by Ellie Hall
Do I ignore it? Yes, I’m a professional.
I lean over, assessing the situation, and catch the scent of buttercream and sunshine. Normally, I don’t notice those kinds of things about my patients, but technically, I’m off the clock—just came down here to volunteer for an hour because I’m officially on medical leave...from my job as a medical doctor because of my arm. Oh, the cruel irony.
“Nice to see you, Dr. Koenig. You’re always there to save the day,” the nurse says with a flirtatious smile.
I nod, taking the pulse of the woman on the gurney.
“What a shame about your arm. How’d it happen?”
“Never mind that,” I say. “Do you know what happened here?” I ask, referring to the woman. “Her pulse is fine. No signs of trauma.”
She shrugs.
My eyes widen in question. “Did she just donate blood?” I check her slender arms for a tourniquet. From time to time they’re accidentally left knotted. “Take her vitals,” I order.
A badge like my own hangs from the hem of the woman’s shirt.
“Lottie Schweinswald. It looks like she works upstairs.”
From behind me, a male voice says, “Unlucky Lottie strikes again.”
I turn to a balding man with a sizeable paunch leaning in the doorway with his arms across his chest.
“Do you know her?” I’m about to rush her to the ER when he tosses his hand dismissively.
“She works for me. Always has one problem or another. Probably passed out at the mere thought of blood.”
Just then her eyes flutter open. I gaze into her pale blue pools streaked with the faintest silver for a long moment. “Pupils look normal.” My voice is lower than usual.
“Lunch,” she mumbles.
“Low blood sugar?” I ask, signaling the nurse to bring a box of apple juice.
“Blood.” Her expression curdles as she presses to sitting. “What happened?” Then her gaze darts to the man in the doorway, then to me. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I’m fine.” The words come out fast and frantic.
I press my hand lightly against her arm. “Take it slow. You passed out. I think.”
She nods rapidly and swings her legs down from the gurney. As she tries to get to her feet, she tilts to the side. One-handed, I grip her arm, steadying her.
“As I said, let’s take it slow, miss.”
Jim Gorham, the guy in the doorway, laughs.
I throw him a scowl. Patient safety and dignity is my priority. Strictly speaking, Lottie isn’t my patient, but she’s a person in need of care right now and his guffaws are inappropriate.
“May I help you?” I ask Jim in my most imposing doctor’s voice.
He smirks. “Just looking for Monica. We have an appointment.”
Him and every bachelor in this building. Well, not all of them. Inter-workplace dating is prohibited, despite what happens behind closed doors and in broom closets.
“See you tomorrow, Pork-lip,” Jim says to Lottie.
I tilt my head in her direction, not sure I heard the guy right, but unable to focus on anything but her lips—especially the top one, which is full and pillowy.
Shaking my head, I snap myself out of it as the nurse says, “Lottie, you’re here to donate blood, right? I have you on the list.”
She eyes the door. “Sure am.” But the sharp crack in her tone makes me wonder if she was eyeing the door because she wants to flee or to prove to Jim that she can follow through with it.
Once more, I plant my hand on her arm. “You up to do that?”
“Yes. Fine as can be. I hadn’t eaten since lunch and I’m squeamish around—” She clears her throat then thrusts out her arm. “Just do it.”
The color rising in Lottie’s cheeks tells me she’s recovered from the syncope episode.
The nurse lifts her eyebrow in my direction. I give her a subtle nod. “I’ll remain here in case anything happens,” I say so only the nurse can hear.
As the nurse prepares to draw blood, I make small talk to distract Lottie from the procedure. “Do you work with Jim?”
“Soft boiled egg?”
I lift my eyebrows and incline my head. She must be really hungry.
Her eyes bulge. “I said that by accident. Yes, Jim Gorham. Of course. He’s my boss. I didn’t mean to imply that he looks like a soft boiled egg.” She bites her lip.
An unexpected grin plays at the corner of my mouth. I tip my head from side to side. “He is rather pale.”
