the other side was covered in stickers. Decals … like Nike and Taylor Swift. I tried to say something to her, but she had earbuds in and was reading some textbook. Willow said she’s on the spectrum. I can totally see that. I once dated an Aspie. It lasted all of two weeks. Damn eager to please in bed, so it wasn’t completely awful.”
“You’re a dick. Did you know that?” I swipe my badge to open the lab door.
“I’m just saying … it’s a tough personality. Grating and annoying.”
“It’s ASD, not Aspie, and you’re annoying me. Does that mean you’re on the spectrum?”
He chuckles. “Point made. I was just making conversation. Don’t get me wrong. She’s cute. Kinda has that innocent sex appeal. Plain but forbidden in some ways.”
I pull up the previous day’s test results on my laptop. “Placebo is performing better. Go figure. Tell me why the placebo is performing better, and I’ll forgive you for being a dick.”
Warren deflates as I smirk at him.
No one wants to cure cancer more than me … except Warren. His younger sister died of a malignant brain tumor a year earlier. My motivation isn’t as personal. I just want to stop offering painful and oftentimes false hope to young people who should have their whole lives ahead of them instead of fighting for a chance to have one more Christmas, a high school prom, or the opportunity to fall in love and have their hearts broken.
CHAPTER TWO
Catch and Release
Dorothy
I push bodies and equipment around the hospital the rest of the afternoon. That’s all I do every weekend—push, deliver, wait, return. It doesn’t require in-depth conversation, which is good since conversation is not my best honed skill. Sometimes, I deliver mail and lab specimens, but most of that is done digitally. I feel certain the future will have robotic wheelchairs and gurneys to transport patients without the assistance of an actual human—like autonomous cars.
With one year left of nursing school, I want to work in plastics. But after talking with Dr. Hawkins, I’m reconsidering my goals. Dr. Elijah Hawkins, pediatric oncologist, complimented my shoes. And what was that promise of later? Later when?
Today?
Tomorrow?
The dilemma plays out as different scenarios in my mind. I consider finding him to see if he wants to set a specific time to discuss my being on a hook. After one brief encounter, I’m indebted to him for some unknown reason.
I push Gavin Hamlin’s wheelchair back to his room after his MRI. He’s twelve and doesn’t say much. He has a tumor in the upper right quadrant of his brain—probably not cancer. They’re unsure if surgery is an option. I transported him three times last week.
If they find out it is cancer, then he might have Dr. Hawkins as his oncologist. And for a full second I think this would be great because then I might get to see Dr. Hawkins more often if Gavin needs more tests. But right after that second passes, I think, “What the fuck just went through my mind?”
The upside to this young kid having cancer!
Not a finer moment for me.
See, my parents think I need to put myself out there and be more available, but after one interaction with the hottest doctor in the hospital, I’ve let my thoughts seep into the darkness, wishing death sentences upon young kids. What’s next? Running through the halls, telling all of the kids the Easter Bunny isn’t real and that most of them with rare cancers will not live another five years?
“Do you think I’m going to die? I mean … it’s a tumor. In my brain. It’s going to kill me, right?”
“I’m not your doctor.” It’s not my job to discuss medical information with patients. It’s not really my job to discuss anything with them. But kids don’t know one set of scrubs from another, so sometimes I field these life and death questions.
“Yeah, but you work here. I’m sure you see this a lot.”
“Sick kids? Yeah. I see a lot of sick kids. But not all of them die. Most live. That’s all you need to think about.”
I make conscious efforts to censor every word I say to kids at the hospital. My mind abandons all emotion when asked questions that have factual answers.
Neat and tidy.
Black and white.
Only, kids don’t do well with the truth. Scratch that. Parents don’t do well with the truth.