Pulse (17 page)

Chapter 22

ALEX

I didn't
sleep. I stayed up all night, staring out the window, remembering how Mia had
looked on the eve that we first met. Hooked up to wires and tubes.

You're
not like other doctors
.

She was
so right and so wrong all at once.

The next
morning, in the elevator, I was on auto-pilot. I felt like a fucking zombie.
And when an orderly knocked into me with one of the gurneys, spilling coffee
all over my coat, I nearly snapped.

“So
sorry, doctor!” he said. “Let me at least get you a towel or something.”

“It's
fine,” I said through pursed lips. “You're fine. Go on, now.”

The corridors
were bustling. It was a scattered array of colored scrubs and eyes glued to
files or clipboards. At the nurses station, I grabbed a handful of tissues and
started blotting at the stain.

When that
failed, I yanked my coat off and groaned loudly.

So this
was how my day would start. Maybe I deserved it.

I
shuffled about, making my way to my assigned rooms, picking up files, meeting
with patients. Shaking hands, relaying advice, scribbling prescriptions. The
light in all the rooms poured in with a suffocating intensity, making the
white-washed walls seem blinding.

“Looks
like it might not rain today,” Grace enthused. She was attempting to scrub my
coat clean of the coffee stain. It worked, albeit just a little. “You need to
sleep, Dr. Greene.”

“Is it
that obvious?” I asked. “In any event, you're probably right.”

“How are
you feeling?” she asked as I pulled my coat back on. “Any day now, right?”

“In
relation to what?”

She
blinked.

“Cait,”
she said. “She's due soon, isn't she?”

Although
I was aware that Cait was honing in on D-Day, for some reason, the revelation
startled me. I had spent so long on the wayside, unattached from her, waiting
for some communication, that I had become more focused on my feelings for Mia
and how much I perpetually missed her instead of the impending birth of my
child.

But
despite my confusion, trying to piece together what was going through Cait's
head was like sending a satellite into space and waiting on standby for that
faint flicker of signal.

I nodded,
straightened my lab-coat, and sighed.

“Yes,” I
said, my voice lowered. “Any day now.”

I tried
calling Cait's cell in-between patients, but she never picked up. I called a
second time: nothing. A third directed to her home phone: voicemail.

My veins
glowed with a kind of slow-churning fury. I felt, all things considered, pissed
off.

In-between
the hospital and office, I spent my free hour sitting in the hospital
courtyard, which was thankfully empty. I wasn't hungry. I didn't even want
coffee. I just wanted to be alone with my own thoughts.

Mia.

Mia, with
her hands against the glass, her body painted with the neon night-life that
bled through the window. The way her dark hair spilled against alabaster skin.

I sighed.
Soft, quiet. What had I done?

As I sat
there, feeling unabashedly sorry for myself despite having no true rhyme or
reason to be – there's no cure for being a human – Weisman came over and
settled down on the stone bench beside me.

For a
second or two, he glanced upwards towards the sky.

“Nice day
today,” he remarked. “No rain. Not a cloud in the sky.”

“Hm,” I
muttered. “Yeah. No rain.”

He turned
to me, hunching over slightly. He was a good-looking guy, and even his
relentlessly bad posture (poor sleep, too much liquor) didn't seem to dent the
charming curl to his sideways grin. His hair, which was mostly black, was
speckled with
 
a distinguished gray.

And I'm
not sure why I did it, to be honest. Why I told him. It was lunacy, of course.
Placing everything on the table as I did. But if I didn't tell someone about
the albatross that was my love life, and God knows I had no other people
surrounding me that I could consider friends, I would have lost my mind. The
only person that I wanted to talk about Mia with, was Mia. And she wasn't here.

“Could I
ask you something, Nick?”

“Sure,”
he said. “Shoot.”

“Do you
think there's ever been a doctor who's crossed the line of ethical boundaries
with a patient?”

He
straightened up, his eyebrows raised. Maybe it was the speck-sized promise of
drama, but he suddenly took interest.

“Why are
you asking?” he said. “Did you hear something around the hospital?”

“No,” I
answered. “I was just asking.”

