Pulse (4 page)

Lie
back for me
.

Lips
flushed with blood, gentle commands, firm hands and jagged breath.

That was
the first time in what felt like aeons that I came by myself – and the truth
is, it was better than any orgasm I had ever experienced with Evan.

Stepping
out of the shower, I toweled off and dressed in a pair of comfy pajama pants. I
rummaged through my drawer of sweaters until I found my favorite hooded
sweatshirt – heather-gray, with the UCF logo – and yanked it on.

Catching
my reflection in the mirror, I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the
hastening tick of my own heartbeat. I studied the front of my sweatshirt and
forced myself to think about more pressing, immediate matters. Like finals.
Like graduation.

My mom
was thrilled when I got into the University of Central Florida – though she
herself, practically a world away and living in Arizona, would have to get used
to her only child leaving the nest. And on a full scholarship (which I thanked
largely to both an impressive essay and my spending every single summer
vacation attending various collegiate-related excursions), I didn't even need
to pay for this apartment. I had a full ride, and it was glorious, and sure, I
should be proud. I should be hopeful. My GPA was stellar, my attendance on
point, and my recommendations boastful.

Maybe,
just maybe, I did stand a chance.

I grabbed
my laptop, cozied myself up in bed, and tried my best to study. When that
failed, I flipped through a few chapters of
Anna Karenina
. When that
grew tedious, and I tossed the book aside, I found my thoughts trickling back
into the occasional nagging anxiety that came hurdling down like an asteroid
whenever I thought about the future.

I'm
already well-versed on the common factoids about English majors: there's no
money, and our heads are mostly filled with air, and have fun with all that
student loan debt, and et cetera. But I loved English, I loved literature
(Salinger, Nabokov, Fitzgerald – my forever m
é
nage) and love was always enough to sustain me
through the past four years as I watched Aimee pursue her Political Science degree
and safely nestle herself into all the right internships and potential job
slots. She had her security, but I had my books, and my blind passion, and
doesn't that count for something?

I thought
about my future career. If I got into Cambridge, I'd inevitably work towards
getting my certification to actually
teach
. Maybe I'd work my way
towards becoming a Professor of Literature. Maybe I'd write a book. Maybe I'd
find some cozy job working for a publisher or something.

So there
you go: a semi-solid life plan. Fingers crossed.

But my
attempt to study on that lazy afternoon turned into an hour of scrolling
through my Facebook newsfeed, which turned into my wondering about where
exactly Dr. Greene went to school, and who he was before we'd come face-to-face.

I thought
about his lab-coat, and how cool it was, really, that he could walk around –
the pinnacle of respectable positions, really – with his
name
sewn onto
his jacket. It's like, hey, look at this mother-effing coat. Do you know what
it says? I'm a doctor, for God's sake. Someone fetch me a pair of trendy
sunglasses.

Caving on
impulse, I beamed over to Google and punched in his name. It came up without a
hitch:

Dr. Alex
Greene, Orlando, Florida.

He
received his Pre-Med degree at Harvard, and attended medical school at John
Hopkins. John
Hopkins
. He was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts and spent
his residency practicing Internal Medicine, focus on Cardiology, at Mass
General. He had published several articles on heart stents and the treatment of
various murmurs.

Cambridge,
I thought to myself. Cambridge, Mass. Cambridge, UK. The tiny coincidence (did
it count?) made me smile.

Clicking
back, I sifted through the few images that were available – mostly small,
pixel-y shots, but they were still very much him. A bit of stubble, full lips,
vibrant eyes. The shock of dark hair and wry smile. A man, not a boy. A man who
had accomplished, so it seemed, a great deal. And I wondered how old he was.
Early thirties, maybe?

Glancing
around my room, I couldn't help but feel slightly juvenile. Everything smelled
of Victoria Secret body spray, and the floor was covered with clothes both
washed and in need of washing – but because I never actually put my clothes
away, I couldn't tell.

I
contemplated the morning, and how Dr. Greene seemed sincerely interested. I
could see it, I could feel it. I couldn't have been that delusional, could I?

But what
did he see? Because what I saw, as I met my own reflection in the mirror that
hung on my bedroom door, was a twenty-two-year-old girl. A twenty-two-year-old
girl who watched too much Netflix, and liked to eat ice cream out of Tupperware
containers instead of actual dishware, and didn't wear sexy pajamas or even
owned clothing nearly as nice as Dr. Greene probably did. A girl who could belt
out Taylor Swift's “Blank Space” like nobody's business, but had no real grasp
on science, or the mechanics of the body, or the grand inner-weaving that
composed the human frame.

