Destroy (A Standalone Romance Novel) (7 page)

“This is a great
collection you’ve got, Heather. I love listening to LP’s. They’re much better
than CD’s.

After warming up the
lasagna and getting a salad ready, we ate and chatted about anything and
everything as if we had been friends for years. Around nine o’clock, Tiffany
said that she’d see me the next day–at the hospital, of course–and that she
would make arrangements to move her stuff to the apartment by the following
weekend.

When I closed the door on
her, I exhaled a huge sigh of relief.
Yeah,
I have a roommate! You’re going to be fine, girl.
 

Chapter
7

Since Tiffany wasn’t
going to move in until the weekend, and I only had a few things to do around
the apartment before she arrived, I decided to go back to the mall and see what
they had on sale. The fall fashion was starting to invade the stores, which
meant that I could get a couple more jeans, t-shirts, and summer outfits for a
good price.

Then, there were shoes. I
firmly believe that all girls and women have a shoe-fetish. I am no exception.
I love shopping for shoes. Although I could not afford anything fancy except
for a pair to wear outside the hospital, I had to look and try on a couple
more, just to imagine myself wearing these gorgeous Italian slippers while
walking down the red carpet of some famous movie premiere.
Girls will be girls,
I said to myself quietly while dreaming the
shoes off my feet. And then I had to return to the sports department and choose
some sneakers that I could wear at the hospital every day. High heels or even
soft leather pumps were not going to support my feet day after day with all the
walking and standing I would have to do.

Once I ran out of money
and I thought I had indulged myself enough for one evening of shopping, I
walked home. I was happy with my purchases. I had not fallen into the traps of
buying anything extravagant and I had found quite a few good bargains in the
process.

For dinner that night, I
cooked a chicken breast with some veggies, mushrooms and a potato nugget or two
in the oven. It was ready in forty-five minutes while I watched an old show on
TV. Thank goodness for Mrs. Camborne, she had let the TV cable guys into the
apartment to get me connected properly and install the DVR. Since I had found a
bracket for the TV and sorted my records the day before, I was all set.

I ate my meal while
listening to some classical music and reading some of the latest news articles
in the paper. Call me old-fashion if you like, but I still enjoy buying a
newspaper in the morning, reading it throughout the day during my breaks, and
listening to music on a turntable. I hadn’t graduated to reading a book on a
tablet yet, or listening to streaming music on my laptop.

Once I had finished
eating, I decided to call my mother. I hadn’t talked to her in a couple of
days.

“Mom?” She sounded
distracted when she picked up the receiver. “How are you?”

“Just fine, Heather. Just
fine. It’s your dad who’s not quite himself…”

My heart skipped a beat.
“What’s wrong? What’s going on? Is Dad sick or something?”

“I don’t think he’s
really sick, no. It’s just that he’s probably eaten too much guacamole last
night at Lydia’s party.”

“And probably drank a
couple of beers to many,” I added.

“Well, no. Lydia was
serving sangria with the paella and nachos with guacamole. That was all really
good. But your dad is having a bit of indigestion I guess…”

I had heard enough. As a
doctor, I knew indigestion is another word for a mild heart attack in quite a
few cases. “Listen to me, Mom”—I adopted my physician’s tone of voice—“you are
going to drive Dad to the hospital right now…”

“But, dear, do you
think…”

“I don’t
think
, Mom, I
know
it’s absolutely necessary that Dad sees a doctor as soon as
possible.”

“But why? What could be
wrong with him?”

“Just don’t ask, Mom, get
him to the clinic or hospital
now! Do you
hear me?
”

By then I was making
myself sick with worry. That’s why family members or friends do not treat their
loved ones. Their emotions interfere with their judgment.

“Okay, okay, Heather,
you’re the doctor now, but I don’t know if he’ll go…”

“Let me talk to him,
then,” I demanded.

A few seconds later, my
dad’s voice came over the line. “What’s this I hear, Heather? You want me to go
to the hospital just for a bit of indigestion?”

“Yes, Dad. Do it for me
if you don’t want to do it for yourself. Get yourself checked up
now!
”

I hated yelling in my
father’s ear, but it was about time he listened to me. My brothers were not
home to get him to do anything, so, he had to listen to me.

“Okay, I’ll go with Mom,
but only because I want to prove you wrong. Deal?”

“Yeah, Dad, you got a
deal. And phone me when you get a doctor’s diagnosis, alright?”

“Fine! Here’s Mom.”

“What about you; how are
you? How was your first day at the hospital? I didn’t want to bother—”

“Mom, please, we’ll talk
later, okay? Everything is fine. Just get Dad to the doctor, okay?”

An hour later, my phone
rang. My mother was on the line.

“Okay,
you’re
dad is fine, Heather. The doctor said that he
suffers from mild
rhythma
…or
something like that.”

“You mean arrhythmia, do
you?”

“Yes, that’s it. That’s
what he told us. The doctor gave him a couple of pills to stop his heart from
“dancing the jig”, he said. And we’re now on our way home. I’ll call you later
or tomorrow, okay?”

“Thanks for doing what I
asked, Mom. I’m sure Dad will be fine now. But you go for a
check
up
with Dr. Bernard soon, okay?”

“Yes, that’s what the
doctor here said. Your Dad needs to have a complete physical and get that
problem under control as soon as he can.”

“Okay, Mom. Glad to hear Dad’s
okay. Call me later, alright?”

As soon as I hung up, I
smiled to myself. My instinct hadn’t lied to me. I was getting my sea-legs as a
doctor. And I was very pleased because my dad finally listened to me. He had
the nasty habit of checking with my brothers on everything I suggested. It was
most unnerving because ninety-eight
percents
of the
time I was right. But the two
percents
were the bane
I had to hear about every time another discussion came up.

