Suicide Med

by Freida McFadden

  I whip out my lucky pen, a black ballpoint with rubber handgrip that I’ve been using since college. I used my lucky pen for every big exam in college, and on the one occasion I had forgotten the pen, during an exam on electricity and magnetism, I had gotten a big fat F.

  I choose my own cadaver as my starting point, and uncap my lucky pen. Our cadaver’s insides are nearly perfect, thanks to Mason’s immaculate dissections and the fact that Frank was inexplicably healthy when he died. I clutch my clipboard to my chest, trying to stop shaking, although it’s hard after all that coffee. My breaths are coming too quickly and my fingertips start to tingle. I think I’m hyperventilating. I need a paper bag or something.

  “Are you okay, Heather?” Abe has materialized at my side, looking concerned.

  I look him over and am relieved that his short red hair seems as disheveled as the rest of my classmates and he has familiar dark circles under his eyes.

  “I’m fine,” I reply.

  And I mean it. Now that Abe is standing next to me, I feel about 100% better. There’s something about his presence that really calms me down. Don’t laugh, but I sometimes feel like he’s my guardian angel.

  Dr. Conlon limps to the front of the room. All eyes are on him, waiting for his instructions. He smiles, his blue eyes twinkling, “Why does everyone look so nervous?”

  Nobody laughs. Just start the exam, you asshole.

  Dr. Conlon scans the room, looking around. He nods at a student wearing a baseball cap near the front of the room.

  “No hats with brims,” he tells the student. He adds apologetically, “Cheating hazard.”

  Geez, I didn’t realize cheating was such a big problem. Doesn’t seem like it would be worth the risk.

  The student turns his hat around so that the brim faces the other way. The boy behind him raises his hand, “Now I can see the answers. Should I move?”

  The class laughs, but Dr. Conlon doesn’t think it’s quite as funny. He ends up confiscating the hat.

  With the hat issue resolved, Dr. Conlon clears his throat: “As I went over with you before, you’ve got one minute to identify each pinned structure and one minute for each X-ray. When the time is up, I’ll call out ‘next station.’” He looks around the room. “And don’t worry, the test really isn’t that hard. Any questions?”

  No hands go up.

  He holds up a stopwatch in his left hand, “Okay, then begin!”

  I look down at the first structure to identify. It’s my own cadaver that I’ve been working on for a month, so I feel confident I should know the answer. The pin is secured into a blood vessel that seems to be running into the back of the heart. Or is it the front of the heart? I suddenly feel disoriented. If only I could pick it up and examine it… but no touching is allowed on the exam.

  I think it’s the pulmonary vein. I’m like 90% sure.

  Maybe 80% sure.

  I poise my lucky pen over the sheet of paper on my clipboard, printing the words “pulmonary vein,” but nothing showed up on the paper. I try again, but all I can see is the indentation of the words I had tried to write.

  My lucky pen is out of ink.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  The clock is ticking. I have less than twenty seconds left at this station. I shake the pen, trying to coax the last bits of ink into the point. I only need the pen to last for about fifty or so words. You can do it, pen! Please, pen! Don’t let me down…

  “Psst… hey.” Abe is nudging me. I look at him and he’s holding out a pen to me. “I always bring a spare.

  Like I said, Abe’s my guardian angel.

  I nod gratefully at him and take the pen. I scribble down my answer just as Dr. Conlon calls out, “Next station!”

  _____

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  The second the exam is over, I run upstairs to a ladies’ room that nobody ever uses, and lean over a toilet. My stomach is churning and I fully expect to see the bagel I forced down this morning regurgitated before my eyes—but nothing comes. I lean forward, gagging. I want to throw up. It’s the only way to get rid of this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Finally, I give up and collapse onto the bathroom floor, not even caring about the mysterious yellow puddle right next to me. I lean my head against the door to the stall and let out a really dramatic sob. I don’t care anymore who hears me. It’s not like I’ll be in medical school much longer after that performance.

