by Ava Conway
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Be careful when trying to fix a broken person. You may cut yourself on their shattered pieces.
~Unknown
ONE
I STARED out the car window at the stately columns of Newton Heights Medical Institution and realized that my entire life had been building to this moment. There had been so many sleepless nights and extralarge lattes. So many exams and term papers. All I had to do was walk through the front door with my head held high and claim the reward for all of my hard work.
It was such an easy thing to do, and yet my legs were rooted to the floor of my car.
I pulled down the visor and adjusted my drugstore glasses. I had bought the glasses not for sight, but because they made me look and feel intelligent. With them, I transformed from the indecisive doormat I was in college into a self-confident woman in control of her future.
You can do this. Grabbing my briefcase and matching Ralph Lauren tote, I forced myself to leave the car. As I walked through the parking lot to the large double doors of the hospital, I noticed how luxurious everything appeared. The white columns and flowing fountain seemed as if they belonged to another era. Late summer flowers were in full bloom and filled the planters strategically placed around the building. An old dogwood tree reached up to the sky as if stretching after a full night of sleep. If the faded white clapboards could talk, they’d probably have hundreds of stories to tell. Stories of heartache and triumph, laughter and tears. Stories so much like my own.
I stepped through the front door and came upon a security checkpoint. As the guard went through my belongings, I glanced up at the multiple skylights providing light to the bustling foyer below. The forecast had called for sun through tomorrow, which was a relief after so much rain. It was the perfect day for new beginnings—my new beginning.
“All set, ma’am,” the guard said.
“Thank you.” I collected my things and went to the information desk. An elderly man with crooked teeth sat behind the counter, reading a paper. His dress shirt was neat, but his hair askew. As I approached, he slurped from a large mug that read “Disgruntled employee of the month.”
“Excuse me,” I said.
The man kept his gaze focused on the paper. “Anything you buy down here from the coffee or gift shops can’t be brought into other buildings without first getting approval.”
“I underst—”
“If you go through those doors behind me, you’ll enter the quad.” He let go of his paper just long enough to point over his shoulder.
“Yes, I kno—”
“From the quad, you will see three other buildings identical to this one. On the left is the teaching hospital, straight ahead, the psych ward. On the right is the physical rehabilitation building. The one you are in here now is the—”
“Outpatient building,” I said, happy I could get a word in edgewise. “Yes, I know. I’ve been here before.” Newton Heights was one-stop shopping for all of a person’s physical and mental needs. It had an impeccable reputation, which was why I was so desperate to work there. Putting a place like Newton Heights on my résumé would go a long way to finding a permanent position once I finished my doctorate.
The man glanced up from his paper and looked down at me through his black-rimmed glasses.
“I have an internship,” I explained.
The man frowned and returned his attention to his paper. “Staff are required to wear their badges at all times and will be given a key card to go from one section of the hospital to the other.”
“Yes, I realize this, but it’s my first day and I don’t have those things yet.”
The guard put down his coffee mug and spoke as if reading from a cue card as he pointed to the elevators. “If you’re on the list, the woman in the booth will give you a temporary pass to get you into your building. There you will receive your permanent badge and key card.”
“Thank you.”
The man waved his hand in dismissal. I walked to the large woman by the elevators, who was only slightly more interested in my situation than the man at the information desk. Twenty minutes later, I was touching up my hair in the elevator of the psych building as I headed to my floor.
I had spent hours this morning making sure I looked presentable for the first day of my new internship, and it was a relief to know that everything was still in place. Dr. Grace Polanski, the director at Newton Heights, had given me an opportunity of a lifetime by offering to become my mentor. I didn’t want to mess things up by looking as if I had just rolled out of bed.
I had applied three times for this internship. Twice, Dr. Polanski had told me no. The first time was because I didn’t have the necessary grad classes under my belt. The second time was because my best friend, Lucy, was at the hospital, and questions were raised about me possibly impeding her recovery.
The third time I had taken the necessary classes and Lucy was scheduled to move to a group home. My chances of acceptance had greatly increased, but I didn’t want to leave anything to chance. I had researched the doctor’s favorite foods and hobbies and made sure to mention them during the interview. After bonding over kayaking and the newest wine bar in town, I finally got the internship I had always wanted. If I impressed Dr. Polanski over the next several months, I could probably leverage this internship into a residency. To work side by side with such a prestigious doctor would make me the envy of all of my fellow med students. Dr. Polanski had enough clout to make or break someone’s career. After a few short years of working with her, my name would become recognizable as well, and I’d have my pick of positions at all of the major hospitals in the country. It was my dream to become a famous doctor, and Dr. Polanski could help me get there, I just knew it.
When the doors opened, I walked up to the reception desk beneath the large LONG-TERM CARE sign and gave the receptionist my name. As the beautiful blond-haired woman adjusted her dark-rimmed glasses and searched her computer database, I inhaled the lemon-fresh scent and noted the starch-white uniforms of the staff. Everything looked so pristine and orderly, which was exactly what I wanted. With a little luck, I’d be wearing a uniform and walking these whitewashed halls with confidence in no time.