I got the dishes done and
settled on the couch for a night of watching TV. The silence of the apartment
was starting to bother me. I had to have the stereo, radio or TV on all the
time while I was home. I didn’t suffer from any form of phobia, but I was
simply glad to hear something other than silence. I was looking forward to
Tiffany moving in. Yet, I enjoyed being able to watch whatever program I liked
on TV, listen to my favorite music without having to ask if Tiffany was okay
with it.

Such as with everything
in life, there is always a form of give-an-take in any relationship.

The next day, we finally
hit the emergency room. What a shock to the system that was. I only had gone to
the emergency room in Omaha twice as I recall. The first time was for a broken
arm and then, when I began jogging where I shouldn’t have been, for a sprained
ankle. Nothing major such as what we witnessed that morning. Tiffany looked
totally absorbed during the entire experience. The resident doctors told us to
stay away from the main action and not to ask questions until the patient was
stabilized and sent to the ward.

The first case was some
guy who tried cutting his wedding band off his finger. The blade slipped and
ended in his bicep. The bleeding from the injured muscle all the way down to
the finger was draining the poor man so fast; he only had minutes to live. The
paramedics who attended his injuries only managed to slow the bleeding down
enough to reach the hospital.

When the doctor finished
stitching the guy up, he told him to try soap next time he wanted to take off his
wedding band.

Tiffany and I exchanged a
smile before getting out of the room. Some of the other interns asked a few
questions about the man’s injuries and I asked Dr. Kerry why the paramedics
couldn’t do more for the guy.

“Simply because they are
not licensed practitioners, Dr. Williams. However, if a patient is in danger of
losing his life, the paramedics are authorized to perform minor interventions
to prevent the patient from dying.”

“Like tracheotomy?”

“Yes, that’s one of a
dozen authorized interventions. Other than that, no EMT wants to be faced with
a lawsuit if someone dies because of an injury being wrongly treated.”

The next injury that
morning was that of an old woman who had broken the
humerus
in her upper arm. She was in pain, but being allergic to morphine, there was
little the doctors could do to alleviate her suffering. She had the choice of
going under the knife to repair the damages or letting the shoulder and upper
arm heal itself. Again, the pain management would be a problem.

However, the dear heart
chose
not
to have the surgery–she was
afraid of not waking up after the operation–and have her body heal itself. I
truly admired her courage. This sort of broken bone is difficult to treat since
you can’t put the arm in a cast. The only thing you can suggest is to move the
injured arm as little as possible until it heals and then follow an intense
course of physiotherapy.

Tiffany and I took ample
notes and even recorded the questions our team posed to Dr. Kerry after each
treatment on my pocket recorder. It was fascinating, but in the end, emergency
treatments were not my cup of tea. I wanted to go all the way to thoracic
surgery. That’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to be able to give a new heart to
babies born with congenital defects; I wanted to give an older man or woman a
new lease on life with a new lung or even a new liver. I know, it sounded
ambitious, but since childhood, I wanted to see people I loved live much longer
than they did. My grandfather died much too young and I think his death only
confirmed my desire to pursue my studies and become a surgeon.

That evening, Tiffany
came over to drop off some of her belongings at the apartment. The movers would
be here Saturday to bring up her bed and dresser and a few other things she wanted
to keep in her room.

As she unpacked the
suitcase she brought with her, I noticed that she had a lot of very nice
clothes; dresses and suits that I would not be able to afford for some years
yet. I didn’t say anything and just helped her put everything in the closet.

Tiffany is the one who
explained, when we were done, that her parents were always trying to spoil her.
She only worked part-time while she was studying to avoid being home. She began
hating it.

“You know, Heather—”

“Call me Hattie,” I cut
in as we sat on the couch to chat for a bit, “My friends do.”

“Okay, thanks. And you
can call me Tiff, if you like.” I had to smile. For me “tiff” meant that I was
having a serious disagreement with someone.

Anyway, Tiff was saying…

“The last three years of
med school were sheer hell for me.”

“Why?” I asked, thinking
the girl was probably exaggerating a bit.

“Because, my parents not
only encouraged me to study but didn’t let me “live” my life – not even a
little. When the guys at school were going clubbing or arranged to get together
for a drink or something, I had to be home by a certain time–just like a kid.”

“Why didn’t you say
something?”

“What was there to say?
If they had not pushed me the way they did, I would have given up a long time
ago. I am not an easy-straight-A student, Hattie. I had to work my butt off to
get an “A”, and an “A+” is not a common occurrence for me. So, I resented them
for their pressuring me, but now I can see why they did.”

“Well, I think we’ll get
along just fine then,” I said. “You see, I hate pushing people into doing
anything,
but
I also know that if we
don’t continue reviewing what we learned in school, we’re not going to make it.
And that, Tiff, is not an option, not for me at least.”

We chatted for a while
longer before Tiff left. When I had closed the door on her, I went to the chair
facing the sofa and sat down. I reclined to the back of it and began imagining
what our life–Tiff and me–would be like. She was certainly nothing like Allie.
Tiff was organized, neat and proud of the way she looked. Whereas Allie was not
organized at all, she didn’t exhibit an ounce of pride in her looks but she was
fiercely possessive;
her
hairbrush;
her
soap;
her
towels;
her
books…and
on and on. What was hers was definitely hers. Although we shared most things in
the kitchen, she had to use
her
cutlery
or
her
dishes. I didn’t notice any
indication of a possessive trait in Tiffany. Maybe, she had been spoiled but
she might have had a couple of siblings to keep her in line.