Spiral

by Mila Ferrera

  Around five in the morning, I stagger from my bed, choking on frustration that finds its target instantly. I pull the sundress from the closet, the blue one with the torn strap. As soon as I do, other minutes come back to me, Nick’s hands on me, rough and clumsy and insistent. With a shudder, I rip the dress from the hangar and stuff it in the trash. And when that’s not enough, I pull the bag from the can, knot it tight, and take it to the garbage chute at the end of the hall. I’d planned on getting the dress mended—it was one of my favorites before that party—but now I know I would have forever associated it with him.

  With that done, I realize I’m up for good. I stare into the mirror at the circles under my eyes, the paleness of my skin. It’s going to be a long freaking day. I lash my hair into a high ponytail, throw on shorts and a t-shirt, and shove a bunch of stuff into my duffel. A workout is going to help me clear my head. There’s a fitness room in this apartment building, but over the last four years I’ve realized I’m best when someone’s telling me how to move, so I joined a gym a few blocks away, one with aerobics and kickboxing classes.

  It’s stopped raining by the time I hit the sidewalk. The damp air carries a hint of chill, and goosebumps break out on my bare legs as I tromp the few blocks to the fitness club. It’s not even six, but the lights are on, and I know there’s a boot camp class that’s about to start. It’s the perfect thing to work off some of this miserable frustration and get my head on straight for the day.

  I beeline for the locker room and stow my bag, then join the few intrepid souls in the aerobics room. The instructor is this fierce-looking black guy who totally fits the part of drill instructor. For the next hour, I let him guide me through a punishing workout that leaves me dripping and exhausted, but more settled, too. Breathing deep, telling myself I’ll get through today, I trudge back to the locker room, through the main workout room.

  “Nessa?”

  I freeze, that settled post-workout feeling chased away by horror. Slowly, I turn. Aron is striding toward me, coming from the free weights. He’s wearing shorts and one of those fitted sleeveless workout shirts that hugs every inch of his lean physique. And I am standing here, looking bedraggled and pathetic and probably reeking. “I didn’t know you worked out here,” I mumble.

  “I texted you last night,” he says.

  My stomach clenches. “Okay.” I remember switching my phone to vibrate yesterday—and I was too wrecked last night to check messages. That’s probably a good thing, judging by how he’s looking at me, his expression tight and just this side of angry. I tear my gaze from his face and stare at his feet. “I’m, um … running late.” I spin around and slip into the locker room before he has a chance to say anything else.

  I shower, bonking my head against the tiles a few times while the hot water soothes my sore muscles. Of all the gyms in the city, I chose the one where Aron is a member. It’s too bad. I really like this place, and now my membership fee is going to be wasted, because I’m never coming back.

  I take my time getting ready, and then I sit on a bench and pull my phone out of my bag, steeling myself to read Aron’s texts …

  10:01 Please let me know you got home ok

  10:22 Nessa I don’t like how we left things. Call?

  10:30 Please call?

  And at 10:45, I have a missed call from him. Huh. I scroll back to the text messages and stare at the words. He doesn’t sound angry or disdainful, but it’s impossible to tell with texts, really. I drop my phone back into my bag and head out to catch a bus to the hospital.

  Aron is leaning against the wall outside the locker room. He’s showered and dressed for work; his gym bag’s hanging from his shoulder and his hair is still wet. My hand tightens over the strap of my own duffel and I eye the door, wishing for escape. “Hey.”

  He scowls. “Hey?” He shoves himself off the wall and blocks my path. “Don’t even think of running off again, Nessa. I was worried about you last night.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  A frustrated noise rolls from his throat, and he pivots around and puts his hand on the wall, hemming me in. “Tell me about Nick.”

  My jaw clenches as I stare at Aron’s chest. “I’m sure he told you quite a bit himself.”

