by Melissa Yi
CODE BLUES
by Melissa Yi
Smashwords Edition
Published by Olo Books
In association with Windtree Press
Cover photo by Nicolas Raymond.
http://freestock.ca
Dedicated to Matt Innes
Chapter 1
I pictured the city of Montreal as a woman with bleached blonde hair and a generous, lopsided bosom, who would draw me into her perfumed embrace and whisper, "Bienvenue." Instead, I found a skinny brunette with a cigarette jammed in the corner of her mouth who turned around and bitch-slapped me.
At least, that's what it felt like. Even before I got mixed up with murder.
Last night, it took me seven hours to drive here from London, Ontario. When I hit the Quebec border, I could hardly make out the blue and white sign declaring "Bonjour!" and the fleur-de-lis flag fluttering against in the dusky, grey-indigo June sky, but I noticed that my Ford Focus began bouncing over more frequent potholes. Although the maximum speed was still 100 kilometers per hour, there was also a minimum speed: 60. I decided that the roads were natural speed bumps. Everyone slowed down to about 110. Not me. I cranked up the On the Rocks’s cover of Lady Gaga, gave my cinnamon gum an extra-hard chew, and zipped by them—
—only to pull up at a dead stop at a red light, one of many in two little towns, Dorion and Île-Perrot. I thought these must be the suburbs of Montreal, but no. Some planning committee thought it was a good idea to run Highway 20 through the heart of little bergs advertising musculation and rénovation. I knew the second one, but the first was intriguing. I could use a guy with some musculation.
I crossed the bridge over to the island of Montreal. Strange to say, as a girl from nearby Ottawa, but I hadn't realized Montreal was an island. Or how big a city it was, with the billboards lining the Ville Marie expressway, advertising everything from "Cuba, si" to cell phones. Skyscrapers loomed above me, including one topped by a white searchlight that revolved around the city.
By the time I took a left up the steep hill of University Avenue, it was after 8 p.m. I felt very small and tired, but at least I'd arrived. I cashed in the last of my good karma by finding a parking space, avoiding the $10 parking lot at the top of the hill. It would all be strawberry daiquiris and whipped cream from here.
Except that the next morning, my alarm didn't go off. Like the white rabbit, I was very, very late.
I didn't panic. Being late was a habit of mine. Even though I was now a doctor, or at least a resident doctor, I often spared a moment to brush my teeth or dab on some lip gloss. Then, suddenly, there was no time, and I was hopping around, pulling up my socks after barely yanking on my underwear.
Today, I was late for my first day of orientation at St. Joseph's Hospital in Montreal. After four long, hard years of medical school, earning my M.D., I was in for two years of a residency in family medicine, mostly based at St. Joseph's.
I'd stayed the night at the Royal Victoria Hospital, in a cramped, pink call room with peeling paint, because it was free for visiting students.
Or not so free. When I ran down the hill, my keys clutched in sweaty fingers, my silver car was one of a chorus line sporting a $30 parking ticket under its windshield wiper.
After multiple red lights, one-way streets, and a guy flipping me the bird, I finally managed to drive up the right street, Péloquin.
I hit the brakes when a moving van shuddered to a halt in front of me. WTF? It reversed and angled left to obstruct all traffic on a diagonal.
The van's doors popped open. Two men leapt out. One pulled down the rear ramp while the other ran into the open door of a nearby apartment and began loading boxes into the van.
Heart hammering, I took a hard right into a parking spot. Even as I locked my doors, a city bus tried to nudge its way around the van, failed, and began honking. Two more cars joined the chorus.
The moving men continued loading the van. They were still smiling.
I did not understand this city.
However, I swiftly recognized St. Joseph's concrete block architecture, typical of hospitals and 19th century prisons. It looked like something my eight-year-old brother, Kevin, might build out of Legos. The only fancy bit was the limestone front entranceway declaring, CENTRE HOSPITALIER DE SAINT JOSEPH, and underneath it, in smaller letters, the English version. Taxis idled in the semicircular driveway with a widened lot for parking and drop-offs. A straggly-haired patient in a wheelchair, an IV still hooked up to her arm, took a drag off her cigarette.
