by Melissa Yi
Mitch looked solemn. "Harold, we're worried about safety at the lab ever since Dr. Acayo died."
"We all are," said Harold. He placed his palms together as if he were praying, the points of his fingers aimed toward his chin. I've seen other old people do it. I think they were trained to control their body movements so they looked more poised, instead of slopping all over the place the way we do now. "How can I help you with that?"
"We wanted to make sure the security in the lab was up to par. We know we have to swipe the cards to unlock the doors."
Harold pointed at his monitor. "Every time someone swipes an access card, it comes up on my computer. See?" A yellow bar popped up, showing that Nathalie Ouimet had entered the radiology department.
I'd never really thought about it before. I'm like this: swipe card, door opens, run inside. But Big Brother was watching us and recording us every minute.
Mitch nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought. But we've never checked the doorway security cameras. Do they even work?"
"Of course they do." Harold gestured for us to gather around the TV's, and I ended up on the end, where I couldn't get a good view of the grainy little black and white figures moving on the screen.
"What are these shots of?" I asked.
Mitch gave me a look, and I realized that he wanted to run the show. Grr. That was a safer bet, though, so I smiled and said, "Never mind."
"No problem," said Harold, putting him higher up in my estimation. "Of course we have security footage of all the main entrances and exits and the parking lots." He gestured at the TV's.
I counted them. Seven views on split screens. Not exactly comprehensive, and how were one or two people supposed to keep an eye on them, plus patrol the grounds?
Answer: they couldn't. But if anything happened, they could go back and watch it. That was a sobering thought, that maybe security was more for reassuring us than actually keeping us safe in real time.
Mitch said, "Hey, I recognize that one." He pointed at the screen on his end.
I squinted. I thought I recognized Susan's hair and figure navigating into the lab.
Harold smiled. "That's my boy."
"So do you have footage from Sunday?" Mitch asked.
Harold said, "Of course." He liked to say that a lot, but it made him sound confident, which was probably useful in a security guard. "The police have already spoken with me about it." He puffed out his chest. Summer nodded and tried to look enthusiastic, but Mitch was the one who spoke. "Yeah? It's all digital?"
Harold nodded. "We only save 36 hours' worth of data, so the police called us immediately to tell us what they wanted, and we were able to accommodate them."
"So you have a copy," said Mitch.
"Ottawa University and Health Sciences has a copy," said Harold. "Yeah? And did you happen to look at it?"
Harold rubbed his chin. "I could hardly call myself a security expert if I didn't."
A security expert. Is that what they're calling themselves nowadays? I didn't dare look at Summer, or we might start giggling.
"Cool," said Mitch. "Did you see anything interesting in the lab?"
Harold smiled. "It depends what you think of as interesting. I did see Dr. Acayo at the lab, if that's what you're asking."
"Was he alone?"
"For part of it." Harold nodded in agreement with himself. His Adam's apple stood out in his neck.
"Did anyone else go in on Sunday?"
"Oh, lots of people. The lab lady is always there."
I raised my eyebrows, and Mitch said, "You mean Dr. Hay?" Harold looked uncomfortable. "I think that's her name. The boss. You know." He twitched. It was clear that, unlike on TV, he was not going to whip out footage to show us, so Mitch tapped his phone for a minute and brought up a picture of Dr. Hay.
"Yeah," said Harold, losing the wrinkle between his eyebrows. "She comes on the weekends all the time."
Well, I guess that's how you end up becoming the head of the lab. "But the other guy plays a close second. The guy with the dark hair was here until one a.m." I caught my breath.
Harold nodded at Mitch's picture of Stephen Weaver, only to jerk his head away. He didn't want to tell too many tales. We'd have to tread carefully. Would Mitch know how to do that?
Mitch scratched his chin. "That's cool. Did you see me, too?"
Harold's jaw relaxed. "Yeah, I always see you. That's my job. You were only there until 4:30, though."
