I MADE my way home, ignored both the signs of sleeplessness and the curiosity in Gracie’s eyes, and rushed into the bathroom. I stopped moving for only one moment, right before I stepped beneath the steaming-hot shower. I closed my eyes and was unexpectedly overwhelmed by my smell. I hadn’t noticed it before, not in Weber’s bed, not while I was putting on my clothes, but now it was impossible to escape—the salty, warm, grainy sex smell took over the small bathroom. I couldn’t believe that the odor, spreading out in every direction, emanated from between my legs. There was something fascinating about the strength of it, and I had to force myself to duck under the stream of water and wash it away.
After I got dressed I dodged Gracie again and drove to the hospital. My favorite parking spot was free, so I pulled in and then sat in my car for a few minutes, too tired to move. I pulled down the sun visor and looked into the small rectangular mirror. I studied my face, feature by feature, categorizing the parts the same way I would the symptoms of a patient. Freckles across my nose (my mother’s thin, haughty nose), chubby little-kid cheeks, thick sheets of dark brown hair hung on either side. I was not pretty, but no one in my family was pretty. I was not sweet and dreamy looking like Gracie. I was not striking looking like Mom. I didn’t have Gram’s innate dignity. My features had a hard, separate look to them, as if they each belonged on a different face but were fixed so firmly where they were that there was no hope of rearrangement or change.
My reflection blurred for a second and I was suddenly swamped with memories. This was another sign—as if I needed one—that I was not in complete control. I was always aware of the endless memories that filled an entire section of my brain, but I didn’t experience them unless I chose to. I kept them locked away. The recollections were voluminous and mundane, but when I was tired, or feverish, or upset, or, apparently, hung over, they had the ability to take me unawares.
I remembered a screaming argument my mother and I had over a pink cardigan she’d bought for me to wear to my first day of high school. I remembered one dinner when Papa was drunk and he told me he was going to marry me and take me deep-sea fishing off the coast of Florida. I remembered winning my first horseback riding trophy and lifting it up over my head while my father took my picture.
I pulled my white coat out of the backseat and walked toward the jigsaw-shaped hospital. I had to squint to see anything past the ridiculously bright sunlight. I’d left my sunglasses somewhere. I couldn’t remember where. I felt myself stagger slightly. The pounding in my head remained.
“Jesus, Lila, you look like you were run over. Are you here for work, or to check yourself in?”
It was Belinda, standing outside by one of columns, holding a cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.
“I just started. I needed a hobby.”
This struck me as very funny. I tried to laugh, but the noise went dry in my throat and made me cough instead. I said, “I drank vodka last night for the first time.”
Belinda lifted her cigarette in the air as if it were a drink. “To numbers one and two in the medical school class of 2001.”
“Why aren’t you being as annoying as you usually are?”
Belinda gave a small smile. “I’ve been here for thirty-seven hours with no sleep.”
“Oh.” I felt as if I had gone thirty-seven hours without sleep, too. I felt not sleepy, but exhausted. I had to sit down suddenly, so I did, on the curb.
When Belinda spoke again, the competitive lilt was back in her voice. “Have you had any more thoughts on what you might do your Sub-I in? I’m thinking about vascular surgery or neurosurgery.”
I tried to play along. I knew what was going on here. Belinda wanted me to declare my intent so she could follow me into that field and finally beat me there. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe dermatology or family medicine? I haven’t decided yet.”
“Bullshit. You have to do something more demanding than that, Lila, and you know it. In order to be really challenged, we both have to be some kind of surgeon. It’s our