“Ms. Horton?” The receptionist raised her brows over the rim of her square-framed glasses.
Slinging the tote over my shoulder, I leveraged the briefcase on the counter and pulled out my notebook and pen. “Yes?”
The receptionist looked up from the screen and frowned at my briefcase in her space. “Dr. Polanski’s appointment is running late, so she won’t be able to meet with you until later. You are to go to room B for the daily group therapy session. She’ll meet you there.”
I pushed my own wire-framed glasses up on my nose, realizing that they didn’t look nearly as intelligent as the receptionist’s pair. I made a mental note to get some more authoritative-looking frames that evening on my way home. “When does this therapy session start?”
“In ten minutes.” Bright green gum peeked between the woman’s teeth as she talked. It matched her eyes, which seemed to take in everything around her like some predatory bird.
I wrote down her instruction in my notebook and nodded. “And room B is . . .”
The receptionist pursed her ruby-red lips and pointed a long, manicured fingernail down the hall directly behind me. “Down the hall, turn the corner, and it’s the third door on the left. An orderly will meet you
there. Elias.”
“Elias.” I scribbled the orderly’s name and directions to the therapy session. The receptionist smoothed a stray lock of hair back into her angled bob and flashed me an irritated look, but I didn’t care. I wanted to make sure I got everything right.
“Yes, Elias. He’ll give you your assignment, and then the doctor will talk to you after the therapy session.”
“Thank you.” I slid the glasses down my nose and read the receptionist’s badge: “Pam.” I shoved my glasses back into place and wrote the name down for future reference.
Pam handed over a large brown envelope, her frown firmly planted on her face. “Here’s your badge and some other papers Dr. Polanski wants you to look at in your spare time.” She spoke with the same heavy monotone the guy at the information desk used downstairs and pointed to the large double doors next to the desk. “Use the badge to go between floors and in and out of the building. Just make sure that none of the patients sneaks out with you.”
I looked up from the envelope and frowned. “Do they often try to get off the floor?”
“You’d be surprised.” Pam wrinkled her hawk-like nose. “At least here most people try to obey the rules. It’s so much better than working Confinement.”
“Confinement?”
“I used to work Confinement. Now I work up here.” She scrunched her nose at the desk. “Normally I’m in charge of the medications, but ever since Cheryl left on maternity leave and Darla quit, I’ve had to spend my break time here. I wish Polanski would hurry up and hire a new—”
The phone behind the counter rang and Pam picked up the receiver. “Psych Ward—Long-Term Care.”
I slipped my temporary identification into the envelope and finished taking my notes, ignoring the irritated look from the receptionist as I wrote down “Confinement” next to Pam’s name and circled it. After replacing the pen and notebook in my briefcase, I turned my back on the reception area and headed off in the direction of room B for the therapy session. While the staff all wore white scrub-like uniforms, the patients were less formal. Some wore jeans, some sweats, while others didn’t bother changing out of their bathrobes. If it wasn’t for the nurses and orderlies, people could fool themselves into thinking that it was like a dormitory hall on any college campus in America.
As I walked, an uneasy feeling crawled over my skin. Patients and staff stopped their conversations and stared at me as I moved among them. When I met their gaze, they quickly turned away. Some of the patients ran away, moving down the hall in the opposite direction as quickly as they could go. Staff members studied me with judgmental expressions, although I had no idea why they were looking at me so intently.
The silence set my nerve endings on edge. I wanted to shout at them “What are you looking at?” I was unused to being the center of attention. Tightening my grip on my briefcase, I quickened my steps, eager to get to my destination and away from all of the hostile glares.
Several doors down from the reception area, a well-toned man with pale skin and a hard jaw glanced away from the Asian woman he was talking to and met my gaze. He adjusted his blue bandanna, which matched his eyes, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. He held my attention as he twisted his lips into an easy smile.
His reaction to me was so different from everyone else’s that I couldn’t help but stare. He acted as if we had already met, but I knew I would have remembered someone so intriguing if I had seen him before. Within seconds I took in his day-old auburn stubble and slightly crooked nose and dismissed him as a thug, but there was something about the way he carried himself and how he looked at me that suggested intelligence.
I dragged my gaze down and away from those all-knowing eyes, taking in ripples of muscles just underneath the unzipped navy hoodie covering most of his torso. Beneath the hoodie, a tight gray T-shirt stretched over his chest, revealing just enough of a neon-orange symbol for me to recognize it as a logo from one of those energy drink companies.
The fine hairs on my neck began to tingle as I slowed my steps and raised my gaze back to his face. Smart, strong, and confident. This was someone who knew the rules but chose to ignore them. I could see the attitude in his piercing blue gaze. There was humor there, as if he was sizing me up as the competition and finding me lacking. With one glance, this person managed to erode the thick wall of self-confidence that had taken me all morning to build.
Game on, Mr. Thug. He was underestimating me, I could tell. Well, let him do it. He and everyone else in this place would soon learn just what they were dealing with. No one was going to come between me and my dreams, least of all a pale, ginger thug like him.