I held my breath against the smoke and pushed open the glass door, ready for the Family Medicine Centre. Only the receptionist told me the FMC wasn't part of the hospital, it was in "the Annex." Great. Like Anne Frank's hiding place.
Finally inside the correct building, even I couldn't miss the orientation room immediately across from the Annex entrance. Its wooden doors were flung open to reveal a room full of people staring at me instead of the man saying, "... any time. I don't mind. That's why I get paid the big bucks."
The speaker stood at a podium to the left of the door. Dang. I tiptoed past him with an apologetic smile.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Kurt Radshaw." The speaker, a good-looking guy in his late 30's, held out his hand. His smile seemed genuine under his dark ,Tom Selleck-style moustache. "Welcome to St. Joseph's."
"Thanks." I shook his hand. His grip was firm but not crushing. Bonus.
The skin crinkled around the corners of his eyes. "I was just saying, if you have any problems, page me. Sheilagh's handing out my numbers and e-mail address in the orientation package."
"Great. Thanks."
"I know what it's like to have problems," he said to the group. "I have Type I diabetes myself. So don't be afraid to speak to me anytime. My pager's always on." He tapped the small black plastic pager clipped to his belt.
I surveyed the room, looking for a place to sit. The room's two couches and two armchairs were full, and everyone else was sitting on cheap orange plastic chairs.
I got the hairy eyeball from a milky-white, twenty-something guy who was wearing a tie, his suit jacket neatly folded on the sofa arm. Clearly, my tardiness, tank top, and board shorts failed to impress this fellow resident.
I picked a plastic chair across from him and smiled, showing a lot of teeth. Nothing to do but brazen it out.
Beside Mr. Bean, a guy with slightly long, messy, chestnut hair smiled back at me. A real smile, his eyes glinting with amusement. He sat with his knees sprawled apart, but his ankles hooked together. He was wearing a shirt that reminded me of blue milk paint, dark instead of flashy, but fitted enough for me to see that he had some musculation.
Maybe Montreal wasn't so bad after all.
At the break, everyone made a run for the refreshments table against the wall, next to the entrance. Dr. Radshaw chewed on a croissant as he talked to the tie guy and an Asian woman.
I didn't rise. I tilted in my chair so I could peek around an East Indian woman. The milk paint shirt guy and I smiled at each other again, across the room.
"Hello." The white woman on my left held out her hand. Her square-jawed face might have been pretty, if she hadn't been forcing her smile. She wasn't fat, but big boned, and her grip was worthy of a wrestler. "My name is Mireille." Her chin-length brown curls were the only bouncy thing about her.
"Hope," I said, belatedly returning the metacarpal-crushing handshake. She didn't wince. I pulled my hand away, smiled, and said, "Boy, those drinks look good."
I was contemplating the mystery meat sandwiches, when a male voice behind me said, "Don't do it."
I spun around, empty-handed. It was the milk paint guy. He was even better-looking up close. His grey eyes looked straight into mine. He was shorter than I expected, maybe half a foot taller than my
own five-foot two. I didn't mind. The nice thing about being short is that guys of all size feel comfortable hitting on you.
I found myself focusing on his lips as he said, "I think they put something in those sandwiches so that you never want to leave Montreal."
I had to laugh. "Oh, yeah? Don't worry, I've already been immunized. In about twelve hours, I've gotten lost, got a thirty-dollar parking ticket, and almost ran into a moving van with moving violations." I explained my morning while he snagged a bottled water and offered it to me. I took it.
He broke open another bottle for himself. "Don't worry. Everyone gets parking tickets when they move here. It's like losing your virginity."
He watched me blush. Silent laughter danced in his eyes. I tossed my head. "What about the moving van?"
"July first is moving day in Quebec. It's the default date when all the leases expire."
"On the same day? For the whole province?" My organized, Ontario head spun.
He laughed and crunched on a carrot stick. "Pretty much. It's chaos here for the week before and after. Where are you from?"
"Ontario. Ottawa, originally. Western for med school." I held the water bottle up in a silent toast.
He nodded. "Poor little Ontario girl."
"Hey. Ain't no such thing." I gave him an arch look. Mireille bumped into me on her way to the refreshments table and muttered 'sorry.'
