On Rotation(40)

Gwen was surprisingly gentle with Ms. Herring. She eased her back on the exam table and made a comment about her Betty Boop tattoo that made her laugh, and when that laughter turned to tears, she produced a small box of tissues from her scrub pocket and rubbed Ms. Herring’s back soothingly. When it was time for the ultrasound, she got the baby the moment her probe hit skin. I’d known after day one of the rotation, when I’d watched a woman fill a bedpan with blood during an incomplete abortion,* that ob-gyn wasn’t the specialty for me, but I still felt a twinge of awe when I watched the residents do procedures with skill and ease.

After presenting the patient to our attending, we walked back to the workroom in silence. There were still eight hours left in my shift. I wanted to cry.

“Okay, so you clearly don’t want to do ob-gyn,” Gwen said out of nowhere. “So what do you want to do?”

My blood pressure spiked so quickly it gave me a headache. Breathe, girl, breathe.

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

“Well, you better figure it out soon,” she said. “Because you’ll have to at least try to impress them there.”

Gwen held open the door to the workroom for me, as if that small courtesy could make up for her awfulness.

“I hate her,” I whispered later to Michelle, after Gwen had left the room. “Oh my god, I hate her so much.”

Michelle gave me a sympathetic look. Her resident was equally burned out, but significantly less toxic.

“Well, at least you have tomorrow off,” Michelle said. She dropped her head into her hands. “I have a freaking Monday. Ugh.”

“At least you can get some errands done,” I offered. My phone dinged in the front pocket of my scrubs, and I pulled it out.

Ricky: You still in the hospital? Need a re-up? He sent a photo of the self-serve coffee canisters from the downstairs café.

I smiled. Yeah, I responded. And oh my god yes. Please.

Michelle leaned toward me, turning my hand over to reveal my screen.

“Who you texting—? Ohhhh.” She leered at me. “It’s Ricardo.”

“Michelle, chill, it’s not like that.”

My phone dinged again. You’re in the L&D, right? Third floor?

“Are you sure?” Michelle said. “Because it looks to me like he’s about to wander all the way to Labor and Delivery just to hand deliver you coffee.”

“He’s just like that, Michelle,” I assured her. How was I supposed to maintain my cool-cucumber status when all my friends gave me the same knowing look when Ricky so much as shot me a glance? “We’ve been through this already, remember?”

“Aw, come on,” Michelle said. “When did you break up with Frederick again? Aren’t you missing”—she dropped her pitch, affecting a sultry Southern accent—“a man’s warm embrace?”

“Nope,” I said, popping my mouth on the p. Michelle snickered, patting my arm in sympathy.

“Okay, sweetie,” she said. “But just know . . . the relationship types don’t stay single for long. Get in there before someone else does.”

At the thought of someone else, my stomach dropped. After Camila, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of another woman in Ricky’s life. Which was ridiculous. He was a good-looking guy, and, despite my initial misgivings, a total sweetheart. There were probably a thousand hot girls in a ten-mile radius waiting to snap him up. And if one did . . . where would that leave me?

“There’s nowhere to get,” I said, just as Ricky responded: I’m here.

Checking to make sure the coast was clear of residents and waiting antepartum patients, I dashed out of the workroom and into the waiting area. To my horror, Michelle followed, giving me a look that said I ain’t missing this shit when I rolled my eyes at her.

We found Ricky standing in front of the L&D check-in counter, shuffling his feet awkwardly. Gladys, the unit secretary, was clearly dressing him down, looking at him disapprovingly over her red horn-rimmed glasses. He had two cups of coffee in hand, and his brown skin was flushed with mortification.

“No, I need to know who you’re here for,” Gladys was asking him. “And I don’t see an Appiah on our list. Are you sure she’s at this hospital?”

“She’s not a patient,” he tried. “She works here—”

“Hey, Ricky,” I said, rescuing him from further questioning. Behind me, Michelle was trying, and failing, to stifle her laughter. I turned to Gladys. “Afternoon, Gladys. Sorry, this one’s mine.”

Gladys gave me an unamused shrug and turned back to her computer. Finally released from his interrogation, Ricky sagged with relief and handed me my coffee.

“How’s the day going?” he asked in hushed tones. Then, looking left and right: “You still working with La Diabla?” he added, invoking Gwen’s nickname.

“Yeah, but careful, I think she can hear through walls,” I said. I accepted the coffee from him, trying to ignore the brush of our fingers as the cup exchanged hands. Behind me, Michelle cleared her throat.

“Oh hey,” Ricky said, startled. “Michelle, right?”

I could tell that he was thinking back to the Beyoncé concert and remembering why he’d been there in the first place.

“Nice to see you again, Ricky!” Michelle said, just a bit too cheerfully. “Don’t mind me, just stretching my legs. Sitting in that workroom is for the birds.”