Spiral

by Mila Ferrera

  She shrugs. “Grammy and Grandpa are excited to see you more often. And I know you love the water. Remember how close their cottage is to the ocean?”

  I nod and feel a pang as a distant memory hits me: my dad waking me before five in the morning to watch the sun rise over the waves, as excited as I was to witness its emergence from the water and then go get breakfast on the boardwalk. “Yeah. Is that donut place still there?”

  “I think so. Your dad loved those.”

  I draw my knees to my chest as I hear the sadness in her voice. “They were good,” I murmur. She’s turned her head away from me, so all I see right now is her dark, wavy hair. It’s a lot like mine except it’s a bit shorter and streaked with gray. “Are you okay?”

  “Tell me about your new place,” she chirps suddenly. “You have a nice view of Rittenhouse Square. And those great big windows …”

  I’m as eager to change the direction of the conversation as she is. “Yeah, they’re great. It makes the space feel bigger.” A studio apartment was all I could afford without taking out more student loans or living in a sketchy part of town.

  “Have you made any friends?” Her voice is so hopeful. “Lots of young professionals at the hospital, I bet. And some cute doctors, maybe?”

  “I’ve only been in Philly for a week, Mom!” But of course, Aron grins down at me as soon as I close my eyes. “And remember that this year is going to be intense—it’s about work, not my social life.”

  “You’ve been saying that for four years,” she chides. “I was thinking this year would mark a new beginning.”

  “It’s supposed to be an ending—one more year and I’ll have my doctorate. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, no one said you couldn’t have it all.” She pats my thigh.

  I don’t want to have it all. Or maybe I do, but I’m not sure I can. “It’s easier to focus on one thing at a time, you know? Simpler that way.”

  She shakes her head. “You have to take care of yourself, and a good support system is so essential, especially with the stress you’re under.”

  Here we go. “Mom, I’m fine. I always have been. You don’t have to worry so much.” But she does, and it’s all because of Peter Cavenaugh. My father. She doesn’t talk about him much, but he’s always there. Particularly when she looks at me. She’s worried that I inherited more than his baby blues.

  He wasn’t like other dads. Sometimes it wasn’t that great, like when he stayed in his room for two whole weeks, refusing to eat or speak, or all those times when he was just off, distant, gone. But sometimes it was awesome, like when he showed up at my school and whisked me off to the amusement park for the day, or when I came home to find that he’d built a palatial tree house in our backyard, all by himself in a single day. Those times, when his mood was up, he would spend hours playing make believe, the fearsome dragon to my warrior princess. He’d keep me up late, telling me fantastical stories of all his real-life adventures … which I later realized couldn’t possibly have been true, but at the time made him a freaking hero in my eyes.

  We didn’t know there was a name for those ups and downs. He was a dreamer, a flake, a painter and sculptor, and my mother chalked up his moods to his artistic temperament. It wasn’t until I took a college class called “Abnormal Psychology” that I realized what had been going on. My father was like the poster child for bipolar disorder, though sometimes I regret sharing that information with my mom, because once she had a label, she did research. Turns out I have about a one-in-five chance of ending up with bipolar disorder, too, though, as I remind her often, it also means I have a four-in-five chance of coming out okay in this little game of genetic Russian roulette. But my mom just keeps worrying.

  She gives me a smile. “It’s my job to worry about you, kiddo.”

  “And it’s my job to show you it’s not necessary,” I say, poking her. But as much as I don’t admit it, I’m worried, too. It’s why I try to stay focused on work. It might be intense, but it’s a different kind of intense. My work lets me concentrate on other people so I don’t dwell on my own stuff. Which is what we’re starting to do right now, so I change the subject yet again. I ask about Mom’s job, Grammy’s health, the upkeep of the cottage, anything free from the pressure of expectation and the weight of the past, and that’s how we spend the rest of the drive.

  When my cell rings on Sunday afternoon, a few hours after my mom drops me back at my apartment, I push away from my computer and dive across my bed to get it. I recognize the ring, and I’m hoping it’s the news I’ve been waiting for. “Frank?”