Alex and I gravitated toward the windows at the opposite end of the room. He leaned against one of the carved oak windowsills. I drank some water and asked, "So. Are you a poor, little Quebec boy?"
He bent toward me and lowered his voice. "Sort of. I've been here for years. Undergrad, med school. But originally—" He whispered, his lips only two inches from my ear, "Kitchener."
I giggled. Not that there's anything wrong with Kitchener-Waterloo, a town famous for its university and its Oktoberfest, but it's not exactly cosmopolitan. In answer, he held his index finger so close to my mouth that I could almost feel the heat from his skin against my lips.
I stopped laughing, suddenly shy.
A smile grew across his face. He lowered his finger and intoned, "Not one word. I have a reputation to uphold." He held out his hand. "Alex Dyck."
His hand was warm and strong, and felt right in mine. I held it for an extra beat. "Hope Sze."
We let go slowly. I could hear the chatter around the room and sense the sun's rays on my shoulder and arm, but nothing felt as real as his fingers sliding away from mine.
He cleared his throat and dropped his hand back down to the windowsill. "Did you get teased as much about your name as I did about mine?"
I shook my head. "More." My voice sounded a bit rusty.
He laughed. "It can't be worse than Dyck-head, Dyck-face, Dyckie-Dee..."
"Hopeless," I countered. "I hope not. Sze-saw. Sze-sick. Sze-nile. Sze-nior. Sze—"
He held up his hand. "I surrender."
I tucked my hand into the shape of a gun and blew across the barrel that was my index finger.
Alex nodded slowly. "I like you."
I couldn't hide my smile. "Likewise."
When we headed back to the little circle, he abandoned his spot on the sofa to sit in the hard plastic chair on my right.
The program director, Dr. Bob Clarkson, tapped at the top sheet on one of those things that look like easels. "Ahem. Now that we're all here—"
A few eyes swung in my direction. I shrugged and smiled, but with Alex at my side, I was tempted to take a bow. Alex smothered a laugh into a cough.
Dr. Clarkson frowned at me. "Why don't we introduce ourselves and say why we chose family medicine? Let's start with—" His eyes moved to my right. "Alex, you've been here a while."
"Sure have," said Alex in a fake-jaunty voice. "I'm Alex Dyck. I'm doing family medicine because no one else would have me. Oh, and because it's what I've wanted to do ever since I was a little kid."
A small, relieved laugh rippled from the crowd. I glanced sidelong at him. He smiled back at me.
My turn already? I cleared my throat. "I'm Hope Sze. I like long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and family medicine."
Alex laughed out loud.
Dr. Radshaw's eyes twinkled at me. He'd taken Alex's place on the sofa.
The program director, Dr. Bob Clarkson, rotated his upper body from side to side like a perturbed puppet. "Yes. Well. I was hoping for a little more explanation of the reasoning, the process behind your selection of family medicine and our program in particular, so..."
I smiled again, but added nothing. Neither did Alex.
"All right then." Bob Clarkson cleared his throat and tried the other side of the room. "Uh, Tori?"
Tori was the other Asian woman. She wore an indigo dress with tiny blue flowers. She folded her hands in her lap, and I noticed her long, artistic-looking fingers. "My name is Tori Yamamoto." So her background was Japanese, not Chinese like me. Her voice was clipped and low-pitched, with no accent. "My aunt is a family doctor in Edmonton."
Next was the tie guy. "Robin Huxley." That explained a lot about him. "I chose family medicine because I like the continuity of care." He looked at the floor and straightened his tie. Not a big talker.
John Tucker was a white guy with a shock of wheat-coloured hair. I wondered if he dyed it, while he said in a baritone voice, "Call me Tucker. Everyone does. You can call me Tucker, Tuck, Turkey. I'll answer to anything." He winked at me.
I wrinkled my nose. He was trying too hard. Not my type.
Anu Raghavan had a single, long, braid of hair behind her back and several gold and silver rings, but none on her engagement finger. She said she was interested in doing obstetrics and family medicine.
