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My tumbler falls from my fingers a second time.
Dr. Carver lifts her hands. “Smithson?”
I quickly pick it up. After I’ve straightened up, I find Rainier right in front of me with his arm extended.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, thinking he’s offering me some help. Or is he offering me his hand again because I didn’t shake it the first time?
“The tablet,” Rainier says. “On second thought, I don’t think you should scrub in with me. In fact, I’m not sure you should be on my service.”
What? He’s kicking me out? “But…”
Dr. Carver pokes my arm. “I guess you’re in the pit today, Smithson.”
~
The pit. That’s what we in the medical profession call the emergency room. I call it the war zone.
The people who are brought here look like they’ve just been in battle. Here is where the paramedics wheel in the victims of accidents and crimes – road collisions, fires, shootings, stabbings, maulings, poisonings. Yet here is where the real battle begins. The moment they come in, doctors fight to save their lives, and sometimes, they have to fight, too, for theirs.
Oh, and it’s also where interns fight over patients.
I’ve just lost one to Asher, so here I am, stitching the arm of a man who lost to a turkey. He was trying to make a sandwich out of the leftover turkey but his hand slipped and the knife ended up cutting his arm instead.
Yup. Some people come here as victims of crimes and natural calamities and some come here as victims of carelessness and stupidity.
I’m not one to judge this man, though. I, too, have been very careless and stupid in the past twenty-four hours. I had dinner with a stranger just because it was Thanksgiving. I drank wine for the first time in my life just because he was too hot to handle. I danced with him just because he asked. Worst of all, I slept with him.
I thought it was a good thing. I told myself I didn’t do anything wrong. Then again, I thought I’d never see Rainier again.
That’s why I spilled my coffee when I saw him today.
I can’t believe he’s here at this hospital where I work. I can’t believe he’s a doctor. I can’t believe he’s my boss.
I slept with my boss.
Oh, you’re so screwed, Ellis.
I’ve made a few mistakes since I started my internship, but this, this is by far the worst.
“Ouch!” my patient complains. “What the hell are you doing?”
My jaw drops as I realize what I’ve just done. I was so deep in thought that my hand just kept moving automatically. I’ve made more stitches than required, so now I’m past the incision site, past the area I’ve numbed with the anesthesia.
Holy shit.
My patient says the same thing out loud as he looks at his arm. Then he glares at me.
“Get me your boss right now!”
~
“Is it true you practiced your stitches on a man’s arm?” Laura asks as she puts her lunch tray down on our table at the cafeteria.
I roll my eyes as I take a bite out of a carrot stick. “He had a gaping two-inch cut. I stitched him up.”
“And how many inches did you stitch up?” Asher asks.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Shut up.”
If he hadn’t stolen the patient in bed five from me, I wouldn’t have had to do those stitches.
“Hey,” Farrah, the closest thing I have to a friend among the interns, speaks up. “Ellis made a mistake, okay? We all do. At least she didn’t kill anyone.”
I give her a smile. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Laura nods. “Let’s cut Ellis some slack. After all, she has it hard.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Asher says. “She never has.”
I ignore him as I pop a forkful of lasagna inside my mouth.
Great. Another joke about my virginity. I’d tell them I’m no longer a virgin if I didn’t think that would cause more trouble for me.
Seconds later, Laura finally gets the joke and laughs. God, she is so stupid.
I turn my gaze to the TV screen across the room. I can’t hear the audio because the cafeteria is too noisy, but I can see that it’s an episode of Ellen and that she’s talking to a woman with blue highlights and a black leather dress. Some new pop artist maybe? I’ve lost track of them.
“I seriously don’t know why Suzannah Northup is trying so hard to be in the entertainment industry,” Farrah tells me. “She’s already a model.”
“She is?”
“Besides, she’s an heiress. She’s already rich.”
I turn to her with arched eyebrows. “Really?”
Farrah nods.
I turn back to the TV. Come to think of it, she is wearing a lot of jewelry.
I put my sandwich down and shrug. “Well, maybe she wants to try something different. Maybe she wants to make her own name.”
“If that was true, she’d stop throwing her last name around,” Farrah says.