Dr.
Weisman relaxed, exhaling heavily.

“Al...”
he said. “Is something going on?”

“Aside
from the fact that I'm going to be a father soon? At least, I was. I have no
idea what's going on at this point.”

He shook
his head, turning towards me. His hazel eyes narrowed, and I could see that he
was just as tired as I was. It was the first time, I think, that I saw
something gentle in Dr. Weisman. The typical hard-headed lech had been replaced
with a real person.

“You know
that's not what I mean,” he said. “You're fucking a patient, aren't you?”

“Jesus
Christ,” I hissed. “Do you even know what you're saying?”

He said
nothing, lowering his eyes. I felt the chill of words unspoken suddenly drift
over me. I could have fainted, or vomited, or some combination of the two. But
instead I stayed, sitting, rigid.

“Who is
she?” he asked. “The girl.”

“She's no
one.”

“You're
lying,” he declared. “If she was no one, you wouldn't be sitting here, looking
morose, white as a fucking sheet of paper, Al.”

“I feel
sick,” I said, covering my face. “Jesus. Oh, God.”

I felt
the warm press of Dr. Weisman's hand on my shoulder. Comfort. Only there was no
true comfort here. I was a mess of tangled vulnerability; all knotted up veins
and skin cut with invisible, inevitable lashings.

“What are
you doing?” he asked. “What's gotten into you, man? A
patient
?”

“I know.”

He
whistled. I lowered my hands. When I cut a glance at him, his eyes were on the
scattered leaves that danced across the courtyard's stone pathway.

“I've
done many foolish, fucked-up things,” he said. “My family loathes me now. I
don't even have the dog. I'm living in a box until the offer for my new place
comes through. But Alex...” he stopped, his hand still resting on my shoulder.
“A patient. That could ruin everything. That's not reckless abandon. That's
suicide.”

I
swallowed.

“You
can't see her anymore,” he added. “Patient still or not, she's on file. She's
in the system. She's ink on paper, and a click away from tangible proof in a
lawsuit.”

“I
 
didn't ask for this,” I told him. “She just
came out of nowhere, and I was blindsided. I care about her. I can't stop
thinking about her. I feel like I'm living on standby without her here. I
stopped seeing her, Nick. I did. But I don't know if I can keep it up.”

“You need
to calm the fuck down,” Nick explained. “You can, and you will. You're just
living some ridiculous fantasy. It's time to grow up.”

My face
grew hot. I didn't want to take his advice, nor did I even I
 
want to hear it.

But the
worst of it was...he was right.

“It
doesn't last forever,” Weisman added. “I loved Elaine, you know. I was in love
with her. There was awhile when I couldn't even fathom breathing without her around.
But it doesn't last, Al. It fades.”

“I didn't
say I loved her,” I told him.

Dr.
Weisman gave me a knowing look. A
don't-bullshit-me, man
kind of look.
And I couldn't deny it.

“Trust
me,” Nick said. With that, he took a pack of cigarettes, lit one, inhaled.
“Nothing lasts forever, Al. I've made this mistake before.”

He
offered me one. I tentatively accepted. And I spent the rest of the afternoon
trying to breathe, trying to function, with the taste of ash in my mouth.

Mason's
car was in the driveway when I arrived, turning off the engine but remaining in
place. It was almost 8 o'clock, and I could see through the kitchen window as
he stirred something in a large pot, standing over the stove.

When I
knocked, he answered.

“Hey,
doctor,” he said. He said
doctor
like it was a bad joke. “What's up?”

I pulled
out my phone, glanced down at it, then looked back up at him.

“I've
called Cait three times today,” I told him. “She picked up on none of them. Is
she home?”

Mason's
lips parted, and he turned away. His body language was riddled with obvious
discomfort as he stepped aside, let me in, and mumbled:

“She's in
the nursery,” he said. “She's decorating.”

I felt
his eyes follow me as I walked down the hall, around the corner, and up the
stairs. When I reached the nursery door I gave a gentle tap (physician's
habit), and let myself in.

