Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“I’ll think about it, Mom,” I promise and get up to clear the dishes off the table. “If I don’t have to work on Saturday, I’ll try to come over.”
Chapter 7
Sara
My on-call shift is a blur of emergencies, everything from a five-months-pregnant woman coming in with severe bleeding to one of my patients going into labor seven weeks early. I end up performing a C-section on her, but luckily, the baby—a tiny but perfectly formed boy—is able to breathe and suckle on his own. The woman and her husband sob in happiness and thank me profusely, and by the time I head into the locker room to change out of my scrubs, I’m physically and emotionally drained. However, I’m also deeply satisfied.
Every child I bring into this world, every woman whose body I help heal, makes me feel a tiny bit better, alleviating the guilt that smothers me like a wet rag.
No, don’t go there. Stop. Only it’s too late, and the memories flood in, dark and toxic. Gasping, I sink down on the bench next to my locker, my hands clutching at the hard wooden board.
A hand over my mouth. A knife at my throat. A wet cloth over my face. Water in my nose, in my lungs—
“Hey, Sara.” Soft hands grip my arms. “Sara, what’s happening? Are you okay?”
I’m wheezing, my throat impossibly tight, but I manage a small nod. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on slowing my breathing as the therapist taught me, and after a few moments, the worst of the suffocating sensation recedes.
Opening my eyes, I look at Marsha, who’s staring at me with concern.
“I’m fine,” I say shakily, standing up to open my locker. My skin is cold and clammy, and my knees feel like they’re about to buckle, but I don’t want anyone at the hospital knowing about my panic attacks. “I forgot to eat again, so it’s probably just low blood sugar.”
Marsha’s blue eyes widen. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“What?” Despite my still-uneven breathing, I’m startled into a laugh. “No, of course not.”
“Oh, okay.” She grins at me. “And here I thought you were finally living it up.”
I give her a get real look. “Even if I were, you think I don’t know how to prevent pregnancy?”
“Hey, you never know. Accidents happen.” She opens her locker and starts changing out of her scrubs. “Seriously, though, you should grab a bite with me and the girls. We’re heading out to Patty’s right now.”
I raise my eyebrows. “A bar at five in the morning?”
“Yeah, so what? We’re not going to be boozing it up. They have breakfast twenty-four-seven, and it’s way better than the cafeteria. You should try it.”
I’m about to refuse, but then I remember I have next to nothing in my refrigerator. I didn’t lie about not eating today; the dinner at my parents’ house was over ten hours ago, and I’m starving.
“Okay,” I say, surprising Marsha almost as much as I surprise myself. “I’ll come.”
And ignoring my friend’s excited squeals, I put on my street clothes and walk over to the sink to freshen up.
* * *
When we get to Patty’s, I’m not surprised to see many familiar faces there. A lot of the hospital staff go to this bar to unwind and socialize after work. I didn’t expect the place to be this full at this time of night—or morning, depending on one’s perspective—but if they serve breakfast as well as alcohol, it makes sense.
Marsha, myself, and two nurses from the ER make our way to a table in the corner, where a harried-looking waitress takes our orders. The moment she’s gone, Marsha launches into a story about her crazy weekend at a club in downtown Chicago, and the two nurses—Andy and Tonya—laugh and tease her about the guy she almost picked up. Afterward, Andy tells everyone about her boyfriend’s insistence on using purple condoms, and by the time our food comes out, the three of them are laughing so hard the waitress gives us all dirty looks.
I’m laughing too, because the story is funny, but I don’t feel the joy that normally comes with laughter. I haven’t felt it in a long time. It’s as if something inside me is frozen, dulling all emotions and sensations. My therapist says it’s another way my PTSD manifests itself, but I don’t know if he’s right. Long before the stranger invaded my home—before the accident, even—I’ve been feeling like there is a barrier between me and the rest of the world, a wall of false appearances and lies.
For years, I’ve been wearing a mask, and now it feels like I’ve become that mask, like there’s nothing real underneath it.
“What about you, Sara?” Tonya asks, and I realize I zoned out, chowing down my eggs on autopilot. “How was your weekend?”
“It was good, thanks.” Putting down my fork, I attempt a smile. “Nothing exciting. I’m selling my house, so I had to clean out my garage and do some other boring stuff.” I was also on call for eighteen hours and volunteered at the clinic for five more, but I don’t tell Tonya that. Marsha already thinks I’m a workaholic; if she heard I’m subbing in for some of the other doctors at my hospital-owned practice and helping at the clinic on top of my usual workload, I’d never hear the end of it.