Spiral

by Mila Ferrera

  Sexually frustrated or not, I need to get my head on straight. I learned an important lesson with Nick: burning off steam with a colleague is seriously stupid, especially when so much is at stake this year. I need to shove Aron Lindstrom out of my thoughts, but at this point, it’s only going to be a temporary absence: I’m going to see him again in a few hours.

  I spend the morning in the Pain Clinic, working with my supervisor, Dr. Ned Krieg. He’s so good at teaching progressive muscle relaxation that when the time comes for me to go to pediatric oncology rounds, I’ve forgotten to feel nervous. That happily loose state evaporates as I walk through the yawning automatic doors and immediately hear a child crying. I glance over at the nurse, a different one from last Friday, and flash my badge. “Here for rounds,” I say.

  I start to head back to the conference room at the end of the hall, but slow as I realize the crying is coming from Finn Beeman’s room. I walk hesitantly over. The curtain is drawn around Finn’s bed, and Mr. Beeman sits on the other side, pale as a ghost. Finn is having some sort of procedure; there are two people standing next to his bed within the circle of curtain. Before I can duck away, Greg Beeman sees me. I tense, ready to be screamed at, but he stands up and comes toward me.

  He looks down at my nametag. “Did they call you?”

  I shake my head. “I’m on my way to rounds. I didn’t mean to bother you, but I heard him crying.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut. “He hates when they mess with his central IV line, but that port in his arm got infected. They thought it might be better if they worked on it without me in there.”

  “Why?”

  He sighs. “I yelled at the nurse.”

  “You really want to protect him.”

  He scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t want him to hurt. He’s my boy. But everything they do here seems to hurt, and it makes me nuts. I’m supposed to take care of him.”

  I choose every word carefully, scared of hurting instead of helping yet again. “You are taking care of him, Greg. You’re here.”

  He winces as Finn cries out, and his fists clench. This is how he looked on Friday. Like he wants to rip the curtain away and punch whoever’s hurting his son. “How long until you’re done?” he barks.

  “Nearly there, Greg,” says Aron from behind the curtain. My heart gives a little kick.

  “Well, hurry,” Greg snarls, then softens his tone. “Please.”

  “Does Finn want you to be in there with him?” I ask, hearing Aron’s voice, low and soothing, when Finn whimpers.

  Greg shrugs his meaty shoulders. “For all I know, he likes the doc better. Finn’s pretty mad at me. He thinks I’m keeping his mom from visiting. He has no idea she’s taken off again. I can’t bring myself to tell him.” His mouth twists, and it looks like he’s trying not to cry. “I don’t know how to talk to him about it.” His eyes meet mine. “Would you talk to him, maybe? See what’s going on in his head? You said that’s what you do, right?”

  Now my heart is beating faster for a totally different reason. I don’t want to let Greg Beeman down. “I can come back later—around two?”

  He gives me a painfully hopeful smile. “That would be good.”

  “And done,” says Aron, pushing back the curtain with gloved hands. His gaze flits to me for a moment, but then his attention focuses on Greg. He pats Finn’s back as the nurse collects a few bloody gauze patches and tosses them in the red biohazard bin. “Finn was very brave. You should be proud of him.”

  “I am,” Greg says, then turns to me. “See you later.” He heads into the room to talk to Aron, who glances at me again over Greg’s shoulder. Looking at his face makes me feel a little dizzy, so I turn to go. I check the clock on the wall.

  Crap. I’m late for rounds.

  I walk quickly down the long hallway and open the door to the conference room. About two dozen heads turn in my direction. The tall, rail thin woman at the head of the table pauses mid-sentence and lasers in on me. “You are?”

  “Nessa Cavenaugh. I’m one of the new psychology interns.” I spot Nick, but his unhappy expression is the opposite of encouraging. “Sorry I’m late.”

  The thin woman puts her hands on her hips. Her graying hair is pulled into a tight bun, only adding to the severity of her appearance. “Well, I’m Joanna Feldman. The senior attending. And you just interrupted our case discussion. Show your colleagues the courtesy of being on time in the future.”