  “Hey, Nessa,” says my advisor. “How’s Philly treating you?”

  “Like an impoverished intern,” I say with a laugh. “I kind of miss my hovel in Madison. At least I had an actual living room.”

  He chuckles. “Well, the lab isn’t the same without you. We’re missing our mother hen.”

  Dr. Frank Rush’s bustling lab in the University of Wisconsin’s psych department has been my home for the last four years. “I miss you guys, too.”

  “But you have a new group to be a part of—where are the other interns from? There are four of you, right?”

  “Yep. There’s a guy from University of Alabama. His name’s Justin. And a woman from University of Virginia—”

  “That’s a good program.”

  “Yeah. Her name’s Lisa and she’s really nice.” She’s already helped me escape from a bad situation, but I don’t mention that part. “And there’s Nick, who came from Yale.” He pretty much was the bad situation, but I don’t mention that, either.

  “Sounds like you’ve got a competitive group there. And the clinical work? You mentioned you had chosen oncology as one of your rotations. Seems like a tough one.”

  I sag onto my bed. “Yeah. I had my first consult on Friday evening. It was …” I sigh.

  “I’m well-familiar with that sound, Nessa. You think you messed something up.”

  I smile to myself—he’s heard my sighs on many an occasion. “Well, I did. It was redeemed only when one of the oncology fellows showed up and smoothed the situation over. With Munchkins.”

  His laughter rumbles into the phone, such a comforting sound, one that used to brighten my tough days in the lab. Frank would come in with coffee for the grad students and check on our progress, but he would also joke around and try to get us—and me in particular—to lighten up. It always worked. “It sounds like that doctor has some diplomacy skills,” he says.

  That’s not the only thing Aron has going for him. “Can’t disagree. I wish they’d taught us that trick in Advanced Therapeutic Principles class.”

  “If I know you—and I do—you’re making it sound worse than it was. You care about people, Nessa. That always shines through.”

  “It’s not enough, Frank, especially if I can’t come up with the right words at the right time.”

  “But if you didn’t have the ability to think about what’s really going on for someone else, all the perfect words in the world wouldn’t help. People would sense that you weren’t really there for them. And if they sense you are, they’ll forgive you for a few clumsy words.”

  I think back to how Greg Beeman seemed surprised that I’d admitted I’d caused him stress—and how he was willing to give me another chance because I took the time to ask for it. “Maybe. Okay, yes. But I need to do better.”

  He laughs again. “And I’m sure you won’t give up until you do.”

  “Thanks.” I worry at my bottom lip. “I know you didn’t call just to see how my first week of internship went, though. You’re calling because you have news.”

  It’s his turn to sigh. “I’m calling because I don’t. Dr. Eshkol is on his way to Israel for a few weeks. Family emergency. He asked me to let you know he’s still considering the issues he raised during your dissertation proposal defense and will have his answer for you when he gets back.”

  I manage to bite back the string of names I’d love to call Dr. Eshkol,
the chair of our department. I worked freaking hard on my proposal, which laid out the studies I wanted to do for my dissertation. And my committee approved all of it—except for Dr. Eshkol, who said he had some concerns and withheld his signature. Over the summer, as I wore myself to the bone collecting all the data, Dr. Eshkol approached Frank to say he thought it might be necessary to do an additional study. Because Frank is an assistant professor about to go up for tenure, he couldn’t exactly tell Dr. Eshkol where he could stick that study. So now we’re waiting. And waiting. “Why is he so fixated on this?”

  “You’re the first graduate student I ever took on,” Frank says. “Unfortunately, I think this might be more about me than you. He’ll settle down once he’s put us through our paces, and I’ll be supporting you no matter what he says. We’ll know what he’s decided in a few weeks, but I didn’t want you to be checking email obsessively. Because I know you would.”

  “I’m not that much of a loser.” I am, actually. But I’m socially savvy enough not to admit it.

  “I never said you were a loser. I said you were obsessive. And I’m hoping that you’ll take time to have some fun and relax this year. Lord knows you didn’t while you were here.”

