clips of the Stanley Hotel avalanche.
I didn’t look at the screen. I’d played the scene over and over in my mind enough. Last thing I wanted was to live through it again. I opened the fridge and rooted around until I found the strawberry-banana Chobani I’d put there this morning, a Luna bar leaning next to it. I grabbed both along with a clean spoon from the drawer. I ripped the foil top off the Chobani, eating the entire thing in a few bites. With the strawberry-banana taste still on my lips, I ripped open the Luna bar and did the same thing, eating it so quickly I barely had a chance to taste it. I scarfed it so fast, in fact, that the food got partially stuck in my throat and I had to wash it down with a long swig of water.
I leaned my back against the break room counter and let the food settle. I’d made such a commotion during my snack that the other doctors in the break room stopped their conversation to regard me with expressions of curiosity.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just really hungry.”
That answer satisfied them, and they returned to their conversation. I refilled the water glass, sipping it slowly as I allowed my food to digest. And once my snack had settled, my thoughts returned to Patrick.
He was having a hard time, and I didn’t blame him one bit. His eyes were everything. I could only imagine how hard it would be for an artist like him to be on the verge of losing something that important to him. Of course, he was acting out a bit, but I didn’t need the opinion of the hospital’s psychology department to know what was going on – he was scared. He was scared and covering up his fear with bluster. It wasn’t pleasant to deal with, but it was understandable.
Most importantly, I knew what kind of man he really was. Patrick was the sort of man who donated his money to free clinics in order to make the world a better, fairer place. He was the kind of man who rushed headfirst into danger to save lives. He’d already shown me what he was made of, so I was willing to cut him a bit of slack when it came to his less than pleasant behavior.
I’d wanted to be there for him and thought the best way to do that was to be his doctor. But as a doctor I was professional to a fault. I knew myself well enough to understand my bedside manner could be a little…cold. Patrick didn’t need a doctor – he needed someone who cared about him. But it’d be impossible to be there for him in the way he needed if I was the one working on his eyes. I stood up straight as the answer dawned on me. There were tons of excellent ophthalmologists in the city, and I was on a first-name basis with nearly all of them. I’d make some calls, find out who was available to take care of Patrick’s surgery.
Once that was done, I could be there for him in the way he needed. I settled on the plan, a smile taking hold. A few moments after I straightened, a nausea more intense than I’d ever experienced before gripped my stomach. For a second, I worried I might puke right there in the break room.
Without a second’s hesitation, I rushed into the break room’s bathroom, locked the door, and dropped to my knees in front of the toilet. Every bite of food I’d shoved down splashed into the water. When it was all said and done, I stayed leaning over the toilet, my stomach aching and my face hot.
When I felt ready, I stood up and stepped over to the sink. Luckily, there was toothpaste left by doctors who’d pulled overnight shifts. I squirted a little on my finger and gave my teeth and tongue a quick scrub, hoping it’d be enough to do the job.
Something was wrong. I’d been getting strange bouts of nausea over the last few weeks, and now I was throwing up. I leaned over the sink, my hands on the sides as I regarded my expression in the mirror.
I knew in the back of my mind what the answer likely was. I’d been ignoring it for days, unwilling to let the word sneak to the forefront.
Pregnant.
The word caused my blood to run cold even though it was the perfect