  I mumble my apologies and slink over to one of the few empty chairs. My supervisor on this rotation, Dr. Phaedra Truax, frowns at me from across the room, and I remember her telling me how critical it was to be on time to rounds on this rotation. I sit very still and try to be invisible for the next several minutes. Every head turns again when Aron comes in, but Dr. Feldman merely nods at him and continues with her case discussion. Anger flares inside of me at the double standard, but is quickly extinguished as a chair scrapes the floor only a few feet away.

  Everything inside of me is alert to Aron’s presence, but I force myself not to look at him as rounds proceed. He presents on Finn’s case, and I learn that the kid has been diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia and is in the second week of induction chemotherapy to try to knock it into remission. Aron reports that he called for a psychology consult, and then I hear him say my name. When the whole room goes silent, I realize they’re expecting me to present, and so I do, briefly, haltingly, stating that I’m beginning assessment of family and child need and will have more to report next time, but that familial stressors, parental self-care and emotion regulation, and healthy sibling issues will factor heavily into my work with them. Dr. Truax nods when I finish but doesn’t smile, and I assume that means I didn’t make an ass of myself but didn’t shine, either. I’m relieved when the meeting is over, dying to creep away and hide for a while.

  I stand up as Aron reaches my side. Like on Friday, he’s dressed in dark slacks and a neatly pressed shirt that looks like it might have been made for him. He smells amazing and looks even better. “Thanks for checking in with Greg,” he says. “He really appreciated it.”

  “I was happy to,” I say, trying not to stare at his face. “It got me in a bit of trouble, though.”

  His eyes slide to Dr. Feldman. “She gave you a hard time, didn’t she?”

  I shrug. “I shouldn’t have been late.”

  “She can be hard on new trainees.” His tone is clipped, but then his green eyes settle on me again, sparking with mischief. “You’re wearing more practical shoes today, Intern Cavenaugh,” he says quietly, tilting his head as he looks down at my wedge-heeled slingbacks. “No chance of those tripping you up.”

  I laugh. “You’d be surprised.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Should I be on guard, then?”

  “Why, so I don’t ruin another of your shirts?”

  He leans in, just a little. “No, in case I have to catch you.”

  “Oh,” I squeak. Think. Think. Say something professional. But my entire body is reacting, skin heating, muscles tightening at the thought of being in his arms again, no matter what the reason is. “That’s very … considerate of you. To be willing to—er—”

  Like she has bionic hearing, Dr. Feldman turns her head and glares at us, and her attention is like a bucket of ice water dumped on my head. “My session with Finn is at two,” I blurt, desperate for a change of topic.

  “Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t talk to you. Finn doesn’t talk to anyone, really. He’s a very angry little boy.”

  “Sounds like he has about a million reasons to feel that way.”

  Aron searches my face, his bemused smile making my knees wobbly. If he keeps looking at me like that, I might be in immediate need of his Nessa-catching services. “Indeed he does,” he murmurs, then steps away from me. “Well, I hope it goes well, and I’ll check for your notes in the chart.” His voice has turned crisp and business-like.

  Dr. Feldman has appeared at his shoulder. “I need to see you in my offic
e,” she says to him.

  “Give me one minute,” he says, his face a blank mask.

  Dr. Feldman doesn’t look at me as she stalks away, and I’m so tense watching her that I jump when a hand closes over my shoulder. “What happened to you? Didn’t you know about the late thing?” says Nick, who is standing a shade too close to me. I inch away, but that puts me between him and Aron, who stares at Nick over the top of my head.

  I flinch as Nick’s thumb strokes my shoulder blade, but I am wedged between these two guys in a crowded conference room, and I don’t want to smack him in front of everybody. “I knew it was important to be on time, but I was—”

  “Talking to the parent of one of my patients,” Aron says as he stares at Nick’s hand. “Something I very much appreciated.”

  Nick squeezes my shoulder. “Ready?”

  I’m ready to hit him across the face with my notebook, but I don’t think that’s what he’s talking about. “For what?”