  “Hey, babysitting Colin was loads of fun!”

  “I’ll tell Becca you said that,” he says, referring to his wife. “But as charming as my four-year-old is, he’s not exactly your social peer.”

  “He’s easier to be around than a lot of my social peers,” I grumble.

  “Studying human relationships is actually easier than having human relationships sometimes,” he says gently. “Don’t use your work as an excuse to avoid living.”

  “You’re starting to sound a little like my mom, Frank.”

  “She’s obviously a very smart woman.”

  “And you’re a great advisor. Give everyone my best, okay?”

  We hang up, and I look down at the dark screen of my phone. It’s scary how easily he pegged me. Work is simple. Relationships are crazy complicated and emotionally taxing, and I want to stay on an even keel—no unnecessary ups or downs, thank you very much. I don’t want to be like my dad. And I certainly don’t want to end up the way he did.

  Still … it would be nice, to have someone close, to connect. It’s not that I don’t want that. It’s that I can’t afford to do it now. But as I remember a certain gorgeous blond doctor smiling down at me, it’s tempting to take Frank’s advice to heart. Then I glance at my computer screen, where my dissertation file is open, the cursor blinking, waiting for my next words. Next to the computer sits a stack of readings I’m supposed to have done by tomorrow for my various rotations: Pediatric Oncology, Neuropsychological Assessment, Sleep Clinic, and Pain Clinic. Suddenly, the reality that I have to get my dissertation done while keeping my head above water at this internship freezes me up, and I can’t breathe. It’s easy for my mom and even Frank to tell me to get a life—they’re not the ones facing down this monster to-do list.

  I close my eyes. “One year, Nessa. You can get through this year, no matter what it brings. And at the end of it, you’ll be Dr. Cavenaugh. Don’t get distracted, and don’t get paralyzed by fear. Keep moving.”

  I repeat those words to myself a few times until my fingers uncurl over the keyboard, until my chest loosens and my breaths come a bit easier. And then I settle in and get to work.

  Chapter Three

  I arrive at the hospital early on Monday, already regretting skipping the gym. It’s the perfect outlet for me, but I haven’t been back since joining up a week ago.

  As I walk into the cramped intern office, Nick Samson is standing at the file cabinet, pawing through some back issues of a pediatric psychology journal. His expression brightens when he sees me, his gaze slipping from my face and sliding down my body. “Hey, Ness,” he says, shortening my name in a way that I happen to hate after spending middle school being called Loch Ness Monster. “I tried calling you Saturday. I found a great club and thought you might want to go. Did you get my message?”

  I nod and edge past him on the way to my cubicle, the few square feet of space I can call my own. “Sorry. I went to visit my grandparents. And I had a lot of work to do. Readings. Dissertation. You know.”

  Also: I was avoiding him. During orientation weekend, a bunch of post-docs threw a party for the new interns. We’d come from universities all over the country, so none of us knew anyone in Philadelphia, and they’d welcomed us with appetizers and a lot of mixed drinks. Nervous about being in a new city, with my mother’s admonitions in my ear, telling me to bust out of my workaholic shell and get a life … I made a big mistake, one I haven’t made since freshman year of college.

  “Well, I missed you,” Nick says quietly. “I thought maybe we could hook up again.”

  Ugh. My big mistake has been made a thousand times worse because, for a guy who’s a year away from getting a doctorate in psychology, Nick seems to have great difficulty picking up on body language and social cues. He’s really smart, and he’s cute enough, well-built, nice blue eyes, dark hair that falls over his forehead and curls at the nape of his neck. As he plops into his desk chair and rolls in my direction, I can see why, after a few drinks, I thought kissing him would be a good idea.

  A few minutes of his aggressively roving hands and inability to process the word no cured me of that, though.

  “Nick, like I told you, I really need to focus on work this year.” I back my chair away from him but run up against the wall after only a few feet. “I’m not really looking to ...” God. This is awkward.

  He grins. “I’m not either.”

  So basically, he wants to screw me with no strings attached. I guess that would keep things from getting complicated, but when my system is free of alcohol, he’s a lot less appealing.