A girl. I
was a girl.

And he
was a man.

I was his
patient, and he was my doctor.

So where
could it go, anyway?

I sighed,
shut my laptop, and lay back.

His words
still pressed some untouched button deep inside of me. The brush of his fingers
was still hot against my wrist.

But there
was nothing to be done about it.

Chapter 4

ALEX

First,
do no harm
.

Alright,
so that's actually a myth – a common misconception often attributed to the
Hippocratic Oath. But even as doctors, we use it. We tuck it away in our
pockets like a Post-It note; a reminder of the oaths we take, and the paths we
walk as medical professionals.

The most
fucked-up part of it all is that we're human, with human bones and human blood.
Yet still, there are those that we meet with whom we can have nothing to do
with. Even if the feelings are real. Even if we want them.

I had
just come back from a run, and the sun was still low behind the buildings. It
was going to be a hot day, and I could already smell the heady trace of highway
smog in the air – the heat just made everything worse. It colored the people
with a thick sense of irritation. People were, on the whole, pissy-er in the
summertime. And God, the rain.

I
blinked, glancing down towards the streets, where people were scattered like
grains of rice. From where I stood, higher than the eye of God, even the cars
darted around like ants. Indistinguishable.

My
thoughts shifted to Mia, and I wondered if she was still asleep, or what she
was doing, or if she was wondering the same.

Goodbye,
Dr. Greene
.

When the
elevator doors closed, I had retreated into into an empty linen closet and
tried to compose myself. When that failed, I took the elevator down to the
first floor, popped my head into Triage, and said:

“I'm
taking an early lunch.”

The
nurses nodded. They flipped through their own paperwork, busy with their own
patients and orders and thoughts. But I didn't even bother taking lunch,
either. I simply got into my Porsche, turned the air-conditioning on, and
contemplated what an absolute lunatic I was.

I had
taken a vow. I had made a sworn promise.

And here
I was, obsessing over this girl, like a fucking juvenile. Not a grown man, in
his mid-thirties, with his whole life sprawled out in front of him, full of
plausible, viable possibility. And the statistical results were not in mine,
nor Mia's favor.

A light
breeze tousled my hair, and I took in one final flicker towards the florescent
horizon before walking inside.

Beneath
the harsh jets of scalding water, I came with an almost apocalyptic intensity
to the thought of Mia, her back against the glass tiles, her eyes tilted
upwards towards mine, her lip caught between my teeth.

Fuck
.

Then I
dressed: a shirt, tie, lab-coat. I laced up my shoes, sighed heavily, and idled
for a moment in the parking garage, staring through the tinted-windshield of my
Porsche as if looking for something. And I guess I was, really. It was just
something I'd already lost.

But I
could play the adult. I could continue on leading the part of a man who had
once had everything neatly nestled in a snug little box. I just needed to let
this fixation drop.

And how
do men do this?

Well,
it's not pretty. I'm not proud of it, either. But there's only one real answer:
we find someone else.

So after
my rounds, sitting at the corner-table of the cafeteria, when Dr. Weisman came
up to me, knocked me on the shoulder, and asked: “How are things, Al?” I
nodded, shoved a fork-full of quinoa into my mouth, and decided to play the
game.

“Alright,
Weis. How's the wife?”

He
grinned. What a seedy fucker.

“She's
fine. The kids are beautiful. The dog is great. The near-million-dollar
mortgage on that Tuscan estate that Elaine insisted we raise the girls in is
still burning a hole in my pocket. But dammit, Al,” Dr. Weisman always called
me Al, and I loathed it more than young boys loathe eating their vegetables.
“When are you gonna find yourself a wife?”

“I'm not
sure if you recall, Nick, but I'm still in recovery from the departure of my
previous intended,” I muttered, noticing the small stain – ink, probably – on
Dr. Weisman's lab-coat. It bothered me more than was probably normal.

“Oh,
Alex, we
both
knew exactly what that was. Sure, she was gorgeous, but
you looked at her with a fondness most men only reserve for prostate exams,” he
laughed. He had a smoker's laugh. “You should come to this benefit that Elaine
is holding tonight. I could introduce you to some women.”

“Jesus,
Nick,” I said. “I don't know.”

“What's
not to know?” he pressed. “When's the last time you got laid, anyway?”

I know
what you're thinking: how in the honest-to-God hell could a doctor speak this
way? But they can, and they do. A patient's ears will simply never hear it.

