The Queen of Hearts(85)

“Yeah, but I think his wife lives in another state or something. Maybe she’s a resident somewhere else?” The elevator pinged: we arrived at the basement. The ortho residents and the candy stripers and the patients all got off. I stood still, feeling my breath stuck somewhere in the middle of my chest. A new crowd of people got on the elevator and pushed buttons; the elevator went back up.

After a few minutes of riding aimlessly, I found my feet propelling me off, back to the ER. Wordlessly, I picked up a chart and began reading. The words were a hopeless blur. I set the chart back down.

“. . . Student . . . ? Hey, medical student!”

It was Dr. McMann. She was waving a hand in front of my face. “Where’s the coffee?”

“Uh. I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

“Sorry? What?” snapped Dr. M. “You didn’t go?”

“No. No, I’m sorry. I can go now.”

“Forget it,” said Dr. McMann crossly. She was a blazing five-foot tower of irritation. She tossed a lock of glossy dark hair over her shoulder and stalked off. I slumped to the desk in relief, but it was short-lived; Dr. McMann spun back around and issued a pissed-off order for me to go see patients. I nodded dumbly.

Dr. M studied me. “What’s the matter?” she asked finally. “Are you upset over the code?”

I had forgotten about the code, but now I glanced over at the room where Mr. Dubois lay. The curtain was pulled, but I could see a set of smallish feet in gym shoes next to the gurney: Mrs. Dubois. She must have been in there with the body of her dead husband, trying to accept the seismic shift in her reality. I nodded again.

Dr. McMann’s gaze softened. Maybe she will let me go home, I thought, with something approaching relief. Or maybe I’d be given a break to collect myself. I looked up.

“Well, buck up!” barked Dr. M, charging over. “We can’t go around falling to pieces when we lose someone or we’d never get through the day. Back on the horse, medical student.” She clapped me on the back, causing me to expel my breath in an undignified oof. I lumbered up and headed for the next patient’s room.

—

Somehow, the day passed.

Later, looking back, I could not remember a single patient I saw or anything I did for the rest of the shift. By late afternoon, Dr. McMann gave up on me and sent me home. Arriving at my door, I lifted my hand, which was as weighty as Jupiter, and pushed open the door. But something stopped me before I entered.

I wheeled around and ran to the street, flinging open the door to the Colt like I was about to be skinned alive if I didn’t peel out in under five seconds. The engine caught and I screeched down the street, skidded around the corner, and headed for the Highlands, my breath coming in distraught bursts.

I was going to confront Nick.

Or more likely, I was going to confront his empty apartment, which was fixing to suffer a disaster akin to the wrath of God if he wasn’t home. I’d plow through his personal items—starting with the mysterious drawer of boxers—confirming he was a vile, traitorous, contemptible married bastard, and then I’d unleash the full fury of a woman scorned, and . . . and . . . Well, I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d do at that point. Suddenly I burst into tears, thinking I’d never be with him again, ever.

Arriving at his apartment, I thundered up the stairs to his door and retrieved his spare key from its inexplicably stupid location under the only flowerpot on his porch. Bursting through the door, I started toward his bedroom, but a shuffling sound from the living room gave me pause. I stepped inside and flipped on the light.

Nick sat on the couch.

“Ah,” I said softly. Uncertainty gripped me at the sight of his face. In a strangely detached way, I waited to see which of my emotions would triumph. Was I most sad? Hurt? Disappointed? Was I going to cry? No, in fact, it seemed I did have a dominant emotion, after all: rage. “You son of a bitch!” I screamed, picking up a thousand-page study guide from the side table by the couch—Surgical Secrets, appropriately enough—and launching it at Nick’s head. It missed, so I grabbed another book.

I threw that one, but I got distracted and my aim was off. Someone else was in the apartment too: I froze as I heard a door shut in the bedroom and the faint sound of someone moving around. No. I looked at Nick again.

“Is that . . . ? Is that your wife?”

Nick shifted guiltily on the couch. I noticed he was shirtless, his smooth blond hair ruffled in the back.

“Zadie,” he began, looking miserable.

“Don’t say ‘Zadie’ to me!” I shrieked irrationally. “I said, ‘Is that your wife?’”

He stared at the floor.

“How could you let me love you if you are married?” I wailed. “How could you?”

“Zadie, I’m sor—”

I felt my face crumple up. “I am brokenhearted,” I said in a tiny voice.

A stricken look I’d never seen before crossed his face. He jumped up, starting toward me. “I don’t want this,” he said. “Please. I love—”

I put my hands over my ears. Then I started running; I ran out of the room, and out of his apartment, and down the street to my car, where I doubled over, the noisy sound of my crying echoing down the empty street.





Chapter Thirty-seven