  “Can we just, um, keep this professional?” I gesture at the space between us and wish it was bigger.

  “Busy tonight?” he asks, still inching forward. “There’s this cute little place—”

  “Sorry, I’ve booked her for tonight,” a voice answers for me. Lisa strides into the office, her mane of corkscrew curls pulled back in a ponytail, a woven bag on her shoulder with bits of yarn hanging over the side. She commutes from the suburbs and knits on the train. She might only be a few years older than I am, but for some reason, it feels like she’s light years ahead. “Nessa’s taking me shopping.”

  I pivot in my seat and give Lisa a grateful look. She and her husband were also at the party—she’s the one who found me hiding in the bathroom after I pried myself from Nick’s grasp. I was so embarrassed, but she matter-of-factly helped me put myself back together and made sure I got home okay. And after that, she still seems to like me. But I think she also feels responsible for me, which is sweet but unnecessary. She pushes her glasses up on her blunt, freckled nose and winks. “You wouldn’t let me down, would you?”

  I shake my head. Nick shrugs. “Maybe next weekend,” he says. “I’ll see you in onco rounds. I’m headed over now to talk to one of the fellows. Sounded like a total asshole over the phone.”

  My heart beats a little faster. “Oh? Who is it?”

  Lisa sits down at her desk and raises an eyebrow at the wobbly sound of my voice.

  “Dr. Lindstrom.” Nick grabs his notebook and stands up. “He called first thing this morning and asked for the intern. Seemed surprised to find out there was more than one of us on the rotation this semester. I don’t know why he made the call—usually the docs have the nurses do it, don’t they?”

  Aron called. Here. Thinking there was only one intern. Me.

  It’s probably good that I wasn’t in the office, because even imagining Aron’s deep voice and barely-there accent has left me with Neanderthal-level thought complexity. “So I guess you’ll be working with one of his patients …” Nick’s brow furrows as he watches my face, and I clear my throat. “I’ll see you in rounds, then.”

  He puts his hand on the back of my desk chair and tries to swivel me
toward him, but I plant my feet and stay put. “Maybe we can get lunch after,” he suggests.

  I fiddle with my pen. “Maybe. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”

  “Cool. Later.” He turns on his heel and heads out the door.

  I sag in my chair as Lisa scoots closer. “You shouldn’t ‘maybe’ him,” she says in a low voice. Our office is right next door to the warren of post-doc cubicles, and conversations in either place can easily be overheard. “He ripped your dress, for God’s sake.”

  “I think it was more clumsiness than purposeful bodice-ripping.” I rub my arms as goosebumps rise. “And he’s unlikely to do that in the hospital cafeteria. I wish we could forget it happened. We have to work together all year! I’m such an idiot sometimes.”

  Lisa frowns. “If you’re thinking it was your fault, you need to join me here in the twenty-first century. You know better.”

  I smile as I hear her sincerity. “It’s not my fault he got so pushy. I know that. But it is my fault that I kissed him—I did it willingly, and even that was a mistake.”

  She pats my shoulder and makes sure I’m looking at her. “Maybe, but it’s not one you should spend the entire year paying for.” Her mouth curls into a Cheshire cat smile. “I’m wondering if there aren’t more gentlemanly fish in the sea. Maybe even swimming around the oncology department?”

  “After what happened with Nick, you shouldn’t even be suggesting that,” I mutter, bowing my head and letting my hair fall around my face. “Now leave me alone and let me pull myself together so I can survive the day.”

  She laughs. “Oh, I think we need to talk more about this tonight. I wasn’t kidding about the shopping. I need someone with style to guide me, and I have decided you shall mentor me.”

  I snort, thinking of my shoe catastrophe this past Friday. “I question your judgment.”

  Lisa laughs and returns to her cubicle, and I try to focus on checking my email. But my thoughts have already jumped the rails, and my next half hour is occupied by musing about the exact feel of Aron’s fingers on the sensitive skin above my ankle, of his body close to mine in the small space of the electronic records booth.