The Brightness Duet: Complete Series Boxset

by Bri Stone

  Stan insists on it, and I have to trust him. Just let the days go by, maybe plan more visits in advance so it isn’t so unknown. We can do this, I knew it from the beginning.

  Harrison interrupts my lounge session. “Did you finish your rounds?” He asks me. Jamie is a slight man, who looks healthy, but I’ve seen his eating and sleeping habits. He isn’t. I always try to never skip meals and get at least six hours of sleep, but I still feel a little fatigued. Every time I plan to see a general doctor, I forget or don’t have time.

  He keeps his brown hair long and in a pony tail down his back, and since he is always dressed in white he really looks like Jesus whenever he walks in a room.

  “Yeah, just. What’s on for today?” I stand, clipping my pager into my scrubs. They’re a weird off-white, egg shell color that honestly looks like mayonnaise. And I don’t know if that was on accident or not.

  He sighs and goes to wash his hands in the sink, then starts on a cup of coffee before he answers. “Double transplant.” He smirks over his black coffee cup. “Coming in two hours, we need to prep.”

  “Me?” I ask, though of course I want to do it.

  “Well, Browning will be there of course.” That’s Maci

  “Oh. What’s the story?” I ask.

  I started to notice it was my thing, especially after my first year. Finding the story behind it, knowing the people. When I get down to the wire or am in surgery and have to lend a real hand instead of just observing, I go back to that story and find that reason to keep them alive. My mom had a story, and I think the reason she survived so long was that everyone knew it.

  “Male in his forties...late forties. William Jones. He has been waiting for a new heart and lungs for years. The tumors grew until I could extract them. He’s been here since.”

  I nod. “I don’t remember him from rounds.” I say.

  Harrison nods, “yeah. He’s been my...personal case I guess. We all have them, you will too.” He gives me a proud smile and then we head for the surgical floor.

  After climbing the steps, I feel a little uneasy, but I just shake it off. Still after walking down the hall, I haven’t caught my breath, and my dumb ass stopped carrying my inhaler around. We get to the change room, and Maci is already there. We’ve gotten used to walking in on each other indecent, so it doesn’t make much difference when I see her in just her bra and scrub pants.

  “You look rough, dude.” She greets me. I manage a chuckle.

  “Uh, just forgot my inhaler. I’ll be fine.” I ignore the familiar fatigue I’ve had for a few weeks.

  She giggles. “I always forget you have asthma. Like the real kind, not the one you have just when you’re young.”

  “Yeah, the real kind.” I take a water bottle from the fridge and chug it down, but the cold chill in my neck doesn’t go away.

  I ignore it and get changed anyway. It takes half an hour to watch the room get prepped and then scrub in. William gets wheeled in, and I see him for the first time. Seriously, in none of my rounds have I ever seen him. I picture myself having a patient I keep to myself, for me to care for. To know I helped them. It gives me chills and then I realize I’ve had those for a few hours now.

  Maci and I get scrubbed in and gowned when the time comes, and Harrison comes in shortly after. The transplant team is in place in both op rooms, and the extraction is happening as of now. Once William gets put under, Harrison puts on his signature sound track for surgery; Journey.

  “Pop quiz.” He says to Maci and me.

  We glance at each other with the friendly challenge. Harrison throws hard questions at us, but it doesn’t faze us. He starts with what happens in event of a diagnosis of acute rejection, then what to do if the patient has conventional immunosuppression. Technically, Maci wins by a trick question; which malignancies can be problematic in patients on immunosuppressive therapy.

  Once the team comes in with both organs, William has already been opened. I stand on his left side since Harrison is right-handed, holding back the flap of his rib. Suddenly, I go out of focus. My eyes go dry, but I feel them water. As my chest goes tight, I feel my heart rate spike to try and keep up with it. Though it’s no use.

  Faintly, I hear everyone saying something. I nod, I’m fine.

  It’s a lie, I feel like I’m...fucking dying. I’m aware of every throbbing vein in my body, and the cold nerves of my fingers. They still hold the clamp back securely, but I still feel the ground sway.

