In Case of Emergency

by E. G. Scott

  And I’d been one of the lucky few who landed my internship in his sphere. Not just lucky—I worked my ass off to be there.

  He’d barely looked at me during my year one as an intern, but I later found out that he was well aware of me and amused himself by watching me grind through the grueling eighty-hour work weeks in the trenches, desperate to get into the OR.

  In my second year, I was assigned to his team. I was shocked; I didn’t think he knew my name, let alone would want me to work with him. I’d written a few bold papers in medical school on trauma-reversing neurosurgery that had crossed his desk, and I had a reputation for keeping my cool in very intense situations, so he’d sought me out before I’d even begun to try to endear myself to him.

  I later found out that he requested me, and I didn’t know whether to be grateful or disturbed, since he’d treated me so badly that year. He justified it as fair treatment. “I treat everyone badly, you know that. You aren’t special.” Henry had an impeccable talent for making me feel simultaneously like the most and least important person in the room. He never hid who he was, and I should have believed him when he told me. But I was starstruck and he knew it.

  My professional success had the opposite effect for me socially. My fellow residents in years two and three were hateful because I’d leapfrogged right over them. People thought I’d slept my way into his operating room, something I found out when someone accidentally put me on a group text discussing my undeserving ascension as “screwing my way to the top, one gurney at a time,” but the truth was that we never crossed the line until well into my junior residency in year three. It wasn’t like a medical TV show where everyone was nailing one another in break rooms with abandon. It was discreet when it actually happened, after the rumor was old news. Part of me rationalized that if it was already assumed we were sleeping together, we might as well be. Henry didn’t care either way what people said about him. I think he was more worried people wouldn’t say anything. He reveled in being the front-page news in all situations, negative or otherwise.

  Regardless of the truth about how I’d ascended so quickly, the collective belief, being what it was, left me extremely lonely, in my professional triumphs and in general. I leaned hard into becoming a certain way: detached, unbothered, and all business. I started to shut off the feeling parts of myself and only lived in the thinking spaces. A profound disconnection from my real self took hold.

  Henry appreciated my confidence and drive, and my natural ability to compartmentalize. When more than one intern would leave an operating room to lose their lunch or put their head between their legs, I was always up front, eager to suction while the cranial saw cut through skull or hold the bone flap while the attending was uncapping the awaiting gray matter.

  My boldness further alienated my peers, who thought I was arrogant in my ambition to do new things in the field. I didn’t think I was. I believed I was confident and fearless. Now I realize how much of a character I’d created around my identity as a surgical intern and resident. It was like I’d stitched together all the collective qualities I’d observed in the most successful teachers I had along the way, mixed with TV and movie surgeons I’d idealized in my youth, and stepped into the persona as soon as my scrubs went on. I did it so effectively that I completely lost track of who I really was along the way.

  Sometimes obsessing about my former life is a good thing in small doses. I can reflect on how unhappy I really was and appreciate how different my life looks now. How much happier and healthier I’ve become. But if I spend too much time looking back, the old stress level seeps in. I start to slide into the old feelings of being the victim. I refuse to be that woman ever again.

  The morning light streaming into my window is persistent. “You are strong. You are resilient. You are present,” I say to myself as I roll over onto my side. I bring my thoughts back to the present, where there is plenty to mull over. I need to stop being so self-centered in trying to figure out who I am and focus on who Jane Doe might be. And I need to keep as positive as possible. When I surrender to negative thinking, things get bad.

  I can hear my phone vibrating on the bureau a few feet away The sound of the phone motivates me up and out of bed. Even the possibility of Henry being the caller helps, though the conversation we need to have makes me want to disappear. I spy the caller ID and see the call I’ve missed is from Rachel, and I’m happy to see she’s resurfaced. Her missed call is followed up with a text: I’m on my way. I shoot her back a thumbs-up emoji.

  I’m eager for a recap of her experience with Lucy once I abandoned her on the table. The fact that this occurred after I told her nothing bad was going to happen makes the whole situation particularly cringeworthy.

  It’s generally our routine for Rachel and me to spend a few mornings together when Peter is out of town. She’s an earlier riser than I am and usually calls me twice before I’ve even looked at my phone. She’ll have already meditated for an hour, hit two consecutive morning yoga classes, and run errands by the time I’m rolling out of bed. Rachel is admittedly a woman of extremes, first realized with her voracious and nearly deadly heroin habit. She miraculously kicked it ten years ago but effectively substituted one lifestyle of unhealthy obsession with another of extreme health and wellness. The alternative being much better for her survival rate.

  I’ve no sooner gotten our smoothies blended than I hear her familiar knock and then her key in the door. She enters with full hands: two chai lattes and something I surmise is from the vegan bakery down the street from her house. I am still not a vegan in spite of Rachel’s proselytizing, but I humor her. I cannot and never will give up cheese.

  “Morning!” she sings. She looks like she’s stepped off the cover of Yoga Journal in her flowing gauze dress, adorned with multiple strands of mala prayer beads hanging from her neck and wrists. She is a dead ringer for a young Stevie Nicks. We’ve been mistaken for sisters more than once, which I always take as a compliment.

