The Queen of Hearts(42)

Finally, around four o’clock, I was free. Who to call first, Zadie or Wyatt? I owed Zadie a call. But even though I hadn’t shown it, I felt grateful to Wyatt for visiting me. He generally had a predictable schedule: he went in to the office every morning at eight; worked there until noon; had a nice, tax-deductible business lunch at a downtown restaurant, which he enjoyed mightily and refused to give up despite some cholesterol issues; and then spent the afternoon at one of his five dealerships, bestowing his presence on favored salesmen and an occasional flattered customer. He rarely deviated from this schedule; he was a creature of habit. In fact, I could not recall him ever having shown up at my work before, at least not unannounced. Wyatt sometimes seemed to possess a supernatural awareness of when things were going badly for me.

Still, he would want to talk my ear off, and Zadie would likely be getting clobbered by the demands of afternoon in the Anson house, so she was a better bet for a brief call. I texted her.


Have time to chat?

I got an instant reply.


Filled up car with diesel instead of regular gas on way home today—v. bad. 10K damage to engine and stranded all kids and D. barfed on neighbor who was helping. Gonna have Xanax or nice glass wine, but . . . sure. For you.

I had to smile. For someone so intelligent, Zadie was always managing to shoot first and ask questions later. She was a loving mother, a doting wife, an ethical, thoughtful cardiologist, a loyal friend, a concerned and energetic citizen, and an all-around stellar representative of the human race, but she was also kind of a lovable dingbat.

“That’s horrible about the car,” I said when she answered. “Does Drew know?”

“Oh yes,” said Zadie. “Yes, he does. He figured it out when he had to leave some vitally important conference call and pick up our vomiting three-year-old preschool dropout from Jean Anne’s.”

“What do you mean, ‘preschool dropout’?” I asked. “I thought she was back in.”

“Ohhh, that’s a story for later.” Zadie sounded a little unhinged. Probably she wasn’t kidding about the Xanax and wine. “I can only relate one disaster at a time. It wasn’t exactly a voluntary dropout, though. Let me just say it’s a mistake in a preschool classroom to allow easy access to a bag containing twenty-two birthday cupcakes.”

“Oh dear.”

“Drew actually took it well. The car, I mean. He could have gotten really pissed, but when I finally saw him, he took one look at me and then held me. I’ve never been so grateful in my life.”

“Well, at least that’s good. You could be married to a pig who would hold things like that against you,” I said, assailed for the thousandth time by the thought of how much men loved Zadie.

“Right,” she said, a little uncertainly. “So—what’s up?”

“Oh.” I briefly debated with myself. Maybe now was not the best time for this.

“Go ahead, Em,” Zadie broke in. “Out with it. My day is not going to get worse.”

“I talked to Nick. He said he wants to tell you he’s sorry.”

“. . .”

“Zadie? Are you there?”

“My day is getting worse. You called him back? Did he say anything about the dog?”

“I didn’t call him,” I replied. I paused, choosing my words carefully. “He showed up at the hospital. Said he’s getting a divorce, plans to stay here, and he saw us both on the news and he wants us to be friends. I’m sorry. I forgot to ask about the dog’s name.”

Silence, then a faint crashing sound.

“Zadie?”

More silence, then some background rustling. Finally: “Sorry! Going to have to get some more wine here!”

Maybe I should have called Wyatt first after all.





Chapter Seventeen


    NONNEGOTIABLE RULES


   Emma, Present Day


In contrast to the rules for the residents I trained, there were no limits on how many hours I could work in a week. There were no limits on the number of hours I could work in a row. There were only so many trauma surgeons, and one of us had to be at the hospital at all times. Thus I found myself back on in-house call again on Wednesday night, covering for a colleague whose mother had died, only two days after the marathon call beginning Monday morning that brought me the Packard child.

It was the middle of the night and I was tired. Being tired wasn’t unusual though; I’ve been working this kind of schedule for many years. But yesterday’s interaction with Nick had left me uneasy and unsettled in a way I couldn’t seem to shake. He held the power to upend my life, and I had no idea what to do about it.

But I also lacked the luxury of time to fret about it. If there’s any consistency to trauma call, it’s the likelihood that all hell will break loose at the darkest, most forlorn hour of the night. While most of America sleeps, the ER docs, the anesthesiologists, and the surgeons (among others) are toiling away, trying to stem a tide of catastrophes that can’t wait until morning. (I’m not including the OBs in this list, although they get hammered more than anyone else at night. But at least their nocturnal work is more likely to be happy.)

Three o’clock in the morning: my least favorite time of day. There’s a lull sometime around this point every night, lasting just long enough to bring on an internal debate about whether or not it’s worth it to try to sleep. I used to be able to catnap and get some benefit from it, but after I had Henry, I couldn’t rally like I used to. It was better not to sleep at all than to be forced into action forty-five minutes after you lay down. On the other hand, if I could get a few solid hours in a row, I’d feel much better.