  “Thom? Thom?” Maci nudges me. Harrison is just about to separate the last valve of William’s bad heart from the ventricle.

  I’m supposed to grab it now, I need to move. I can’t.

  My mask is tight on my face, suffocating me. I can’t breathe, and I can barely see.

  “Dr. Edwards? Dr. Edwards!”

  I see Perrie standing over me.

  How did she get here?

  Chapter Eight: Thom

  “Mama, you here?”

  School was so shit today. I mean, the professor was especially annoyed and taught even less than usual. What a waste. I knew senior year would be like this, but never expected this from some random Gen Ed—Elementary Psychology.

  So, I took off for a surprise weekend away with mom. The entrance to our house is all the same. With the black shag rug, and old coat rack with jackets neither of us have worn in years, hanging from the old wooden hooks. I pass through the living room, with the old yellow leather couches that are way too retro; and the smell of the house is the same too. Clean linen, and fresh cinnamon, so it doesn’t irritate my lungs. Every surface is clean, just like when I lived here all the time. It must be a habit for her, keeping everything clean.

  “Hello?” I call out, dropping my bag in the kitchen. It’s only four, so I suppose she must be at work.

  I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, still fully stocked. I think about texting her to let her know I’m here, but I figure if she is at work, then it doesn’t matter because she won’t see it until later. Uncle Stan would be with her too, so no point in contacting him either.

  I finish the water and venture towards her bedroom to see if she is there. Our home is one floor, and my bedroom is on the other end. Her door is open, so I walk right in and hear the shower running.

  “Mama?” I call through the door and hear nothing back.

  I find it odd and walk in anyways.

  Her shower is separated by an old fashioned clear brick wall, so I can’t see anything. But to find the water running and not see her, bothers me.

  “Mama...” I say lower, trepidation cloaking my voice.

  It’s like one of those things. The ones we fear the most but have a false security it will never happen. When I round the corner, I see how wrong I was. The hot water steam billows and makes my shirt cling to my skin, but behind the curtain, Mama is just lying there, and before I freeze and start freaking out, I rush immediately into panic mode.

  First thing I do is call 911, second thing I do is drag her out and shut the water off.

  Third thing...pray.

  METAL.

  It was a taste I had gotten very used to over the years, of the asthma attacks and then waking up in the hospital later on. With that cold, sharp taste encasing my mouth. That part was the same; but my body was not the way it usually was at all.

  Physically, I feel useless.

  I mean not even believing I could get up and walk if I wanted to. I try and swallow, but it takes a while to open my throat and I immediately want water. My lids are too heavy to open, but all it takes is for me to move my head to smell the ever-familiar scent of the hospital pillow.

  Last thing I remember was my first double transplant surgery and seeing Perrie...Perrie.

  The cold white lights blind me when I look around. Sitting up, my eyes search the room. One of the nicer ones, with blue sheets instead of white and a real couch and view of the gardens. But no Perrie.

  I lay back defeated, wondering what the hell I was thinking. I find water by my bedsid
e and guzzle it down. I’ve been put in a hospital gown and catheter. Jesus, what the hell happened.

  I scratch the oxygen tube in my nose and realize how much it is helping. I hate to bother the nurses, but I’m so confused now. I feel like it was only hours ago I collapsed, but it could be longer.

  Within a minute of pressing the button, Mindy shows up. She must be my favorite nurse; a sweet woman about forty with three kids in med school, people call her Bailey sometimes because she looks like her from Grey’s Anatomy.

  “Thom, you’re up.” She greets me with the warmest smile. After pumping some hand sanitizer, she checks my screens and the IV in my right arm.

  “How long have I been out? What happened with the patient, William?” I rush.

  She smiles kindly, “it went well. It’s been a few hours. Harrison sedated you for the tests.” She blinks at me.

  “Tests?” My brows furrow. “It was just an asthma attack. I forgot my inhaler.” I tell her, but she doesn’t relax like I expect.