  “Good morning.” I lean into her for a hug and her incredible head of soft reddish blond curls engulfs my face. The smells of coconut and lavender are comfortingly familiar. She sits on the stool across from me and pushes the latte, which I accept gratefully, into my hand.

  “I’m so sorry I was MIA last night. After I rescued your patient, I went to a yoga class and then fell asleep super early. I didn’t see your missed call and texts until this morning,” she explains. It seems odd that she would have gone to sleep without checking back in after getting my text about my having to identify a body yesterday, but I choose not to push it since she did me such a big favor.

  “Honey. Thank you so much for going to the office to retrieve Lucy. You saved me.”

  “Of course! I was happy to help.” She looks at me for a moment. “You look tired, honey. Beautiful, but tired.” If it was anyone else, I would take offense, but I know it is genuine love and concern, which I appreciate. She can, and often does, say whatever is on her mind without any filter. She is the most honest person I’ve ever met, and I strive for her integrity and truthfulness. I’ve been coming up short on that recently.

  “I didn’t sleep well at all. Yesterday was . . . stressful.” I drink the warm, nutty liquid.

  “Oh my God, honey. We have so much to discuss!” She’s as exuberant as I am mortified.

  I pause, reconsidering if I should question her unavailability last night, but conclude that it isn’t important.

  “I’ve never left anyone on the table before.” I put my hand over my face, cringing at the thought. “And she was a new patient.”

  Her enthusiasm ratchets down and I can tell she is calibrating the degree of her own energy based on my evident distress. She speaks gently. “Don’t torture yourself. Seriously, let it go, right now. You had an emergency. It happens, honey.”

  This is one of the many reasons she is my best friend. She generously reminds me to be nicer to myself, often.r />
  “You are a lifesaver,” I gush.

  “Of course.” She replies. “You would have done the same for me.”

  “How mad was Lucy when you got there?”

  “She’d fallen asleep, so that was good. She didn’t know how much time had passed.”

  “How much time had passed?” Again, I have an impulse to ask her about where she was when she wasn’t picking up my calls. The question is more rooted in my general unease with the fact that she’s been sending me to voicemail lately.

  “Only about an hour. I was able to get there pretty quickly.” She takes a breath. “I was nearby.” She doesn’t elaborate.

  My chagrin rises again. “I can’t believe I forgot about her. I was in such a panic, everything just went blank and I flew to the medical examiner’s office. By the time I got there, I couldn’t even remember the drive over.”

  “Lucy was a sweetheart. Said she hoped everything was okay and that she’ll make a follow-up appointment.” This is a huge relief.

  “I was expecting a scathing Yelp review from her, not a follow-up appointment.” Rachel nods sympathetically. She’s incredibly gracious about my awful online reputation, given her shared space with me. I know she’s borne some of the brunt with a few of her clients—guilt by association—and I feel endlessly responsible about it.

  “You haven’t gone on Yelp, though, right?” My silence tells her everything. “Oh, sweetie. No wonder you are feeling so down. Try not to dial that stuff in. The online trolls are scared and judgmental. We should have empathy for them, but don’t let them do this to you.”

  “It’s really hard not to look. And I keep thinking that I can handle it.”

  “I know. I know.” She turns her attention to the window. “It’s so hard not to care.”

  “I tried calling Lucy last night to apologize, but I haven’t heard back.” I take another sip; the chai is sweet and spicy going down my throat.

  “Don’t fret, you’ll hear from her. I told her I would give her a free massage, so she’s definitely coming back.”

  “You are the best. I’ll pay you back for the massage. Can I do your needles this week?”

  “Don’t think twice about it,” she responds, waving me off. I’m not sure if she is referring to the offer to pay her back or the needles. She hasn’t let me work on her for a few weeks, which is out of character.

  “So, the Lucy crisis has been averted. It sounds like you’ve got plenty else to worry about. Do you want to talk about it? Or not yet?” This is our trusted routine with our catch-up sessions. We need to warm up before digging in. I appreciate that she is taking my temperature.

  “Um. I don’t know. I think so?” I take a long inhale. “It was all so surreal.” She comes around the island to give me a hug. I let some tears free on her shoulder but don’t give in too much further.

  “Let’s get some fresh air,” she offers.

  We put on our coats and she threads her arm through mine and leads me to the back deck, where we get situated on the comfy chairs. The air is brisk but refreshing, with bright sun in the cloudless fall sky beating down. I turn my face upward and bask for a moment. Once we are comfortable in our usual seats, legs in lotus position, facing each other, we both drink from our cups.

  “Okay. I’m ready.” I pull my knees up and close to my chest.

  “Start at the beginning. I want to know everything,” she says eagerly.

  I begin with the phone call from the medical examiner’s office, sparing no details. She sits patiently, uninterrupting, her face open and quietly reacting to each part of the story. When I finish she closes her eyes and exhales.

  “You must have been terrified.”

  “I was.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t with you and you had to go through that alone.” Her eyes are wide. “Imagine seeing him like that? It would be so traumatic.”