  He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Lunch? Cafeteria?”

  “Mrs. Kendricks said she’d like to talk to you again,” Aron says to Nick. His voice is ice. So cold it burns. “Early afternoon is best.”

  Nick blinks. “Oh. Okay. I’m going to grab a bite with Nessa first, and then I’ll come back.”

  Aron takes a step back and gives the two of us a speculative look, and Nick’s hand on my shoulder is like a two-ton weight. The last thing I want is for anyone to think Nick and I are a thing. I twist sharply until his hand falls away from me. “Nick, I have to take a raincheck. I need to catch up on a few things.”

  Nick’s brow furrows. “I could pick up a few sandwiches and meet you back at the office.” He gives Aron a sidelong glance. Like he’s wondering why Aron’s still standing there. Like he doesn’t realize he’s the one who interrupted us.

  “I’m not hungry,” I say, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice, because I’m starving, but there’s no way I’m going to eat lunch with Nick. Lisa was right—maybe was too confusing for him. “But thanks.”

  Nick mumbles something unintelligible and heads for the door. Aron’s mouth curls up at one corner as he watches my expression. “I need to get back to work,” he says, pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket. “But I wanted to give you this.”

  I take the folded, slightly crumpled paper from his hand. “What—”

  “My dry cleaning bill,” he says, a smile in his voice as he turns away. “Let me know how you’d like to pay.”

  My mouth opens and closes a few times, but Aron’s already striding down the hall.

  I unfold the receipt. It’s from a dry cleaner on Chestnut. Judging by how much it costs to clean one freaking shirt, they must scrub their clients’ clothes with diamond dust. I’m about to shove the receipt in my bag when I see something handwritten at the bottom.

  I sit down quickly, staring at the paper in my hand.

  Aron Lindstrom has given me his phone number.

  Chapter Four

  This is the opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing. For the fourth time in the last hour, I pull the receipt out of my bag and peek at it, and then I tuck it back in, telling myself he actually might just want me to pay for his dry cleaning. And that would be good. Because if he gave me his phone number for some other reason, well. I’m not interested. Not interested at all.

  Oh, man. I can’t get his face out of my mind.

  Before I head onto the unit for my session with Finn, I stop in the hallway and pull out my phone again, letting the devil on my shoulder win this round. My fingers shake a little as I type a text:

  We might have to discuss a payment plan.

  I hit send before I can think this to death. Then I stand in the hospital corridor and silently scream, bouncing on my heels. During my four years at the University of Wisconsin, my social life was in deep hibernation, so much so that apparently even my advisor felt the need to comment on it. Outside of parties and group gatherings with other graduate students, I haven’t been on a single date since I broke up with Matt, my college boyfriend. Unless, of course, I count my misguided, tipsy encounter with Nick a few weeks ago, and I’d really prefer not to. But one thing’s for sure: my flirting skills are extremely rusty, and I’m way out of my depth with Aron, because he probably has females tossing themselves at his feet—and other parts of him—on a daily basis. Besides, this is a game I shouldn’t even be playing! I should be preparing for my next session instead.

  As I start to put my phone away, it beeps like it’s scolding me. I switch it to vibrate and see I have a new text from Aron. If you insist on paying in installments, I’ll have to charge interest.

  A high-pitched eep comes from my throat right as a nurse walks by, rolling a little girl down the hall in a wheelchair. Their startled looks turn my eep into a strangled giggle. I must look insane. But I can’t help myself:

  If you charge interest I might not be able to pay rent. Intern salaries are sad. I’ll end up homeless.

  His response comes lightning fast:

  I’m willing to discuss alternative methods of payment.

  I nearly shout “What does that mean, Aron Lindstrom?” at the smooth screen of the phone, but … trying to puzzle it out is sort of fun. So I text:

  Let’s get a few things straight. I’m not going to wash your car. Or clean your office.

  And I think: But I’d do a lot of other things. Then I think: What the hell is wrong with you, Nessa Cavenaugh?

  My phone buzzes with another text. It is increasingly clear that face to face negotiation will be necessary. Dinner?