Mitch pointed his thumb and index finger like a gun. "I can never get anything past you, man."
Harold beamed. He glanced at Summer out of the corner of his eye, and she ground out an insincere smile that looked pretty enough that Harold rearranged his shoulders.
"Anyone else?"
Harold nodded. "Except Miss Holdt, your whole lab was in and out that day. Dr. Zinser doesn't always come, but he was there in the afternoon."
Mitch laughed. "I must've just missed him. That's how it goes.
Awright, man." He offered Harold his fist.
Harold managed the fist bump. He seemed non-plussed when Mitch made an exploding noise and spread his fingers out, saying, "Later, man."
Chapter 19
Ryan was meeting with the coroner right now.
I didn't want to text him and distract him, but in between lab safety modules, I squeezed my eyes shut and wished him good thoughts. Like, please let it be short. Let her believe you. And let her go easy on me on Thursday. Amen.
My phone vibrated on the lab bench. Immaculate Joan Acayo had sent me a photo of what looked like rice, trying to get me psyched up for her dinner party tonight. I sent back a smiley face and figured that was it, until my phone started playing Kanye's "Gold Digger."
What? I never chose that as a ringtone for anyone. I picked it up. John Tucker was trying to Skype with me.
I hit the green button immediately. "Hello?"
"Hope." Even on a blurry, pixelated video call, he looked good. Relaxed. Not as pale, not as tight around the eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt that said BOY-O. He'd even spiked his white blond hair in the front, which he'd let fall flat when he was super sick. He looked the best he had in weeks, which was both a relief and infuriating.
"Where are you?"
He smiled "Sorry I didn't answer you before. I wanted to get everything lined up first."
"What are you getting lined up in L.A. while your bowels are hanging out of your body?"
After a pause that wasn't entirely due to the Internet lag, he burst out laughing. "I wouldn't put it like that, but okay. How'd you figure that out? Sissy? She was threatening to tell you."
"No." I felt like giving him the finger. His little sister wanted to keep me more in the loop than Tucker did. "The Finding Friends app works both ways, you know. I can see you tooling around L.A. What are you thinking?"
"Ahh." He smiled and saluted me. "You're a smart woman, Hope Sze."
I didn't tell him I'd only figured that out this morning. "If you're a smart man, John Tucker, you'll tell me why you flew to the other side of the continent."
He raised his eyebrows. "I want a reanastomosis."
"You flew down to L.A. for surgery?" My voice cracked. I almost dropped the phone.
"Yeah. We both know I need it."
"But your team said you had to wait. They wanted to make sure your fistula had healed, so that you don't rupture your primary repair again."
Tucker waved his hand. "Yeah, I know what they said. They told me that every time they rounded on me. They were worried about screwing up because the first surgery went sour. So I talked to my friend Ken, the one who's doing a trauma fellowship at USC, and he said the guys in Montreal are a bunch of pu—uh, pansies."
I was trying very hard to breathe through my nostrils without making too much noise.
"You remember how we read a bunch of articles by Panikos Catrakilis? He's the medical director here. Ken pointed out I'd be a lot better off in a place where they do trauma surgery all the time. They've got gang bang
ers coming out of their … colostomy bags, you know what I'm saying?"
Yes. Tucker was making jokes, even if they made no sense. I almost smiled. He was feeling better. The trip to L.A. made him feel like he was doing something besides lying in a hospital bed, trying not to die.
"I get what you're saying," I said. "But does it really make sense to fly all that way? The Quebec government won't pay for the surgery."
"Fuck the Quebec government. This is for me. Ken showed them my scans and my record, and they had no hesitation about hooking me back up again. None. And you know who's going to do it?"
"Panikos Catrakilis."
"Nah. He's old now. Does more R&A researchandadministration. But you know Hiro Ishimura."
"No way! From EM Chat?" That's my favourite emerg podcast. Tucker chuckled. "Yeah. I thought that would get you."