I flashed him a cool smile and tried to dismiss him, but those eyes held my attention. There was something there, swirling just below the surface. It was as if he knew something and I didn’t. God, there was nothing that I hated more than being left out of the loop. It reminded me of when I was out of the loop with my friends at college. I wasn’t there to soothe Lucy when she discovered her boyfriend cheating. I wasn’t there to stop that terrible accident that had killed two of our friends and resulted in Lucy being institutionalized.
I hated not knowing what was going on.
The longer he stared, the more uneasy I felt. It was as if he saw right through my Manolo shoes and Donna Karan suit to the fragile woman inside. Damn him. I had worked so hard at building up a positive, no-nonsense front. I wasn’t going to let him take that away from me.
The handsome thug raised his open hand, palm facing me. I frowned in confusion and stopped in the middle of the hall as he curled his fingers one by one until only his pointer was left sticking up. He turned his hand until the tip of his finger faced his torso and tapped the right side of his chest.
Glancing down at my own neatly pressed suit, I found everything in place. I had chosen pink because it looked best with my blond hair. The white camisole underneath the stiff collar had a touch of lace, just enough to balance the serious attire with something feminine. All of the buttons of my jacket were closed, and the spandex body-slimming underwear wasn’t peeking out from underneath my seamless thigh-length skirt. My breasts hadn’t fallen out of my too-tight push-up bra, which was a relief. Nothing said unprofessionalism more than floppy boobs.
Nope, everything was right where it should be. In fact, I looked damn good, if I didn’t say so myself.
I glanced up and flashed him a questioning look.
The man’s dimpled smile looked amused as he pointed to the chest of a passing orderly. It was then that I understood his meaning.
Shit, my badge. I dropped my briefcase and tote bag full of office desk knickknacks in the middle of the hall and rummaged through the envelope the receptionist had given me. Colored pens, small pictures of me and my sister, and a stuffed bunny fell out of my tote and onto the shiny floor. They looked absurd and much too personal in the aseptic hall, and it felt as if every pair of eyes in the hospital was fixing on me.
I should have been embarrassed, and perhaps I would have been if I weren’t so concerned with my badge. No wonder everyone was giving me funny looks. They couldn’t tell if I was a patient or someone who wandered in off the street. Well, it was an easy fix, if I could only find it . . .
Within a few moments I curled my fingers around the laminated card. Grinning in triumph, I pulled it out and waved it in the air.
“Thank you,” I mouthed the words as I clipped the card on my blazer. The patient’s smirk faded and his eyes turned from bright cerulean to smoky gray as he made a show of dropping his gaze to my chest then slowly raising it again to meet mine. My breath hitched as I felt something pass between us. All of a sudden my suit became too hot, my clothes too constricting. I shifted my stance, rubbing my thighs together to ease the ache growing between them.
Then without warning, he dismissed me and turned back to the Asian woman. They began talking as if nothing had happened. But something did happen. Something significant.
He seemed to have forg
otten about me, but as I collected my personal belongings and stuffed them back into my tote, I felt him watching me.
Ribbons of heat spiraled up my center as I walked past him and down the hallway. Part of me wanted to linger and ask his name, find out how he had ended up in a place like this.
Another part of me wanted to run my fingers over his stubble and bring the smoky gray back to those bright cerulean eyes.
My response to his attention irritated me. Even if I was interested—which I wasn’t—I wasn’t here to form relationships. I was here to learn and to help the patients heal. Anything more than that would just be a distraction from my goal.
No, I had worked incredibly hard to be here. I deserved this moment, and I wasn’t going to let the knowing smirk of some mental patient make me feel inferior. I wasn’t the one who was inferior—he was. He was the one with the problems, after all.
TWO
ROOM B didn’t look much different from the hallway. The white walls had been exchanged for paisley wallpaper in pastel colors. Metal tables and folding chairs dotted the floor at regular intervals. Some of the folding chairs were moved to one side of the room and formed a circle. Patients and staff members milled about, speaking to one another and waiting for the meeting to begin. A big folding table had been erected and decorated with a white paper tablecloth on the other side of the room. A metal urn sat on the table behind a construction paper and Magic Marker sign that read COFFEE. It looked like it was written by a preschooler. Towers of floral-printed paper cups framed the urn, giving it a sort of majestic appearance. I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to drink from the urn or pay our respects.
I shifted my briefcase from one hand to the other and made my way over to the table to get myself a cup. As I placed my things on the floor by the table, I scanned the room for familiar faces. I had gotten to know one or two patients from when I used to visit Lucy in the hospital last winter, but those patients must have been long gone. They had probably moved on with their lives, which only bolstered my confidence. I had done exhaustive research to find the best hospital in the area to do my internship. Newton Heights’s reputation was above reproach. Families pulled their loved ones out of government-run hospitals to put them in Newton Heights because their care was the best in the country. Being a private institution allowed them to be more innovative and focused. Since I wanted to be the best in my field, I knew that this was the place where I needed to be.