  “I’ve imagined it about four hundred times since yesterday, and it’s horrific every time.”

  “Charlotte. I had a premonition this month that major change was coming. I thought that feeling was about my life, but maybe it was about yours.” She unfolds her legs and stands to pace in the space between us. This is her usual choreography; it’s challenging for her to stay still for too long. “Now the question is, who is this woman and what does she represent in your life?”

  “Or why did she have my information on her? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It’s definitely a mystery. Maybe she’s trying to tell you something.” She holds her hands up and out like she might take flight.

  “I just don’t understand why I have absolutely no recollection of her. That isn’t like me. Even at my worst, I had enough awareness to remember someone I was close to.”

  “Is she from your Manhattan days?” Rachel is careful.

  “Maybe. I just don’t know.” I feel defeated.

  “Mistaken identity? A different Charlotte Knopfler?”

  “She had my phone number.” Rachel’s asking all the same questions I did.

  “Honey, maybe this is a good thing. The most uncomfortable scenarios are the most transformative.” She looks at me knowingly.

  “I can’t imagine any scenario where a dead woman is a good thing.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” She pauses. “But, whatever the reason, I’m sure all will be revealed, soon enough. What do you know about her?”

  “Hardly anything at all. Nothing, actually. Just that she had my contact info on her, and not much else. It’s eerie.”

  “Weird. She didn’t have any identification? Was she robbed? Did they say the cause of death?” Her energy is a little too upbeat for the subject matter. She loves a good mystery.

  “Whatever I know, I’ve told you. I have no idea about the other details, Sherlock,” I tease.

  “How are you otherwise?” She pushes her bracelets up and down her arm and they make a click-clack sound, a regular and endearing nervous habit of hers that I’ve grown so used to. Funny how certain little mannerisms of the people we love stick out. With Henry it was the way he would bounce on his heels when he was cooking up a brilliant idea. With Peter it’s his way of humming into the phone when he is thinking.

  I am desperate to spill how I really am but worried that if I do, she will say all the things out loud that I’ve been thinking. I’m not ready to face the truth, even if I don’t yet know what it is.

  She knows what I’m thinking without my opening my mouth. “So, have you heard anything from him?” It bothers me that she won’t refer to him by name. I should tell her, but it seems like a small, stupid complaint in the grand scheme.

  “Nothing yet. But I’m sure I’ll hear from Peter soon.” I need to temper my worry in front of Rachel. Even the minimal information I’ve told her about him has drawn too many questions that I can’t answer.

  As far as Peter knows, no one in my life knows he exists. When we started to get serious, Rachel was the only friend I told about him. Peter asked me to keep our blossoming relationship under wraps, but of course I had to confide in my best friend about a potential new boyfriend. In the rock-paper-scissors of new love interests versus best friends, friendship is always paper, and new boyfriends are rocks. I was a little put off he’d suggested otherwise, but I told him the white lie that I was superstitious anyway and wouldn’t talk about new connections until I felt confident things were going in the right direction.

  Meanwhile, I was keeping Rachel apprised of the unfolding situation and decoding the subtexts of his texts with her. It was a little juvenile, sure, but I was so focused on my studies growing up, I hadn’t had many relationships, serious or otherwise. I’m a late bloomer in that particular area. Rachel is much better at the psychology of people in romantic relationships and far more insightful about little things I wouldn’t have picked up on or batted an eye about. We both agreed that Peter was fas
cinating, handsome (I shared a couple of photos of him with her), and very funny. He was also extremely elusive at times. But I had a feeling about him that I couldn’t shake. A feeling that he was going to change my life completely.

  In our first two months together, it wasn’t until he dodged enough of my invitations that I realized the extent of his job and the privacy it required. It explained his caginess when talking about our relationship with other people and his mysteriousness. “It won’t always be like this, honey,” he’d promised. “The job I’m working right now requires me to be deep undercover. I’m risking a lot just by talking to you.” I was so far gone by then, I really did keep our relationship under wraps beyond Rachel. And the more my relationship resembled a spy novel, the more details I’d leave out of my updates for her. Lying to my best friend by omission should have been my first red flag. Well, maybe not the first, but a brightly colored one that I chose to bypass.

  I had a lot of questions for Peter but was patient with how much he could tell me about what it was he did. I knew the basics: that he was working for a sector of the government that required him to travel constantly. I guessed it was the FBI, but he made a comment once about the FBI being the “Coast Guard” of government agencies. He’d been a Navy SEAL and then had been tapped for an intelligence job. He was a self-described savant, self-taught in computer science and criminal psychology, and was recruited by the government out of high school but deferred to go into the military first. He “wanted to have some real-life experience.” His bravery was undeniable, and endlessly attractive to me.

  I knew he had to be on call pretty much twenty-four hours a day, and his living six hours away, near Quantico, didn’t help matters. I offered to make the drive a few times, but he was embarrassed by his government-subsidized “pitiful bachelor’s pad,” and, more worrying, he thought it was a bad idea for his “enemies” to know I existed. We agreed it was safer for him to come to me when he could, but I was deeply disappointed.