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“I’m sorry, Shay. I’m a bar wimp, and a girl needs her beauty rest.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks for coming out. You good to drive home?”
“Yes.” The drive was a half mile, and I would shake off my fog in the cold outside. I was barely out the door when I sensed a presence behind me. I turned around.
“Amir?” He was breathing a bit heavily from having sprinted after me.
Was this the romantic moment, Scarlett and Rhett or Bogart and Bacall? I felt the earth open its arms.
“Listen, med student,” Amir said brusquely. “I want you to give a brief presentation on gastrointestinal stromal tumors tomorrow.”
I stood there as firmly as I could, returning his request with a cold, lucid stare. Are you fucking kidding me? We are all out having a drink, and you scut me out like this, you prick?!
None of which I said out loud. He expected deference. My career needed his support. I parted my lips slightly and shrugged. “Okay, no problem, boss.”
“Have a good night.” He pivoted around as if in an army drill and turned back to the bar.
“You too...” My voice was lost in the wind. I slumped down right there on the gravel in my hot jeans and heels, totally defeated. I whimpered for a few minutes until a pair of local pool sharks walked out and noticed me as I puddled in the parking lot.
I felt myself starting to tear up, and silently repeated the mantra again:There’s no crying in surgery.
I picked myself up, ultra-dignified, as if I’d just tripped on the gravel, and grandly summoned the unlocking of the Jeep door with my remote.
Once home, I marched into my bedroom, forcefully threw my bar clothes on the floor, and put on a ratty robe. I climbed into bed and grabbed my surgical text. I read, still a bit stuporous, about GIST tumors, which are cancer cells that can cause GI pain and intestinal bleeding, among other dysfunctions.
I was determined to cram as much as I could into my head before the sandman shuttered my eyes.
Amir, I hate you . . .stay awake . . . stay . . .
17. The Intruder
The next day, I fought my way through the cancerous tumors discussion and managed to sneak home early for a long night’s sleep. A dozen hours later, I jumped out of bed and vowed to enjoy a Saturday morning where I had a full day off. It was the first time in days that I could recall coming awake clear-headed in natural light. The crisp, clear morning called for a fresh-air jog, one of the luxuries lost to early morning rounds.
I longed to traverse muddy trails caked with fringes of ice, inhale the winter scent of pine trees, and hear the honking of snowbirds headed in V-formations to warmer climes.
Slipping on my winter-fleece Lulus, I shoved half an energy bar into my mouth and chased it with a couple of gulps of water. I flipped the door shut and walked swiftly to a nearby reservoir where jogging trails abounded, almost deserted in the onset of the morning chill.
I ran for over an hour, letting endorphins flood my brain. My mind wandered, the thoughts flitting through my mind like squirrels scampering out of my path. For the moment, anxiety seemed to dissolve into the particles of ice crunching beneath my feet.
I was back at the apartment before 10 a.m., and I decided to treat my sweat-soaked body to a fast shower. I was in and out quickly, steam following in my wake. Then I heard a strange noise. A creaking? A banging? A knocking?
Maybe a pesky squirrel was crashing against a windowpane.
Wait, that wasn’t a scampering varmint. Those were footsteps.
Human footsteps! Someone wasinsidemy apartment.
I reached for a towel and quickly dried my body, then wrapped the towel around me. Another towel was wrapped around my hair so it wouldn’t drip. (Mother would be proud of my fastidious behavior even in crisis.) I tiptoed out of the bathroom and located my dusty tennis racquet in the bottom of a storage bin, a pathetically wimpy weapon. All the knives in the kitchen. I searched for some camouflage in the closet and tried to calculate the proper form for an overhead smash on the human skull.
The footsteps were getting closer, the intruder climbing the stairs. What was he coming for? Jewelry? Money? Me? Through the slats of the closet, I looked helplessly at the phone, mute and useless, on the night table beyond my bed, way too far away. Even calling Alexa for help would be a dead giveaway.
I hunkered down on the floor, praying.
Please God, don’t make me die now. I haven’t even lived! I’ve sacrificed my whole life to becoming a physician...
I had a mournful flashback of my earlier med-school years, wishing I’d gone on a wild spring break, backpacked through Europe, enjoyed a one-night stand with an island boy...
I could hear the footsteps draw nearer. The footsteps sounded like a man’s and he was entering my bedroom. It was only a matter of seconds until he would find me.
