve missed the deadline.”
“I know. Time got away from me.”
“Hope, you are an incredible nurse. You could be doing so much more with your career. One day, you could have my job. But you need to want it.”
“I do,” I say, the pitchiness in my voice just high enough to cover the faint yip from down the hall.
Lydia’s phone buzzes, alerting her to an incoming patient. A shadow crosses her features, telling me all I need to know. Car-accident victim.
“What do you need?”
The corners of Lydia’s mouth turn down. “I’ll get someone else to help. You’ve got your hands full.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can. This time, someone else will.” Lydia turns down the hall and pauses. “By the way, watch out for patient 4A’s husband. He’s been trying to sneak a dog in all morning.”
Two hours later, my first shift break arrives with a splatter of vomit, courtesy of a patient who failed to alert us that he gets nauseated at the sight of blood. After I change into freshly laundered scrubs, I take my coffee, my headache, and my phone to the courtyard.
Late-afternoon shadows lengthen across the outdoor space, which was once green, but is now the color of burnt toast, thanks to the extended drought. It makes it seem as if Kingsette is living under a sepia filter.
Three months of no rain is a record. If it continues, our town, which prides itself on its unwavering commitment to staying the same, might have to change. Permanently.
I find the little sunlight left in the day and stretch my legs into the space.
Two missed calls from my mother. Three from Tessa, along with twelve text messages asking where I am.
Lucky number thirteen vibrates as I take my first sip of coffee. It’s burnt and unsatisfying.
Tessa:Please tell me you did not go to work. You promised you’d take a few days off.
Me:They were in a bind. Rosalie had car trouble,I respond, which is half-true.
Three dots appear on my screen. They disappear a moment later. Thirty seconds after that, they’re back.
Tessa:Rosalie’s car worked fine when I saw her this morning at the Friendly Bean. She told me she took the day off to go to Newport.