  In case you haven’t guessed, the exam was a bona fide disaster. Dr. Conlon called the test “easy.” Easy? The test could have been written in Ancient Hebrew and I probably would have scored equally well. Even my lucky pen (now in the trash, having betrayed me) couldn’t have rescued me from that train wreck.

  But maybe Dr. Conlon was right. Probably the test really was easy and I’m just too stupid to cut it in med school.

  More and more, I’m beginning to think that’s the case.

  I don’t even know how long I sit on that filthy bathroom floor wallowing in self-pity, replaying all the events that led up to my stupid stupid decision to go to med school. I should have known when I took the MCATs and had to leave to pee four times during the exam that I didn’t have the stamina for med school. The fact that I had admired the hell out of my childhood pediatrician Dr. Marsha Stoltz-Humberg, with kind eyes and the smiley face sticker on her white coat, wasn’t enough of a reason to put myself through this.

  When I finally struggle to my feet, the first thing I do is stumble over to the bathroom mirror. I look awful. There are purple circles under my mildly bloodshot eyes, and my dirty blond hair is everywhere. I make a half-hearted attempt to clean myself up, but really, what’s the point?

  As I stumble out of the bathroom, I call Seth’s number on my cell phone. I lean against the wall outside the bathroom, waiting for him to pick up. I’ve nearly given up when I hear him answer. “Hello?”

  I hear the usual ruckus in the background and wait for him to go into another room to get some privacy, like he sometimes does. But the sounds continue and I realize he’s not going to do that. Fine.

  “Seth,” I sniffle. “I failed my exam,”

  “What exam?”

  What exam? Even though I didn’t call him last night, I’ve been talking about this test nonstop for the last two weeks. It was how I started and ended every sentence. I’m fairly sure I ended my last conversation with him with the words, I hope I don’t fail my anatomy exam. And somehow he forgot?

  “My anatomy exam,” I say.

  Okay, fine, he’s got a lot on his mind too. And from the sound of it, he’s in the middle of some kind of party or something.

  “Oh, are you sure?” There’s someone laughing in the background. A girl.

  “Pretty sure,” I say.

  “Well, you didn’t really study that much for it, did you?” he says.

  I can only stare at the phone. He’s not even surprised that I screwed up my exam. It sounds like he expected me to fail. Seth has always been a source of great comfort to me, but now I wish I could punch him in the face. What the hell happened to us?

  “I have to go,” I spit into the phone. In other words, I’ve got to hang up before I say something I’ll regret.

  “Okay…” Seth, the smart boy, seems to sense he said something dumb. Again, I hear laughter in the room. “Are you going to be all right, Heather?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, and click the phone off before my voice can betray me.

  I stare down at the dead phone. I have never felt so alone in my entire life. Med school was such a mistake.

  “Oh shit… what happened?”

  I jump in surprise at the voice traveling down the hall and immediately try to hide my red, splotchy face. But then I lift my eyes and see who it is. It’s just Abe. Thank God.

  “I’m okay,” I mumble, looking away from him.

  “I was looking everywhere for you,” he says a little breathlessly. He halts in front of me and his green eyes widen
slightly when he sees my face, but he doesn’t comment. “You really hid yourself well. I thought I was going to have to call in a SWAT team.”

  I force a tiny smile. “Yeah.”

  Abe shifts between his feet, looking a little uncomfortable. I want to tell him that I almost definitely failed the exam, but the truth is, I don’t want him to think I’m dumb. I don’t want him to know I bombed an “easy” test.

  “Hey,” Abe says. “That test was pretty hard, huh?”

  I almost gasp. Say what? Abe thought the test was hard too? Is he just being nice? Abe is really smart and if he thought the exam was hard, maybe I’m not too stupid to live.

  “You… you thought the test was hard?”

  “Oh, definitely!” Abe says, nodding vigorously. “I don’t know what Conlon was smoking when he said it was easy. That was brutal.”

  “Yeah, it sort of was,” I say, perking up for the first time since handing in my test paper.