“And round,” she whispers. “Bald. The top of his head is shiny too.”
I nod. “Egg-like.”
“Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to get fired.”
“I hardly think you could get fired for suggesting your boss looks like a soft boiled egg.”
“His cousin works in HR, the one with the wispy dark hair on his knuckles, and—oops. Pretend I didn’t say that.” She pauses. “It’s just that he talks with his hands, waving them around and it looks like there are—”
My lips twitch with amusement. “You were saying?” Normally, I wouldn’t encourage this kind of conversation, but it’s distracting her from the needle.
“It looks like spiders crawl on his knuckles,” she whispers.
I fight not to laugh. “You’re doing great. Almost done.”
Relief washes over Lottie’s features. The nurse removes the tourniquet, and her gaze veers toward her arm.
Cupping her chin, I draw her attention back to me.
“I can’t unhear or unsee the image of the soft boiled egghead and spider knuckles, but we’ll keep that between you and me,” I assure her.
What I also can’t unsee is how pretty she is. But I know better than to think about that. Instead, as the vials fill with blood, I say, “When I was in medical school, we’d play practical jokes on each other.” Then I tell her a story about anatomy 101, peeled grapes, and a power outage. “Let’s just say that I can’t stomach grapes.”
Lottie’s lips turn downward and she swallows thickly. Her fingers tremble on the armrest and she pales.
“Deep breaths,” I say softly and demonstrate. “Don’t look.”
After a beat, she asks, “How do you get used to it?”
“What? Blood?”
She nods slowly. “And accidents, injuries, illness...”
I noted the scar on her cheek and wonder if that has anything to do with her anxiety. “I’m not sure you get used to all of it. More like you learn to cope. Breathing helps.” I exhale through my nose. “Interesting choice of workplaces, considering there are a lot of accidents, injuries, and illness here.”
“And healing, hope, and people in need of help. Also, I figured the billing office was in another building. Plus, I have to pay my own bills and all that.” She has the faintest accent—then again, I do too, but I’ve lived here so long it only comes out on certain words. I like to think that I mastered English and medicine.
“Okay, you are all set,” the nurse says, dabbing Lottie’s arm and applying a piece of tape over the cotton pad. “Thank you for donating today.”
She takes the I Donated Blood sticker and fist pumps the air.
“You did it. Now, I think a celebratory dinner is in order,” I say.
Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open...along with the nurse’s.
A moment too late, I realize how that sounded. “I didn’t mean—” I gesture between Lottie and myself. “I couldn’t. I mean, I wouldn’t—policy and spider knuckles in HR. It’s just that you mentioned not eating since lunch.” I clear my throat.
What was I just saying about mastering the English language? Not once in my entire career have I ever fumbled like this.
She waves her hands as her cheeks match the vials in the container on the wheelie table. “Right. I know. You’re basically my boss and probably have work and—”
“I’m glad you don’t look like a soft boiled egg. I mean, you have color. Aren’t pale. The blood. Never mind.” I swal
low and silence myself.
Never have I ever been tongue-tied like this. Then again, I’m not known for saying much.
“Thank you, Dr. Koenig.” Lottie’s tone is professional as she also thanks the nurse and exits with the briefest of glances over her shoulder.
I lower into the chair after she leaves, wondering why it was like my brain filled with static in her presence and I sounded like I was a few pints short. Maybe my blood sugar was low too.
After my shift volunteering, I reluctantly leave Mount Sinai where I’ve worked for the last five years. Starting tomorrow, it’ll be a solid month before I return—if only I could will my arm, and everyone in that building, to heal faster. My job, my focus, and my calling is to save lives. Too bad I’m benched with a bum arm—I should’ve known better.
I take the long route back to my apartment, crossing the street to the path along the East River, a friend in April rather than a frosty and windy enemy most of the year. The blue water almost matches the sky as the sun sets, only broken by a band of gray and sandstone and gleaming construction, like wooden blocks stacked along the horizon.