  DEAR GOD YES. Delete delete delete. No, I can’t. It would be way too easy to fall for you. Delete delete delete. I blow out a long breath. What would it hurt? We’re not talking complicated relationship here. This is casual. Easy. Friendly.

  I suppose I could do that.

  Cauldron at 8?

  That should give me enough time to shop with Lisa and see her to the train. I’ll be there.

  I drop my phone in my bag, fighting the huge smile trying to force its way onto my face. Cauldron. I might be new to town, but I actually know the place. I went there with my mom the weekend she helped me move. She’d be thrilled to know about my plans tonight, but I don’t want to tell her. I can’t quite believe I agreed to them in the first place. But … I’m unreasonably excited about seeing Aron again.

  With him on my mind, I enter the pediatric oncology unit. Greg is standing outside Finn’s room, wringing his hands. His face brightens with relief when he sees me. “I’m going to go get a cup of coffee, but I won’t be gone long.” He takes a few steps and turns back to me. “Just so you know, he’s not actually sleeping.”

  I send him off and slowly venture into Finn’s room. It’s plastered with sports stuff, including a Phillies foam finger and an Eagles poster. There are photos of him on the wall, pictures of a round-cheeked kid with a shock of red hair, grinning as he stands proudly in the batter’s box, wearing his striped baseball uniform. He’s missing both of his top front teeth. He’s adorable.

  So different from the bedraggled, bald child lying on the hospital bed. I’ve read Finn’s chart. He’s actually eight, but he’s a peanut and looks younger than that. So much has changed so quickly for this little guy, and none of it is fair. Only sixteen days ago, his father took him to the doctor to treat a fever, and less than a week later, he was here, starting an aggressive round of chemo to fight the deadly disease that has taken hold of his body. And last week, his mom took off, leaving his dad to manage all of this by himself.

  Finn’s eyes are closed, and he’s got a blanket pulled up to his ears as he curls on his side. His father said he wasn’t sleeping, so my guess is that he’s trying to avoid talking to me. I sit down in the chair next to the bed. “The Red Sox won last night,” I say, hoping this strategy will work. “That puts them two games behind the Yankees. They’re coming from behind, but I think that’s when they play best.”

  Finn shifts in the bed, b
ut doesn’t open his eyes.

  “I thought they could go all the way this season. But then again, I say that every season, and they almost always break my heart. I’m thinking of rooting for the Phillies instead.”

  Finn’s eyes pop open, but I keep my gaze away from him as I say, “I mean, I like to be loyal, so this is a tough decision. I grew up rooting for the Sox.” I swallow a lump in my throat and say, “My dad took me to opening day at Fenway Park—that’s where they play—each season.”

  “My dad took me to a Phillies game,” Finn whispers.

  “Did they win?” I ask.

  “No. They were creamed by the Braves.”

  I push down a smile. “I guess that means he’ll have to take you back sometime. You have to see them win.”

  He’s quiet for a few minutes, like he’s thinking about that. I take a chance and meet his eyes for a moment. “What’s their record so far this year?”

  “Sixty-four and seventy as of last night,” he says, pulling the blanket off his face. “They lost.”

  “Sounds like you’re rooting for a heartbreaker team as well. Like me.”

  Finn Beeman gives me a fragile, hopeful smile that makes him look like his father, despite the fact that his dad’s built like a bear and this kid is more like a hummingbird. We spend the next fifteen minutes talking about the merits and downsides of designated hitters. No talk of his mom, no talk of his dad or his little brother, no talk of his cancer. But at the end, when Greg comes back with coffee and that same hopeful smile, Finn tells me I should visit him again tomorrow, and I chalk that up as a win.

  I finish out my day by going shopping with Lisa for an outfit to her little sister’s wedding. As we walk out of the boutique in Center City, triumphant, the early fall breeze blows leaves around our ankles and lifts tendrils of my hair, pulling at the knot on the back of my head until I give up and remove the clip. The dark waves fall loose around my shoulders and skim across my face as I try to push them back.