  “Some of the pins in those bodies…” Abe shakes his head. “I mean, I really had no idea. I felt like I was looking at an abstract art exhibit or something.”

  I finally smile for real. Encouraged, Abe continues, “And those multiple choice questions on the written exam? I think I could have filled in the bubbles before seeing the test and gotten the same score.”

  I laugh. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Abe rests his large hand gently on my shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “I’m going to walk you to your car.”

  “Okay,” I agree.

  “And then,” he adds, “we are going to drown our sorrows in pizza. And beer. I’m buying.”

  I dutifully follow Abe to the parking lot. To be honest, I don’t know what I’d do without this guy.

  Chapter 12

  Dr. Conlon is really taking his sweet time grading those exams. Honestly, I think this is sadistic. How can he make us wait so long? I’m going to get an ulcer at this rate.

  A week after the exam, Dr. Conlon announces that the tests are “almost completely graded.” His expression is slightly grim.

  “I think I may have made the exam too hard,” he admits, an apologetic note in his voice. He fiddles with the handle of his cane. “I generally don’t curve, but I want to assure you that most people did pass.”

  A hand goes up in the third row. “Dr. Conlon, how many people failed?”

  The professor looks uncomfortable. “I… I’d rather not say the number. But I promise I’ll have your grades posted by tomorrow.” So hold off on killing yourself for the next twenty-four hours. “I know how hard it is to wait, so we really made an effort to get the grades out as soon as possible. Please don’t ask me for your grade before tomorrow… everyone will receive their grades at the same time.”

  I sink down in my seat. Rachel is sitting a few seats away, looking completely unconcerned. I’m honestly baffled by that one. It doesn’t seem humanly possible for Rachel to have passed that exam. But whenever I bring up the test, Rachel just shrugs and says, “Chill out, Heather. It’s just a grade.”

  Just a grade. A grade that might make the difference between being a doctor and… folding jeans at the Gap. But at least she didn’t tell me any more condescending stories about strawberries.

  When classes end for the day, I find myself wandering in the direction of Dr. Conlon’s office. I don’t really have anything in mind, exactly. I’m not going there to beg him to tell me my grade or anything.

  His office is just around the corner from the anatomy lab and I wonder if he can smell the formaldehyde from there. Of course, he’s probably used to the smell by now. Maybe it smells good to him. He probably likes it. You’d almost have to if you have a career in anatomy.

  The door to Dr. Conlon’s office is closed, but I can see the light on under the door. He’s inside. I can hear soft voices talking but I can’t make out any of the words. I hesitate, wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Do I really think Dr. Conlon is going to tell me my grade after saying flat out that he wouldn’t do that? I’m not that charming.

  The door to the office swings open suddenly and I jump back to keep from getting smacked in the face. And the person who steps out is none other than Mason Howard. He seemed equally surprised to see me.

  “Heather!” His face breaks out into a grin. He always seems so cool and collected. And sexy, of course—hard to forget that one. “What are you doing here?”

  “I just…” I clear my throat. “I needed to talk to Dr. Conlon.”

  “Oh?” He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Yeah…” I wonder what Mason’s doing here. I know he isn’t here because he thought he had failed, that’s for sure. Maybe Dr. Conlon wanted to personally congratulate him for getting the highest grade in the class.

  “Well, I’ll see you later,” Mason says with a wink.

  He nudges my shoulder as he walks past. Don’t tell anyone, but I sort of love it when he touches me.

  I peek into Dr. Conlon’s office and see him sitting at his desk, shuffling through some papers. His cane leans against the side of his desk. I remember seeing him at the bridge the other day, and how ominous he had looked at the time. But now, in light of day, he seems completely harmless. I actually feel pretty silly for having run away like that.

  I’m debating whether or not to knock when he looks up and spots me.

  “Dr. McKinley!” he says, a smile on his lips.

  Damn. I try my best to put on a surprised face. “Oh, I, um, I didn’t realize this was your office, Dr. Conlon!”