Hiro is billed as the world's best and nicest trauma surgeon. He appears regularly on EM Chat to discuss everything from REBOA (sticking a balloon through the femoral artery into the aorta to try and prevent someone from bleeding to death) to the best way to handle neck trauma.
"Hiro's going to do your reanastomosis?"
"That's the idea. He said he's going to try and give me a break on the price because we're both Canadian. He was born in Montreal. Did you know that?"
"No. Well, I knew he was Canadian, but mainly they're asking him what to do for pediatric seat belt signs." I fought my way back to the task at hand. "Why did you cut me off? I texted you, I called you … "
"Well." His brown eyes bore into mine. "I was on a plane, for one thing."
That was true. But he hadn't been on a plane a hundred percent of the time. The airports have Wi-fi. Hell, his hospital probably has free Wi-fi for all its patients paying three thousand bucks a day. I stared at him.
"And the other part was, everyone told me that I should flip the ratio."
I raised my eyebrows, but my heart was jigging like a Riverdance revival. Whatever he was about to tell me, I wasn't going to like it.
"I've been chasing after you one hundred percent of the time, Hope. From the first second that we met, I've wanted you. I've told you you're the one. I threw down my life for you."
I could hardly hear him over the pounding in my ears. I knew it. This was it. He was going to break up with me. What a horrible way to do it, over Skype.
"And ninety percent of the time, you've been running away." I opened my mouth.
"Not all of the time. I know that. You were there for me in the hospital. I'm not saying you weren't. But this whole thing where you want to have Ryan too—"
Yes. The death knell. I stared at his image, willing myself not to cry. If this was the last view I had of him, I wanted to see him. His brown eyes. His cheeks were more hollow, but he still had colour in them. His hair was shorter than usual, and I stared at the tips of his ears.
His earlobes were harder to see on-screen, but I'd memorized them. You know how some people have earlobes that are completely separate from their heads and some people's earlobes are attached? His are attached, and a bit red, and covered with blond fuzz. I liked to kiss his earlobes and lick them sometimes, trying to feel the hair on my tongue.
"—I'm having serious trouble with that. Are you crying?"
I started to shake my head before I realized that my face was wet. I guess the tears came after all. I said, "I love you."
"I know you do." He closed his eyes for a second.
I forced the words out, even though he wasn't looking at me. He found me too ugly, inside and out. "I want to be there for you, Tucker. I don't want you to do this. Flying away from me, going to L.A. without telling me—what were you thinking?"
He didn't say anything. Now he was watching my face. I could tell that it made him sick to hurt me, but that was exactly what he'd done. And we both knew why: he wanted me to know what it felt like, to be on the outside. To have the other half of your heart take off on you and not tell you what was going on.
"I get it." I breeeeeathed. Denis would've been proud of me. "I'm fucked up. You had to get away from me. Okay."
"No." He half-laughed. "You're getting it backward. I'm fucked up. Look at me. I'm the one who's got my bowels hanging out in L.A."
I could feel my tears in real time now. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry."
He raised his voice. "I don't want to be like this. I can't do it anymore."
I covered my face. I was sobbing, and I didn't want him to see me.
"I've got to get rid of this bag, so you can take me seriously and not pick me out of pity."
That, I heard. I yanked my hands away from my face. "Tucker. I have never—"
He kept talking over me. "I don't want you here. I don't want you to cry over me and argue with the surgeon over when it's time to extubate me. You do your thing, and when I come back, I'm back. I'm winning."
You're a winner. The words floated into my brain, for no apparent reason. I shook them off. "Tucker—"
He took a deep breath. "Hope, I love you. That's all I wanted to say. I'll call you when it's over."
"No!"
But he'd already cut the connection.
I was staring at the still-warm phone in my hand, with only the picture of Tucker's avatar smiling at me.
Chapter 20
On the stairs up to Joan's apartment, Ryan tossed over his shoulder, "I started working on your mission."