  In fact, her shoulders tense up and she looks pastier than ever, which she never does.

  “What’s that look for? You’re pale.” I chuckle once, and she turns up her lip to try and smile.

  “It’s best to just wait for Dr. Harrison. He can explain everything.” She pats my hand, but I grab it before she can turn away.

  The very first time we met was my first day of my internship, we’ve been close ever since, so I just feel she won’t lie to me.

  “What’s going on, Mindy?” I try and sit up, but it’s like pins in my chest stand to attention and don’t let me. I wince as I relax back onto the bed.

  “Look, Thom. You had an MRI and x-ray. It didn’t look good. Neither did your biopsy.”

  No wonder my throat was so sore. They had done a biopsy...but why?

  “Oh...”

  “Sweetie, I’ll get Harrison and Dr. Walters.”

  I screw up my face and plan to ask her why, but she is gone before I can. Perrie swarms in my head again before I slump into the bed, wondering why the oncologist is coming to see me.

  Chapter Nine: Perrier

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Marcus. He is a nice guy, and the only other one in the program. That’s the thing about forensic pathology, there is such a shortage of us, but not many are opting into the field. The numbers were staggering, but the program was even more grueling. We have two extra years beyond that of a regular surgeon. Why is it that it’s shorter to become a brain surgeon, when my patient will already have the worst outcome imaginable? But I understand the intensity, the importance of the work. My attending and mentor, Dr. Sandy Webb, is an intense but laid-back guy, if it makes sense.

  He has been at this for twenty-five years. My year and a half already seems unbearable. Anatomical pathology is a must, and I plan to do it along with clinical, so our program is a bit longer. It’s all about anatomical creation now, the root of pathology.

  “Yeah.” I lie.

  I had been slumped at my desk for a few hours. Mostly reading over old case files to practice, but mostly worrying about Thom. I woke up with that gnawing in my stomach, and it wasn’t my period, so I didn’t know why I felt so fatigued. Just...bogged down.

  Webb was off at meetings he didn’t want us in, for an odd reason. Our program was in no way laid back, but since we operated directly under him for the most part, we took his commands. I knew I could get away, I had half a mind to get on a plane and go to Minnesota again. Especially since Thom’s proposal, I wanted to go there right away. Unfortunately, it was in the middle of a triple tops (our short for autopsy), and since then we have been under evaluation. Surgical programs have their intern exams, while we have evals.

  “Doesn’t look like it. You break up with Thom?” He flicks my phone and sits down across from me. I scowl at him.

  Marcus is a good-looking guy, in retrospect. But I just only have eyes for my Thom. Marcus is the opposite, sort of; he has dark hair and brown eyes and a permanent smirk. It used to creep me out, but I found out it is just how he is, after almost two years. And he is tall, as in he used to play basketball in college tall.

  “No. We’re engaged.”

  “Don’t see a ring.” He brushes my hand and I flip him off, he just laughs.

  “Seriously, you don’t look so good.” He props his sneakers on the desk.

  We are both in our black scrubs, fitting, I know. But his sneakers are bright, ugly, and green. I shudder.

  “I’m tired. You know how it is.” Marcus and I get along. He teases, but we get along. He just isn’t my confidant, but we are friends. Loosely.

  “Yeah. Alright. Chai tea?” He stands up. And...that’s the only reason I stand him. He buys me coffee.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He nods with a wink and leaves. I call Thom twice and he doesn’t answer. It’s out of the ordinary, and I immediately grow more worried.

  I have done so many things wrong. I wonder if Thom started thinking about it and decided to think twice about marrying me. I keep that letter safe in my bag so that I can always have it, but I do know I am not the easiest type of woman to be with. The distance doesn’t make it any easier. Perhaps he wants to show me what it’s like to be ignored but knowing Thom I immediately deny that being the case.

  He must just be busy.

  The thought still doesn’t settle me though, and I just know that it must be something else. I think about even calling Stan, to see if he has spoken to him. It just isn’t like Thom to not answer without at least texting to let me know why.