Mireille's chair squeaked. She kept shifting, impatient for her turn. When it came, she wouldn't shut up. "Before medical school, I went to Kenya, and since then, I've been to Thailand and Guatemala, but I'm most fascinated by the plight of the native people of Canada. The conditions on the reservations are appalling."
I glanced at Alex. His eyelid barely twitched, but I knew we were on the same page. Although I'm interested in those issues, I don't bash people over the head about it.
While Bob Clarkson sounded off about the joys of family medicine, Dr. Radshaw's pager beeped. He leapt to his feet and rushed over to the phone in the corner. Bob Clarkson frowned and raised his voice over Dr. Radshaw's murmurs. Mireille kept shooting glances at Dr. Radshaw.
While everyone was distracted, I tugged the top sheet out of my orientation package. It was my schedule for the year.
I'd be starting with emergency medicine. Cool. That's what I wanted to do when I grew up.
Although I could've done without the first shift on the first day of residency: Saturday, July first, at 7:30 a.m. Tomorrow.
I tilted the schedule so Alex could see it.
"Sucks," he breathed, and tilted his schedule toward me: palliative care. I didn't even know that was part of our residency program. I rolled my eyes at him.
Alex scrawled on his envelope, "Want to go out tonight?"
I scrawled back, "Yes." And for the rest of orientation, my Spidey-sense was tingling.
Chapter 2
Alex laced his fingers together on the white linen tablecloth. "So what did you think of the clinic?"
"Honestly?" I sipped some jasmine tea out of a blue and white china cup. "It was scary."
Alex laughed. He'd taken me out for sushi, which I'd only had once before, in Toronto, for a friend's birthday. All I remembered was eating a piece covered in orange sacs of oil called roe eggs. It was disgusting. The meal had also cost me $40, and two hours later, I was so hungry that I ate a bowl of Bran Flakes. I wasn't eager to repeat the experience, but Alex had insisted, "I didn't like sushi either, until I came here. Come on. It's baptism by raw fish."
I had to admit that the ambiance was great. Elegant ebony furniture, white floral linen napkins that matched the tablecloth, and tinkling music in the background. We didn't sit on tatami mats, th
ough. That was Alex's one concession to my bourgeois upbringing.
The tea was fragrant, but had a subtle flavor. I set the cup back on the table. "You know, I didn't bother to tour St. Joseph's at the interview. So I'd never seen the clinic before."
Alex raised his eyes. "You didn't like the duct tape holding down the carpet? Or the examining rooms with no running water?"
I shuddered. "I've heard of 'shabby chic,' but that was just shabby." The upstairs rooms were much more run-down than the conference room had been. "And that nurse who made us stab ourselves—"
He laughed. The nurse had insisted that in order to check diabetics' blood sugar, we should practice on ourselves. I had to jab my left pinky with a needle and drip the blood on a paper strip. My finger still ached. Plus Tucker had taken the opportunity to point out that my post-cookie reading of 7.5 was higher than his own 4.9. "I guess you're sweeter," he'd said. Yuck.
Alex tapped the tablecloth just next to my hand. "Dr. Kurt is awesome, though. You'll love him. Everybody does."
I hoped Dr. Kurt was awesome enough not to mind me interrupting his speech. I squirmed.
Alex didn't seem to notice. "The whole thing with the pager? It's true. You can call him anytime. I think he clips it to his bedpost. Seriously."
I found it a bit weird, but Dr. Radshaw had certainly seemed delighted to answer his page during Bob Clarkson's speech.
A slender, Japanese woman appeared at our elbows and laid an enormous china platter in front of us. My eyes widened at the neat bundles of rice topped with shrimp, fish, caviar, and other items I couldn't identify. Alex had ordered octopus, eel, and all sorts of goodies. "Bon appétit," the server murmured and withdrew silently.
Alex laughed at my expression. "Are you not in Kansas anymore?"
I looked across the table at him. His bangs were long, and he tossed his head, flipping them out of his eyes. I was on a date with a guy who intrigued me, for the first time in two years, and it felt damned good. I grinned back at him. "Yeah, but now I don't miss Kansas as much." I picked up my wooden chopsticks, which did not come in a paper wrapper and have to be snapped apart. "Do you miss Kitchener at all?"