  His long fingers nudge my chin, and I look up at his distractingly gorgeous face. “I want to hear it from you. Are you involved with him? Because I wouldn’t want to get in the middle of—”

  “Do you think I’d be kissing you if I was with someone else? God!” I try to sidestep, but Aron’s other hand hits the wall next to my shoulder, trapping me. It’s not forceful. I know I could get away. And part of me is desperate to do exactly that—but the rest of me is anchored within the cage of his arms.

  He leans over me. “Is that a no?” he asks quietly.

  He’s so close that I feel the heat of his body, and it brings back last night, caught in the rain, only a few layers of clothes between us. It makes it hard to catch my breath. “Look. I don’t know what he said to you, but …” The memory of Nick’s hands on me hits me like a punch in the gut. “I kissed him at a party, and it got out of control, and that was all.”

  I move to duck under his arm, my flight reflexes taking over, but he adjusts quickly. “Not yet, Nessa.” His voice is iron, but his touch is gentle. “Tell me what out of control means.”

  I bow my head. “He just—he—I shouldn’t have—” I take a deep breath. “I gave him the wrong idea, but after he tore my dress, I got away pretty quickly and—”

  “He tore your dress?” he hisses. “That little shit. Did he hurt you?”

  I shake my head. “We’d had some drinks, and I didn’t mean it to go that far. I don’t think he would have actually … you know …”

  Aron’s expression is livid. “So he plays rough, but you don’t believe he’d actually rape you. That’s quite an endorsement of his character.” His arms fall away, and he runs a hand through his hair while a bitter smile plays across his lips. “And you know, I thought it might have been something like that. I can’t believe I let you go last night.” His eyes meet mine, and I’m shocked to see the regret there. “Forgive me?”

  “Forgive you?”

  He gives me a pained look and reaches for my hand. “The worst part about this is that those words come as a surprise to you.”

  “I probably should have just fessed up when we saw him at the restaurant.”

  He shakes his head. “You didn’t have much of a chance. Things were happening pretty fast.” That adorable uncertainty flashes in his eyes. “For both of us, it seemed like.”

  “You’re not wrong,” I say, staring with wonder at our tangled fingers. “But I …” I try to push the excuses off my tongue: I’m too busy for this … I can’t afford to forget my priorities … but nothing comes.

  A smile flickers on his face while his gaze lingers on my mouth. “You … what?” His phone buzzes at his belt. “Hold that thought.” He glances at it and frowns. “I have Hematology rounds this morning, and I need to get going. We’ll pick this up later?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, my breath catching as he pulls my hand to his lips and plants a feather-soft kiss across my knuckles. He walks away, and I watch him go, hope and terror swirling within me. I have no idea how far this is going to go or where it ends, but I do know one thing: being able to keep Aron Lindstrom at a distance is almost as likely as the Phillies winning the World Series.

  I take the trolley to work and manage to arrive early for Sleep Clinic. I love the busyness and bustle of that rotation. We see eighteen patients in just a few hours, and I shadow my supervisor, learning to become part of the multidisciplinary team. The docs on this rotation, pulmonologists and neurologists, are brilliant and funny, and the atmosphere is a lot more relaxed than in the oncology department. But then again, that might be because none of the Sleep Clinic patients are terminally ill.

  I take the long walk from Pulmonology to the cafeteria to meet Lisa for lunch before my after
noon session with Finn.

  She’s already at a table, eating a Caesar salad while poring over an article. She doesn’t look up until I set my tray down across from her. “Busy day?” I ask.

  She nods. “I’m starting to think I want to specialize in NICU stuff. It’s been amazing.” She spends a few minutes telling me how intense it is, how much fear and hope is wrapped up in those tiny babies, and I listen with interest, because I’m thinking of doing that rotation next semester. Finally she says, “So. I talked to Nick this morning.”

  I instantly lose my appetite. “Oh?”

  She shakes her head. “I knew Nick was super-smart, but I had no idea he was so … I don’t know. Emotionally clueless. He told me about running into you and Dr. Lindstrom last night. He seems to think you’re sleeping around, and he’s mad that he’s not the one you’re doing it with.”