  He squints at me. “You didn’t?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I say, continuing with my lie. “It’s, um, really nice. I like the, um…” God, I know nothing about decorating. “I like the wood.” Okay, that sounded awful. I have to say something else. “And… I like your bowtie.”

  Stop talking, Heather. Right now.

  “Um, thank you, Heather,” Dr. Conlon says, a perplexed look on his face. He adjusts his glasses on his nose. “Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

  I squeeze my hands together. “Well, um… I guess, since I’m here…”

  “Have a seat,” Dr. Conlon says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. I close the door to his office and sit down in the chair in front of his desk almost gingerly, as if afraid it might collapse under my weight. Which is actually possible, considering how many cookies I’ve consumed in the last month. “What’s up?”

  “I just…” I bite my lower lip. “I think I failed the exam, Dr. Conlon. I know I failed it.”

  Dr. Conlon furrows his black eyebrows, “Heather…”

  “I studied so hard for it, I swear!” Now I’m crying, for God’s sake. What’s wrong with me? I’ve morphed into this stereotype of a hysterical medical student. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and notice Dr. Conlon is gawking at me. “I just… I don’t know what happened! The test was so hard… maybe I just… I’m not as good as… sometimes I don’t know what I’m even doing here… I just feel like…”

  “Heather,” Dr. Conlon runs a hand through his black hair. “Stop, okay? Stop. You passed, okay?”

  What?

  “I… what?”

  “You passed.”

  I don’t know what to say. Honestly, I sort of want to jump across the table and plant a big sloppy wet kiss on my professor’s face. But that would be unprofessional. So instead, I settle for tearfully thanking him for a solid five minutes, followed by a brief speech about how he is the kindest man I’ve ever met in my life, concluding with something about how he ought to win a Nobel Prize.

  After I finish making a complete idiot out of myself, Dr. Conlon sighs and shakes his head.

  “Christ,” he says, but he’s smiling. “I forgot what it was like to be a medical student.”

  I wipe my eyes. I really can’t picture Dr. Conlon twenty years younger, starting out as a nervous young medical student. Dr. Conlon always seems so confident. He knows everything about the human body, as far
as I can tell.

  “I didn’t know you had to go to med school to teach anatomy,” I comment.

  “Actually, you don’t,” Dr. Conlon says. He lowers his eyes as he toys with a button on his shirt sleeve. “I actually dropped out of med school.”

  Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “But why? You’re so smart!”

  Nice job. I can’t believe I just said that to my professor.

  But to my relief, he laughs. “Believe me, getting a doctorate in anatomy is not exactly a walk in the park.”

  I watch as he puts his left palm on the handle of his cane and absently spins it around. I asked Abe once if he knew what’s wrong with Dr. Conlon and he said he had no idea. I wonder if his disability has anything to do with why he left medical school. I wonder if he resents us for doing what he couldn’t do.

  Dr. Conlon gives me a stern look.

  “Now, Heather,” he says, “you better not tell anyone I told you that you passed. If I see a line of a hundred and fifty students outside my door, I’m going to be really angry at you.”

  “I won’t tell,” I promise, although I’m not entirely sure I could keep my mouth shut more than five minutes. How can I?

  He smiles, “Good. And you really need to have more confidence in yourself. I see the way you are in lab and you’ve made huge progress.”

  I almost faint with joy. Finding out I passed the exam and that Dr. Conlon thinks I’m smart is an incredible high. I’m pretty sure even little white caffeine pills couldn’t make me feel any better than this.

  _____

  I sing in my car all the way home from Dr. Conlon’s office. My radio is blaring some top forty pop station and I’m screaming out Maroon 5 and Pink songs at the top of my lungs. Thankfully, the windows are up, so nobody has to go deaf from my horrible voice. I love to sing and I do it probably more than I should considering I can’t hold a tune. A few times, Seth has told me that if I didn’t stop singing, he was going to stuff a gag in my mouth.

  He was joking, obviously.