Cait was
seated on the rocker, sorting through a box of Children's books. When she
connected the dots, realizing that it was me who was standing there, and not
Mason, she timidly set down a copy of
Goodnight, Moon
and attempted to
stand.

“Don't,”
I insisted. “You don't need to get up.”

“Why are
you here?” she asked. “What's wrong?”

“Are you
kidding?” I asked. “You never answered my calls today. You've gone completely
awol. Your due-date is around the corner. What do you think is fucking wrong?”

Suddenly,
I took note of the walls. They were still the same shade of Sweet Mint, but the
trim was a darling pale pink. The crib, which had been barren, was now filled
with ruffled, lacy bedding. The small stuffed duckling that I had bought was
nestled inside next to a heart-shaped pillow.

“What's
going on?” I finally asked. “Is this your way of telling me that you've changed
your mind, Cait? Because I don't have time for your games. Just let me know
what I need to do. I won't fight you on it.”

She said
nothing. Dead, cold silence. Not even radio static.

“I want
to be here for you,” I told her. “But I can't if you don't let me in.”

“I'm
sorry,” she said quietly.

“You
asked me for this,” I said. “You came to me out of the blue with news that you
were having a baby, and I've helped you, and tried to be a decent man in a
rather shambled set of circumstances. And it all started because you asked me
to.”

Cait
softened. Her lips puckered.

And then,
of all things, she started to cry.

“Cait,” I
said gently. “Cait, what is it?”

She
sucked in a deep breath.

“I'm so
sorry,” she repeated. “I'm a horrible person.”

I knelt
down beside her, and tried to take her hand, but she yanked it back immediately
and covered her eyes. A loud, shuddering exhale followed.

“Why
would you say that?” I asked. “We don't have to do this, Cait. We can work
something out. I'll be here for you. I'll be a father to our little girl.”

“No,” she
said. “You won't.”

I paused,
fumbling. I was on my knees, aching against the hardwood floors. But I didn't
stand.

“Of
course I will,” I told her. “And we can set something up. A schedule. And we
can make this work. I want to be here. For you. For the baby.”

It was
then that I remembered: Ivy. The book of names.

“Does she
have a name?” I asked, my heart quickening.

Cait
sniffled loudly, wiping her face. Her mascara bled down her cheeks.

“Not
yet,” she said, and I replied:

“I like
Ivy,” I told her. “I looked through the book of names, all of them, just like
you asked.”

This
didn't help. The sobbing grew louder. So much so, that Mason came barreling up
the stairs, and Cait had to insist that we were fine, and that she didn't need
help.

“Go back
downstairs,” she told him. “We're okay.”

Mason
gave me the once-over, lingering in the doorway. Then, as instructed, he left.
I waited for the last creak of his heavy foot-steps down the stairs before I
said anything else.

“What's
going on?” I asked her. “What going on with you, Cait?”

“I told
you,” she said. “And I'm so sorry.”

I rose to
my feet, crossing my arms.

“Why?” I
asked softly.

She
looked at me. Really looked at me. All puffy-eyed and swollen faced. Her cheeks
were plum-colored, lips slack, hair in a messy bun. Out of all the times I had
seen her, she now resembled the worst version of herself.

“She's
not yours, Alex,” Cait said quietly. “She's Mason's.”

“Excuse
me?” I said. The words did not compute. “What are you saying?”

“I'm
saying that the baby isn't yours, Alex,” she said. “She's not yours. She's Mason's.”

As I
registered the words she spoke to me, I acknowledged, with each passing second,
that someone in the wide expanse of Earth was holding their newborn. Somewhere
in the world, the first cry of an infant was heard. A mother's tear was shed.

And I was
nothing.

“How
could you possibly know?” I asked.

“I had
the paternity test done,” she explained shakily. “Amniocentesis. They took some
of the amniotic fluid and ran the labs.”

“And you
didn't think to tell me.”

“I didn't
know how to tell you,” she insisted. “You were incessant. You were buzzing
around, calling me, trying so
hard,
Alex,” she attempted to wipe her
cheek, which only smeared the coal-colored eyeliner. “I guess I was hoping she
was yours. I was hoping if I neglected it, this could just glide by.”