  I groan as my face falls to my hands. “He’s off his rocker.” But if he’s spreading this story … that can’t be good. “He’s making it sound much worse than it was.” Or just as awesome, but I’m trying to forget that part. “I didn’t sleep with Dr. Lindstrom. I’m not sleeping with anyone!”

  “Nessa, I didn’t actually believe that you were fornicating with one of the docs in an alley last night. Give me some credit. But … how was it?”

  My hands fall away from my face. “What?”

  She looks at me sternly over the top of her glasses. “Your date.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it that. It was just dinner. And … I probably won’t do it again.” I don’t want people to think I’m more focused on my social life than my work. And I don’t want to like Aron any more than I already do.

  Lisa’s eyes narrow as she watches my expression. “Fine. It was just dinner,” she says slowly, “and you probably won’t do it again. But tell me about it. Was he a jerk? Did he—”

  “It was amazing,” I blurt. “I haven’t enjoyed myself that much in a long time.”

  “You poor thing. It sounds awful.”

  “It might have been the first conversation I’ve ever had with a guy that didn’t contain more awkward pauses than words.”

  “It must have been torture,” she says, her lips twitching. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to do that more than once. I imagine he’s a terrible kisser as well.”

  “Don’t even get me started on that.” I can’t hide my smile as I think about him. “He’s from Sweden. And he has this accent …”

  She leans forward. “And? Is he cute? Was he a gentlemanly fish? Tell me more about him!”

  I laugh. “Oh. Yes. Very gentlemanly. And he’s got lovely … fins?” My cheeks get hot as her eyebrow arches. “Or … gills?” Now I’m giggling. “I can’t think of a good euphemism here. How about I leave it at: he is beautiful, and I’m terrified of him.”

  “Terrified of who?” asks Aron, causing me to jump at least a foot off my chair. I glance over my shoulder to see him holding a wrapped sandwich and standing next to a cute Asian guy with spiky black hair whose nametag reads Mark Kwan, M.D.

  “Oh, hey, Aron,” I say in a choked voice. “I was talking about one of the attendings. In my … some other rotation I have. Um, Dr. Bass.”

  Across from me, Lisa snorts. Then she stands up and holds out her hand. “Hi. I’m Lisa Holden.” She cuts me a glance as she shakes Aron’s hand, and I can almost read her thoughts: she might be married, but she’s not blind.

  Aron introduces us to Mark, who turns out to be another oncology fellow. Finally he says to the guy, “And this is Nessa. She’s helping me with one of my cases.”

  Mark grins as he hears my name. “Nice to meet you, Nessa.” He says it in a way that tells me Aron’s already mentioned me, and suddenly I’m dying to know what he’s said. “Speaking of cases, Nessa, can I talk to you for a minute?” Aron says, elbowing Mark when he smirks.

  “Yeah, sure.” We excuse ourselves and I follow Aron to the hallway outside the cafeteria. “What’s up?”

  He smiles sheepishly. “I don’t really need to discuss a case. I wanted to know if you’d go out with me Friday. I didn’t want to ask you out via text again. So here I am.”

  “Here you are.” This is my chance to tell him I’m busy, to tell him I’m not interested in going out with anyone right now. This is my chance to make all of this easy, to end it before it gets any more complicated. But all that comes out of my mouth is: “And I’d love to.”

  Chapter Six

  As I enter the unit on Thursday morning to check on Finn, I can immediately tell something’s wrong. Carol, the usually cheerful nurse at the front desk, is red-eyed and frowning. I look toward Finn’s room. It’s empty. When I give Carol an alarmed look, she says, “Finn’s okay. He was feeling good, actually, so the child-life specialist took him for a spin. He’ll be back in a little while.”

  “Are you all right, Carol?”

  Her lips press together, and then she shakes her head. “We lost one early this morning. A little guy named Davonte.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmur.