"What mission?" I chose each tread carefully. My feet seemed to stick to the stairs, and the walls needed a paint job. I was not looking forward to this dinner party.
"You want to know if there's a white supremacist in the lab. I made up a website so I can check the IP addresses of people who click on it. It's called the White Birthright."
Charming. I tried to sift through my rudimentary knowledge of the Internet while the sound of Arabic music wafted through the walls of a nearby apartment. "But even if you know the IP, that doesn't necessarily tell you which person—"
"There are ways of figuring out what you need to know. The referrer, the search term, the GPS latitude and longitude. Whatever it takes."
"The latitude and longitude would show the lab, or the hospital, right? That could be hundreds of people." It was hard to think. Another resident had cranked up the news. There had been an earthquake in China, hitting 6.9 on the Richter scale.
"I can use first-party tracking cookies to figure out which person it is. Even behind a firewall."
"Can they figure out who you are? Does it go both ways?"
Ryan laughed and tugged me by the hand to the top of the stairs. "I'll cover my tracks."
"I don't know." I chewed my lip. "You saw Lawrence. I don't want the same thing to happen to you."
He shook his head and took my hand, brushing his thumb over the back of it. "Hope, that's ridiculous. You take risks all the time, but you don't want me to build a website because it's putting my life in danger?"
I smiled a little. "You got me. But I'm serious."
"So am I. If you really want to pursue this—and I can see you're not going to let this go—you've got to diffuse the risks. I'm going to build a website, the White Birthright Movement, and see if I can get some traffic to it. It's not that big a deal. I just don't know if I'll get any hits when they already have big sites like 14-88. Okay, this is it." He stopped at apartment number 9 and knocked on the door, which opened immediately.
Joan's apartment smelled terrific, full of steam and unknown spices. She beckoned at me and Ryan. "Come in, come in!"
I lurked behind Ryan, staring at Joan's belly, which protruded beneath the fitted cut of her patterned dress. The fabric's bright yellow splotches on royal blue satin reminded me of Christmas lights or rioting potatoes, but I was fixated on the size of her belly, which hadn't been so obvious under her tent-like dress the day before.
She was a big woman, so it wasn't a slam dunk baby belly. But there had been other clues the day before: her broad-based gait.
The way everyone tried to give h
er a chair. Her plump face.
I blurted out, "Are you pregnant?"
"Yes, of course. I am 28 weeks along." She beamed at me.
My face sagged in horror. I was supposed to be on the second month of my obstetrics rotation, but after I started hyperventilating around fetal monitors and dreaming about guns and placentas, they'd swapped me out for a research rotation.
Now who was waving me inside her apartment? A pregnant woman.
My personal ultimate PTSD trigger. The one thing guaranteed to make my vision blacken at the edges and make me want to claw through anyone and anything that got between me and the nearest exit.
I averted my eyes to gaze at the black marks on the narrow hall's white paint. I knew those kind of marks. I'd made a few of them in my previous buildings, when my bike tire bashed into the walls, or we couldn't quite make the corner up the stairs with my futon.
Ryan gave me an Are you okay? look.
I shot him one back: Of course not.
There was a pregnant woman making me dinner. I was about to enter her abode voluntarily.
I breeeeeeathed.
Was that curry in the air? No, maybe not. But something deep and rich, anyway.
My stomach rumbled.
As part of this whole PTSD/depression thing, I haven't been eating as much. But I used to devour food. I could out-eat guys who were a foot taller than me.
I missed that Hope.
From the hallway, Joan's apartment looked dark and claustrophobic. I should've anticipated that. When was the last time you saw a student with luxurious accommodations?
Still, I hadn't braced myself for a bachelor's apartment with the bathroom immediately to the left of our doorway and a kitchen feeding to the right off the main room.
No way I wanted to be trapped in a box that small with a pregnant woman. It was easily twice as big as the hospital room from 14/11, but it still felt like it was squeezing my lungs from the hallway.
