Under the Knife(15)

Me.

She realized with dismay that she was still a long way from the women’s locker room and that the corridors between here and there were teeming with early-morning staff preparing the operating rooms for a busy working day.

Lisa seemed to read her mind. She grabbed her lightly by the elbow and spoke in her right ear. “Let’s go the other way.”

Rita nodded numbly. She had no personal experience with walks of shame. But she’d seen plenty of girls who had as she’d jogged to cross-country practice on Saturday mornings in college: as they’d slouched home in revealing dresses or blouses with tight jeans, high heels slung over shoulders, eyes fixed on the ground. Back then, Rita had felt nothing but contempt for those girls. Right now, wanting nothing more than to blend in with the walls, she was feeling a whole lot less judgmental.

They reversed direction and entered a relatively empty hallway. Lisa kept her hand resting on Rita’s elbow, for which Rita felt grateful: She was still feeling wobbly. Operating room ten was one of the farthest away from the locker room. A walk of what couldn’t have been more than a few minutes seemed to stretch into hours. Eventually, a thick red line appeared on the floor ahead of them.

Finally. Thank God.

The red line demarcated the end of the designated operating-room area, in which scrubs and surgical hats were mandatory, and the beginning of everything else. This morning, the red line felt to her like the tape at the end of a grueling marathon. She could see the entrance to the women’s locker room just beyond.

Lisa let go of her elbow as they stopped at the red line. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.”

Lisa folded her arms.

“Yes, Lisa. I’m fine. And, um … you won’t, ah, mention this to anyone. Will you?”

Lisa shook her head. “No.”

“Thanks, Lisa. I—well … just, thanks.”

Lisa offered a small, unenthusiastic nod as Rita darted into the women’s locker room.





RITA


The place was empty. The early nursing shift had already changed into scrubs and was at work in the operating rooms; the women surgeons had not yet arrived. Her timing was perfect.

Thank God for small favors. She could use a few more this morning.

Rita placed her phone on one of the spare wooden benches that squatted between the rows of lockers. She located her locker, dialed the combination, and yanked at the handle, which refused to yield. Chagrined, she reset the dial and tried again. It would not open.

It took three more ineffectual attempts, each more frantic, for her then to realize that she was trying to open the wrong locker.

God, what’s wrong with me?

She took a deep breath, then located and opened her actual locker, from which she procured a bottle of Advil and a plastic bottle of water. She washed a few of the Advil down. Her stomach protested with an audible groan.

Rita sat down heavily on the bench next to her phone, took off her glasses, and laid them on the bench.

She took a sip of water and tried to size up her situation.

You mean—you were here all night?

How are you feeling, Dr. Wu? For real?

“I don’t know,” she said aloud. She cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes.

Her phone vibrated with an incoming text, rattling the wood and propelling it in electronic spasms toward the side of the bench. Without moving her head or opening her eyes, she reached out, grabbed the phone before it toppled off the edge, and hit the reset key. Silence again enveloped the room.

Minutes later it vibrated again. With great effort and no enthusiasm, she lifted her head to look at the screen and read the text. It was the pre-op area, informing her for the second time (the previous message having been the first) that her first patient of the day, Mrs. Sanchez, had checked in, and that she and her family were waiting to speak with her before her operation.

Rita’s stomach clenched, and she tasted bile in the back of her throat.

God, but she felt horrible.

How could she possibly operate this morning?

No weakness.

She’d trained herself to ooze strength from every pore of her body, and canceling the operation would look weak. Backing down was not in her nature. She couldn’t let a little nausea stand in her way.

Her phone buzzed again. This time an incoming phone call.

Goddamn pre-op nurses!

She stabbed the accept call icon without checking the incoming number.

“I’ll be right there!” she barked.

“Rita?”

“Oh. Darcy.” It was her kid sister. “Sorry. I thought you were … Sorry, Darcy.”

Wait—what’s Darcy doing up at this hour? Since crashing at Rita’s a few days ago, Darcy hadn’t been getting up much before noon.

“Darcy? Why are you awake? Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I mean, I think so. It’s just that—”

“Okay. Good.” Rita’s phone vibrated: another text from pre-op. “I’m glad you’re okay. Look. Now’s a really bad time. I’ve got work stuff right now. Can I give you a call back in a few minutes?”

“Um … okay. I guess. But—”

“Thanks. I’ll—wait! Darcy?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you, uh, remember what time I left the house last night? To go to the hospital?”