  “Infection. He was in remission, but these kids’ immune systems are so compromised …” She reaches for a tissue as her face crumples. “He was re-admitted a few days ago, and we thought he was gonna make it, but last night he went downhill really fast.” She wipes a tear from her cheek and blows her nose, then reaches for the hand-sanitizer. “This one hit us all hard. Especially—”

  Nick stalks through the heavy automatic doors, drawing Carol’s attention. “Mrs. Kendricks is with the chaplain, but Dr. Lindstrom wants to speak with you,” she says to him. It must be the case Aron called for a consult on earlier this week.

  Nick nods curtly and strides down the hall. Carol clucks her tongue. “This is not going to be pretty,” she mutters.

  Intensely curious, I head to the electronic records booth to review the chart of Ursula Crandall, a patient of Dr. Feldman’s whom she referred for a consult. I walk past the rooms of all these kids who have drawn the short straw of fate, some toddlers, some teenagers, all desperately ill, and remember what Aron said about wanting to make the world more fair. I can’t think of a better reason to want to do this job.

  As I get to the records kiosk, I hear arguing voices. They’re coming from the conference room. It’s Aron and Nick. Unable to stop myself, I climb down from the stool and creep a little closer, pretending to check my phone.

  “When I ask you to work with one of my patients, I’m trusting you to take that responsibility seriously,” snaps Aron.

  “And I did,” says Nick. “But I can’t show up at six in the morning just because—”

  “Just because why? I was here at four this morning, because my patient needed me.” Aron’s voice cracks and he’s silent for a moment before continuing. “And Davonte’s mother needed you, which is why I called you. She was losing her only child, and she knew it. What do you think that was like for her, especially when you didn’t respond?”

  “My supervisor is on call for times like that,” says Nick. “Interns aren’t on call.”

  I frown. Technically, Nick’s right about that. The attending psychologists and post-docs rotate on call responsibilities. But if someone called me to say that Finn was dying and Greg needed to talk, I know I’d be on the first bus back to the hospital.

  “But Mrs. Kendricks knew you, Mr. Samson. She liked you and trusted you, however misplaced that trust was.”

  “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? I’m a psychology trainee, not a miracle-worker! Are you sure you’re not giving me a hard time because me and Ness—”

  “Stop right there,” says Aron icily. “Suggesting that concern for my dying patient wasn’t the only thing on my mind this morning is both insulting and unprofessional. But since you have raised the topic of Ms. Cavenaugh, allow me to suggest that you be very, very careful how you treat your fellow intern. I’m already tempted to make this rotation extremely unpleasant for you, and disrespectful treatment of her might make that temptation impossibl
e to resist.”

  Nick mumbles something unintelligible.

  “I’m glad we understand each other. Now I strongly advise you to go find Mrs. Kendricks and offer your condolences. Her son’s body will be moved off the unit within the hour, so it’s your last chance to show her your concern.”

  A second later, Nick stomps out of the conference room. He sees me standing there before I can think to duck back into the records booth. With his notebook tucked under his arm, he approaches me, his lip curled. “Looks like you’ve got Lindstrom by the dick,” he hisses once he gets close enough to ensure I’m the only one who can hear him. “Enjoy it while it lasts. I hear he gets around.” He chuckles. “Sounds like you two were made for each other.”

  He starts to brush by me, but I grab his arm, my fingers digging in because I am so freaking pissed off. “A little boy died, Nick. His mother is devastated. And this is where your mind is? What kind of petty, immature crap is that?”

  Nick glares at me.

  I shake my head. “Listen, I don’t want to fight with you. And I know it’s hard to be yelled at, but emotions run high when kids don’t make it. You knew that when you chose this internship.”

  “I chose this internship because it’s one of the most prestigious in the country. And I don’t need asshole doctors criticizing me for stuff that’s not my job!” Nick tears his sleeve from my grip and strides away, his shoulders tense. I sag against the wall for a minute, but then I slowly walk down the hall toward the conference room, because Aron hasn’t come out yet. I nervously poke my head in—Aron and I might have kissed, but that doesn’t mean I know him very well, and he sounded damn scary when he spoke to Nick.