The leaves unfurl overhead, shushing in the light breeze coming across the water. I take off my jacket and pause on a bench, letting what remains of the sun kiss my skin. Nearby, a family celebrates a grandparent’s birthday. There are more candles than cake. The father struggles to keep them lit and everyone laughs. After the closing notes of the happy birthday song, I wonder what the person wished for.
Lottie’s image floats into my mind and I let it out on an exhale.
I’m in no rush to return to the empty apartment, so I stop by Bittersweet, my favorite bookstore and café. The barista presents me with a latte with a leaf fading into the foam on top. I also get a sandwich for later. I’m skilled in the fine art of sutures and saving lives, but cooking isn’t something I learned, so my menu consists of takeout or hospital cafeteria food.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. As always, my muscles tense until I recall I’m not on call. The area code is familiar, but not the number.
“Hey, Russell. This is Zoe. It’s been a while. I think the Crazy Cat Lady needs your help.”
My pulse accelerates. It takes me a long moment to place the voice, the name, and the reference.
We talk for another couple of minutes before I call my grandmother.
Cupcakes and Catastrophes
Lottie
Whoever said laughter is the best medicine must not have ever eaten chocolate. Or smelled it, looked at it, licked it...
Actually, laughter and chocolate are a close tie. I need a lot of both and a distraction from Dr. Cutie McCute Stuff.
Colette unloads a grocery bag, filled with the ingredients for cupcakes. After I told her about my day, she said, “When in doubt, we don’t keep calm and carry on, we bake.”
“What are the chances that the hottest doctor in the building would be the one to literally catch me in his arms. Well, his arm. He had a cast around the other one.”
“Did you sign it?”
I plaster myself against the closed door. “I should’ve written my phone number on it.” Not that I’d ever do something audacious like that.
“I take it he had a burly arm then.” She flexes.
“All biceps and triceps, and what’s this one?” I point to the soft spot on my forearm, just below my elbow. “It wasn’t mushy on him. Also, his shoulders.” I melt into a puddle on the floor.
She lifts and lowers her eyebrows. “Minnie also told me about Mr. Fedora and his chicken legs.”
My stomach sinks at the memory of the dog and the doo.
“Yes, she told me everything.” Her southern accent rings with pity.
I hold my head in my hands. “Why am I so unlucky?”
“Honey, you’re not unlucky at all. Just think about it this way. God is making sure you don’t get your heart tangled up with the wrong guy. See, it’s a matter of keeping clear of the lousy ones, so when you come across the right one, you’re not ensnared in some horrible relationship. I’d say that has fortunate written all over it.”
The doctor’s ice-blue eyes, his strong jaw, and slightly parted lips, hovering over me as I regained consciousness fill my mind.
“Oh, you have that look. The soft boiled egg and the arachnid would have a field day if you dated the good doctor.”
“Did I mention he’s good-looking?”
“What with the dark hair, strong build, and pouty lips? Yes, Lottie. You did. Now, let’s bake these cupcakes, and get you fixed up with a romcom on Netflix.” Colette pulls out a mixing bowl and spatula.
She’s right, but I can’t help but fixate on the doctor. Maybe I have some kind of warped Florence Nightingale effect going on. He did catch me in his arms. A sigh escapes. Those arms. Well, the one.
“Code brown. We need to get chocolate in the patient, stat.” Colette pulls out a bag of chocolate Easter egg candies, and dumps them in my hand.
“You know me too well.”
“It was a beautiful day today, but not quite ice cream season—you know how I am when it comes to two scoops and a cone. I figured these would be a suitable runner-up.”
Colette and I bake the cupcakes and watch a chick flick while they cool. All the while, we lament about our non-existent love lives as the woman on the television has her choice of three guys. Forget a love triangle. This lady has a love quadrilateral or something.
“What about the Belgian? Or was he Dutch?” I ask, referring to a guy she was seeing a while back.
