The Queen of Hearts(39)
“Listen, Zadie, I should have told you Friday: he saw me.”
“Who saw you?” I asked, confused. She must have meant Buzzy Cooper. Had he been floating over us in one of those disembodied hovering-soul death experiences? Yikes.
“Nick,” said Emma. “Nick Xenokostas. He’s already started at the hospital. In fact, he was on call when Buzzy came in.”
“What?”
“Yes! And today I had a message. It says he wants to congratulate me on the . . . incident . . . and asks if we could meet.”
“Oh my gosh! He asked me the same thing. He called me and asked me to lunch. I haven’t had the chance to tell you about—”
“Did you answer him?”
“I texted him. My answer was: ‘No.’”
“That’s it?” Emma sounded amused. “You told him no. A one-word response. You?”
I arched a haughty eyebrow, even though Emma couldn’t see me, and responded with quiet one-word dignity: “Yes.”
She waited.
“Fine,” I snapped. “I texted he had a lot of nerve asking me to lunch, and I said I’d rather gnaw off my arm and eat it than ever have another meal with him. I said he shouldn’t bother contacting me ever ag—”
Emma snorted. “I get the drift.”
“Well, did you answer him when he asked you?”
“No. I ignored him.” Emma sounded hesitant.
“Well, are you going to?”
“No! I mean, no? Should I?”
“Oh gosh.” I was conflicted. Did I want Emma meeting with Nick? “I don’t know. I would have said no—I just want to ignore him—but there is something I’m curious about.”
“What’s that?”
I was embarrassed. “Well, I googled him the other day, and I read that . . . he namedhisdogZadie.”
“What did you say? He named something Zadie?”
“His . . . dog. A black Lab.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know! Is it a compliment, or . . . does he think of me as a dog?”
Emma was apparently trying to reason this out. “Hmm. Black Labs are notoriously berserk.”
“Are you saying his dog reminds him of me because it’s such a spaz? Thanks a lot.”
“That came out wrong.”
I decided to take the high road. “Listen. Emma. My preference would probably be to repress all thought of him, but you do whatever you think is best, I guess; he’s your partner. Meanwhile, I am going to hibernate until everyone gets over this . . . event. My bottom is famous, by the way.”
“Yeah, someone posted a blown-up picture of it in the hospital lounge.” I sent up a quick prayer that this was a joke as Emma went on. “Listen, Z, we keep getting interrupted when we try to talk about this, so I don’t want to assume anything about how you want me to act with him.”
“Okaay . . .”
“Why don’t we have dinner? It will have to be in a couple weeks; I’m on this week and then I’m traveling to Finland for a conference. Is that okay?” More quietly: “I know I’ve never really talked with you about what happened that year.”
This was extraordinary. I had long ago made peace with Emma’s reticent nature.
“Well, yes,” I said hesitantly. “All these years . . . I have wondered what happened with you and Graham . . .”
“I know, Zadie.” Emma’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “I never tell you how grateful I am to still have you as my friend. I’ll text you about a date and we’ll talk.”
“Okay. Try not to stab anyone in the neck in the meantime.”
“How can I promise that?” asked Emma, and hung up.
Chapter Sixteen
FILTERLESS FRONTAL-LOBE DISASTER
Emma, Present Day
I hung up with Zadie, tenderness engulfing me. I’d teased her, but in truth I admired her endearing ability to simultaneously project both sunniness and anger. I don’t know how to do that. Example: in the middle of my last case, the circulator had given me the message from Dr. Zeenacost. At first it didn’t even register. Dr. Zeenacost? Who? Then it dawned on me who that must be. “Is he here?” I’d snapped. Everyone looked at me.
“Now, how you reckon I’m gon’ know something like that, Dr. Colley?” the circulator answered, unfazed. “He just say he got something he need to discuss with you.” She was an older African-American woman named Meeka, whom I secretly appreciated for her ability to come right out and say whatever she thought without the slightest concern that someone might take offense. It wasn’t like she was one of those filterless frontal-lobe disasters who blurt out things without thinking; rather, she simply said what needed to be said without tolerating any nonsense from highfalutin surgeons. They could take it or leave it. I respected this kind of person mightily, especially since I had always been a little too aware of how socially awkward I was to be able to say what I really thought.
I made a conscious effort to clear my mind of the conversation I’d just had with Zadie and all the dissonant memories it triggered. Usually I was good at this. The mind was an entity subject to control just like everything else in the world, and I was a firm believer that you could skew your environment toward a desired result if you were thoughtful and disciplined enough. Most people seemed to slog through life with perpetual bewilderment at their fates, no matter how self-inflicted those were. They were quick to denounce anyone else’s carelessness, but never seemed to acknowledge that whatever idiotic thing they themselves had done had contributed to their circumstances. Sometimes you’re the victim of random bad luck, but sometimes—and the trauma service was the prime example of this—you brought it on yourself.