Just One of the Guys(23)

I don’t. Well, not that kind of someone. There are six of us, three men, three women, and I try not to be disappointed that none of the men is going to be my husband, being that two are in their fifties and all are married. Perhaps the teacher is some hunky paramedic or E.R. doctor…but no. In strides a brisk-looking middle-aged woman with wiry gray hair and sturdy shoes. She whips out a clipboard and peruses it intently. “O’Neill?” she barks, looking at the list.

“Here,” I answer.

“I meant, are you one of the O’Neills?” She cocks her head, birdlike.

“Um, if you mean one of Mike and Betty’s kids, then yes.”

She bursts into a smile. “I’m Bev Ludevoorsk. I know your dad,” she says. “And your brothers, let’s see…Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, right?”

I nod, simultaneously proud and irritated. Proud of my brothers, irritated at being pigeonholed.

“What great guys!” Bev barks.

“I can see you don’t know them well,” I joke.

“Hahahaha! You should certainly sail through this class, with the family history you’ve got!” she booms approvingly. “And look at you! Just as big and strong as your brothers. Patient lifting won’t be a problem for you, now, will it?”

“I guess not,” I mutter, trying to feel flattered.

“What’s your first name?” she asks. “Charity?”

“Chastity,” I correct. One of my classmates smiles. “My father thought it was funny,” I explain. “My middle name’s Virginia.”

“Ouch,” the woman says.

“Tell me about it.”

“Chastity’s whole family works in emergency services,” Bev barks. “Right, Chastity?”

“Three firefighters, a bomb detonator and a chopper paramedic,” I confirm.

“And isn’t Trevor Meade somehow related to you?” she asks.

“No, actually. An honorary O’Neill, but no relation.” I feel my face warm at the thrill of discussing Trevor, loser that I am. For Pete’s sake, I’ve known Trev my whole life. We were together romantically for roughly seventy-two hours. You’d think I’d be over that.

“Right, so anyway, why don’t we introduce ourselves and say why we’re here. I’m Bev, as I already told you, hahahaha, and I love doing this job because we help people. Simple as that. Got to think on your feet, move fast, keep a cool head. It’s a great job. Who’s next? O’Neill? How about you?”

I hesitate, unsure of how much truth to parcel out. “Well, as you just heard, my family is in emergency services, and I thought it was time I joined the herd. Oh, and by the way, I’m, um, kind of surprising them with this class, Bev, so if you see one of them, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this.”

“No prob, O’Neill. Next?”

The other people in class—Henry, Ernesto, Ursula, Pam and Todd—say basically the same thing as Bev: it seems like a good way to serve the community, maybe work in the field professionally, yadda yadda.

“Okay, people, so this first class is an overview of the kinds of things we’re likely to see in the field,” she begins. My toes curl in my shoes. Relax, Chastity. You can do this. Knowledge is power. “Get the lights in back, O’Neill, okay? We’re having a little slide show.”

I obey, dreading what’s about to come. My stomach feels cold. Bad sign.

“Great. Slide number one—compound fracture, tib/fib. Anyone know what that means?”

My mouth dries up in instant horror. There on the screen is a close-up of bone jutting out of flesh, the white, jagged end bloodstained, the fibrous cartilage torn. Look away. Look away! My neck seems to be made of limp spaghetti, my head wobbles, my eyes flutter closed. Happy thoughts, happy bleeping thoughts…uh…let’s see…rowing, that’s good…Buttercup when I took her home the first time…Twinkies…um…Aragorn…Jeter… There. It’s working. I swallow against the bile and pull my head back into position, but I stare down at the desk, averting my eyes from the nasty picture on the screen. My skin crawls in revulsion.

“And next, okay, this is what we call a chronic wound or an ulcerating wound. Old folks, diabetics, bed-bound people are prone to these. Pesky little suckers that take months to heal, if they ever do.”

Don’t look, Chastity. But I can’t help it. My eyes flash to the screen in time to see an open sore on the leg of a very hairy man. Immediately, I slap my gaze back to the desk, but it’s too late. Breathe in, breathe out, slowly, slowly… I can still see the fragile, angry-looking edges, the greenish center of the wound, like some sort of hideous, decaying eye—Orlando Bloom and Viggo Mortenson, both in leather. German chocolate cake, extra frosting. Yo-Yos at eleven o’clock at night, Buttercup’s head in my lap. There. Urge to vomit suppressed.

“And this is a degloving. My God, these are gross!”

I have the sense to close my eyes, tipping my head forward so Bev won’t see, but her voice is inescapable. “You can see how the skin is just pulled right back down the hand. It looks kind of tidy, doesn’t it? Like he just peeled the skin right off, on purpose. Bitch to fix, though. Stitches everywhere. End up looking like Frankenstein’s monster. You okay, O’Neill?”