Her expression goes from blank confusion to a fuss of wriggling eyebrows and the pressing of lips. “Oh, him. Yeah. Didn’t work out. Visa issues.”
“That’s too bad.”
“All the good ones go away. I mean, get away.” Sadness pierces her eyes and then just as quickly disappears.
“Well, as we know I have yet to find a good one.” Guilt slides in the backdoor at my deception. I’ve never told my friends that I haven’t had a proper first kiss. A stupid bet in middle school and an overzealous guy during my CPR training doesn’t count.
“Maybe they’re all in Europe,” she says absently. “I should probably get going.”
“We haven’t decorated the cupcakes yet.” I pull out the food coloring.
“Well, I can’t say no to chocolate and frosting.”
I mix up the sugar and butter, adding red dye.
Colette watches carefully and taps her chin. “Chocolate cupcakes. Red dye. It’s not Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh, the red dye is to signify blood. You know, like an inside joke.”
“With the doctor?” The words drawl.
“Yeah, considering he caught me in his arms when I passed out before the sight of blood. Not at the sight of blood, mind you. I figure I owe him.”
“Lottie, I thought these little love muffins were for members of the lonely hearts club. Us.”
“Well, yeah. For us. And Dr. Koenig.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Um, Cutie?” I try.
She narrows her eyes. “What department does he work in?”
I shrug.
“Was he wearing a wedding ring?”
I swallow thickly at the implication. No way would I want to get involved in a love quadrilateral or anything of the sort. A home-wrecker I am not. Then a lightbulb goes off inside, and I’m like the fluorescents in the office.
“Not when he held my hand.”
“You held hands?”
“Well, he held my hand because I was queasy. Shaking, actually. It gets cold in hospitals.”
“Ironic you work there and are averse to the cold and blood.”
It wasn’t always that way.
“He made that observation as well, about the blood anyway...and something about a celebratory dinner.” Come to think of it, the otherwise serious and understandably humorless medical professional seemed a bit off-kilter as I was leaving.
While I frost the cupcakes, Colette dissects our c
onversation, from head to toe. Then I tell her about the medical school prank and the grapes.
We both push away the cupcakes, having lost our appetites.
“Well, good luck tomorrow,” Colette says as she leaves.
“Yeah, I’ll need it.” I sigh.
My phone jingles and my heart leaps before I realize it’s my mother. Dr. Cutie McCute Stuff wouldn’t call me because he doesn’t have my number.
Her German accent is thicker than mine, which is almost non-existent, but I know the contours of it well...and I know she’s going to ask me for a favor before the words are out of her mouth.
After we get past the pleasantries and small talk, I say, “So what do you need?”
“It’ll just be for a few weeks.”
I brace myself for any number of requests from putting in a call to my aunt who lives in Germany—if I remember correctly, she has a spring birthday—to needing a recommendation for her book club. Hold up. She said weeks. Plural.
“We made a match for one of Kingsley and Oriel’s pups. Well, she’s not a pup anymore—fully trained and ready to work.”
“That’s nice.” My tone contains a period. An end to a paragraph. The close of a chapter. I don’t want to talk about Home-Hunds and the dogs my parents train to work as companions and protectors—mostly for those with disabilities and the elderly. They’re a few steps down from police K9s.
“The woman is elderly and in need of company. She doesn’t have family nearby.”
“So she spent fifty thousand dollars on a dog?”
“You know they’re not just dogs. They’re laborers and become family.”
“No. They’re not.” I know all too well what kinds of dogs they are. The kind that was supposed to be there when I was attacked.
“Her grandson thought it was a good idea. He filled out the application. I’d like you to visit with the client, assess, and do your best to foster the bond. She’s located only a few hours north of you by train.”
“Mom, you know I don’t do that.” I leave off the part about how I can’t.
“She’s an immigrant. Elderly. Alone.”
My mother has an affinity for the checks in those boxes. A big heart too.
