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I see her through the window of the restaurant the following night. The restaurant was my suggestion. It’s an intimate coffee shop slash wine bar just off Halsted, which used to be one of my favorite places to meet up with friends back when that was something I still did.
My phone rings on the way. I answer the call.
“Is this Meghan Michaels?” the woman on the other end of the line asks, her voice hard to hear over the noise of the city.
“Yes,” I say, holding a hand to the opposite ear to block out the noise.
“Hi, Meghan, I’m calling from Dr. Berry’s office about your recent mammogram.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask, my voice hesitant, knowing it’s not, of course. They don’t call with mammogram results unless there’s a problem.
“There was an asymmetry on the right breast, which is most likely nothing to worry about. Most of the time, it’s not cancer. Still, we’re going to need additional imaging studies to be safe.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling anxious, and she gives me a number to call for a different radiology office than where I’ve been, one with different equipment.
I put the phone away when we’re through, trying not to think about it for now—as she just said Most of the time, it’s not cancer. Still, easier said than done. I walk fast, dodging pedestrian traffic, but end up getting caught at a red light just before the intersection. I stand at the light, watching through the glass where Nat waits for me, seated at a table on the enclosed patio that stays open year-round, kept warm with a fire and heat lamps. She sits beside a massive stone fireplace, facing out onto the street, under a set of clear string lights. Through the glass, the whole scene looks inviting and snug and warm.
As I wait for the illuminated walking person to tell me to cross, I watch her in the near distance, her hands folded around a mug, staring blankly out into the night, her mind seemingly somewhere else. Behind her, a waiter carries a tray of drinks past a young man who slips into a coat, getting ready to leave.
The light turns green. The walking hand appears, and I cross, bypassing people in the way because I’m already fifteen minutes late and feeling guilty for it. I sent her a message on Facebook and told her that I got caught up at work and was running behind, but the last time I checked, three blocks away, she hadn’t read the message yet. I was worried she would give up and leave before I arrived.
When I get there, I pull the door open and let myself in through the main entrance, weaving between tables and chairs for the patio. “Hey,” I burst out, coming up behind her in a rush. “I’m so sorry I’m—”
And then I freeze because, at the sound of me, she jolted, the mug in her hands getting shaken so abruptly that coffee sloshes over the edge and onto the table. “Oh my gosh,” I’m quick to say, springing into action, coming around to the other side of the table, where there are napkins, which I reach for, using them to sop up the mess. “I’m so sorry,” I say again, more gently this time, studying her as she lowers the mug to the table and then lets go of it, and when she does, I see how her hands gently shake.
“It’s fine,” she says, bringing them to her lap where I can’t see them.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. Here, let me get you another coffee,” I say, my eyes searching for the waiter, who’s a few tables away, taking another customer’s order. It wasn’t the whole cup that spilled, but this was not the first impression I was hoping to make after all these years, and I want to remedy that.
“No,” she says. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Are you sure? I feel so bad.”
“Please don’t worry about it.”
I lower my arm. I set my bag on the floor and sink into a seat. I had the presence of mind to change into something before I left work, and so I’m in jeans and a blouse instead of the frumpy scrubs she saw me in the other night. “It was my fault,” she goes on. “I’m such a klutz. Always spilling things and hurting myself.” She chuckles, though her laugh feels unnatural, strained. She looks away from me and, at the same time, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s an instinct, a habit. She doesn’t realize what she’s done, but with her hair out of the way, there it is again, up close and personal this time: the bruise. My eyes go to it.
Nat brings her own eyes slowly back. She catches me looking at the bruise. Right away, she releases her hair from behind an ear and tries to hide it, but it’s too late. I can’t unsee what I already saw.
I swallow. What I want to ask is how she got the bruise, but instead I say, more staidly this time, “I’m really sorry I’m late. I hate to be late,” thinking how good it feels to finally sit down after a full day of being on my feet. “I got caught up at work and couldn’t get away.”
“Busy day?” she asks. Her hair hangs long now, like dark curtains around her face, spilling over the shoulders of a black mock neck shirt that comes clear up to her chin.
“Yes. Very,” I say.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a nurse. Critical care.”
“Oh wow. Meghan. That’s very admirable. But it must be stressful too?”
“Yes, it is,” I say. “But rewarding. I like to help people.” I leave it at that because as a rule, I don’t talk about my patients outside of work. Other nurses do—anonymously—but it’s a HIPAA violation nonetheless because, even without saying a patient’s name, someone else might pick up on identifying characteristics and know who the person is. Most of the time, I’m a stickler for rules. I don’t like to break them but, rules aside, not talking about my patients is a good habit for keeping work out of my personal life.
“I can’t remember. Did you always want to be a nurse?” she asks.
I smile. “Either that or an astronaut. Until I learned that astronauts have to wear diapers in outer space and then suddenly it didn’t seem as desirable a career choice.”
She laughs and this time, there is an ease about it.