  When I reach my apartment, shower, and eat a lasagna frozen dinner, I still hear nothing back. I can still smell Melinda’s argon oil on the couch and I call her, just to see if she can talk. When she doesn’t answer, I leave a message and cuddle up to my blanket. I don’t want to bother Clem with it, so I don’t call her.

  I can’t believe I am staring at my phone, waiting for a message. I did it to him, after all.

  That time I shrunk in on myself again. There was no way I could tell Thom my depression had come back. It wouldn’t be fair to make him worry, and I didn’t want him to do something drastic. I kept it to myself and let myself get better. Talking to my doctor, and Clem of course, helped me get through it. I just couldn’t put that on Thom. It was too... high functioning means just that. I put everything into the program and left everything else behind. I was lucky I had dad to pay my rent if I needed it and support me financially. Other people weren’t that lucky, and residency is still expensive.

  When February hit, I got better. Only because I got used to waking up without Thom. Got used to having to imagine his scent, or resort to sniffing a few of his shirts I kept; wearing them would make his scent wear off. Then it was simply not seeing him in real time. His current Facebook photos with his friends helped, but they didn’t do all that much. I needed to feel him, touch him, taste him. It is just so hard.

  Isn’t it amazing; that us humans can become that dependent on another person?

  I was so afraid of this, exactly this. When I first saw him, and first knew how I felt for him, this was my biggest fear. I still don’t know if I can survive it. When he proposed, I saw the light at the end of the tunnel for the first time. To be his wife...for him to really be mine. That security in the future.

  It got me up every morning.

  I shouldn’t have needed that to be more forthcoming, but I did.

  When I call him again, he doesn’t answer. Even with the uneasy feeling, I go to sleep and hope for tomorrow.

  I GO THROUGH TWO AUTOPSIES with Webb. They were both homicide victims of a home shooting, and the perp was still out there somewhere. He was under a lot of pressure to get the autopsy right, nail the kill shot, and give the detectives a full report. Hollywood had really glamorized the profession, but to an extent, it is true.

  “How many of these do you actually see in a year?” I ask him. I’m in full tops dress; so, the face mask muffles my words, but he is used to it, so he can und
erstand me.

  “Hmm, fifty to sixty.” He answers. We have just weighed the organs to really nail down the time of death.

  Afterwards, he lets me do the transcript. I point out the scratch marks, and signs of abuse that I noticed. It could be they were beaten before, as the wounds were fresh. Work like this usually clears my head, these cases make me focus. But all I can think about is Thom.

  He texts me good morning every day, and there was nothing today. I bit the bullet and texted the infamous ‘are you mad at me’ text. No response.

  Now dinner time, the day is over, I’m back home, and I am increasingly worried.

  It wasn’t even a normal, feeling ignored feeling. Something is wrong, and I feel it in my bones the way I feel him in my bones. I bit the bullet and called Stan, he was the only other person I could trust, and I still refused to be the girlfriend who called one of his friends, sounding paranoid.

  It took him until the last ring.

  “Hello?” His usually even, deep voice, sounded like sand paper.

  My breath hitches before I answer, “Stan, hi. It’s Perrie.” My heart flutters.

  “Oh, hey honey. You okay?” An uneasy sigh leaves him.

  It is eerily quiet on his end, and I swear I hear an incessant beeping on his end.

  “Um, yeah. I’m just worried about Thom. It really isn’t like him to not respond to my messages or calls. It’s been two days, so maybe it’s early. But I don’t know...I just don’t feel right. Have you talked to him?”

  “Uh,” he was quick to say, “he’s um, well I’m not really sure. I can tell him you’re worried about him the next time I talk to him.”

  I sit up straight on my couch, “so is something wrong?” My brows furrow as I stare at my phone, on speaker. “I don’t really have the time to fly down there, but if he needs me, I want to know.”

  “He’s... fine. Perrie, I actually have to go. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Just when I start to protest, the line goes dead.