I cleared
my throat, set my fork down, and cut a glance at my watch. In an hour I'd need
to leave for the office, but I was ready to make any excuse to bail early. I'd
cleared through my roster of patients and had nothing better to do than turn
coffee into piss, anyway.

“Can't
say I recall,” I said. “But you know, it's just not a good time for me, Nick.
Though I appreciate the sentiment, I'm focused on other pursuits at the present
moment.”

“Such
as?”

Raising
an eyebrow, I let my shoulders rise and fall.

“I've
been doing some research into the treatment of heart-murmurs in premature
infants,” I disclosed to him. “Did you know that you can now repair a murmur
microscopically, without incision? Twenty years ago, the scars these surgeries
left behind could stretch and cover entire side of someone's torso. Now there's
not even the slightest mark.”

Dr.
Weisman smiled tightly.

“You
aren't in Pediatrics.”

“I've
been thinking of publishing an article. One doesn't need to
be
in
Pediatrics to muse about Cardiology-related breakthroughs in Pediatrics.”

I stood,
picked up my plate, and half-watched as Dr. Weisman removed his cell phone
discreetly from his coat pocket, looked at it, then immediately slid it back in
place.

“The
wife?” I asked.

We both
knew the answer. Weisman smiled; the perfect bastard.

“An old
student,” he explained. “We're meeting for coffee this afternoon. She's
completing her residency at Moffit. She'd like my insight on a few things. You
know how it is.”

“I
guess.”

As he
walked away, I thought about Mia, and immediately remembered that I had
scheduled her for an appointment at the office tomorrow at 2:30 in the
afternoon.

On cue,
my insides started to ache. Once again, I felt disarmed.

Before
Dr. Weisman could escape, I called out to him.

“Nick,” I
said.

“What's
up, Al?” he asked.

I smiled
bleakly. In the back of my head, that distant oath still rung.

I will remember that I remain a member of society, with
special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body
as well as the infirm.

If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art,
respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter.

...do no harm.

“What time is th
e benefit?” I asked. “I'll iron a
shirt.”

The last
time I went to any sort of banquet was when I met my ex, who until this point,
I realize, has remained nameless. Her name, Caitlin, means pure – though she
was anything
but
. Not that I'm trying to make any kind of judgments
here, but as someone who spent the better part of five years with her, I have
the authority to make an observation or two.

Anyway,
it was a benefit to raise money for a group of aspiring doctors to take their
profession overseas, serving the underprivileged in places like the Middle
East, or Haiti. And I was three Guinesses in when Caitlin had approached me –
frosted hair, wide grin, slant mouth that was not so much charming as naturally
asymmetrical – but that's alright.

“Hi,”
she'd said. “I'm Cait.”

“Alex,” I
said. “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She
extended a hand, and we shook as if making a deal. And that was all there was
to it, really. I have no particular thoughts to add to the story, aside from
the fact that she got on well with my folks when they came for the occasional
visit, and that the sex was good, and that she was – in the traditional sense,
I guess – very beautiful.

But the
thing of it is, I was a lonely man. And when you're lonely, and what you have
doesn't quite fit the needs, quench the palate, or so on...you keep searching
even after something falls into your lap. Or you simply check out.

And
Caitlin, with her perfectly-manicured nails and white blouses and tight skirts;
her penchant for letting my credits cards burn hot in her wallet – she wasn't
particularly loving, but neither was I. We fought a lot. She liked to break
dishes, and I liked to slam doors. And when it was over, and she packed up her
things, I sat out on the cement deck, eyes caught on a sliver of moon, and
contemplated why I had even bothered dedicating any amount of time to something
that, when ended, I didn't even feel an ounce of loss for.

This
night wasn't much different, except I wore a nicer suit, and put on a different
cologne, and got slightly more drunk than I intended to off a few too many
Manhattans. I hung around, wandering through a sea of the impeccably dressed;
the kind who spent what some would consider a year's salary on the accessories
hanging around their necks and wrists, and mulled over how screwed-up it was
that people were supporting this Big Pharma event that was thinly veiled as a
cocktail party.

When a
small brunette approached me, smiled, and tilted back her drink, I smiled back.

“What's
your name?” I asked her. Only I didn't care, because sometimes I'm an asshole.

“Sarah,”
she said.

“Sarah,”
I said. “I'm Alex.”

“And what
do you do, Alex?”

I knew
what she was. A hunter of the most obvious kind. But it was fine, because it
was only for a night, and I wasn't about to let someone so obvious sink her
red-painted claws into my nice jacket.

“What
does anyone do around here?” I mused. “I'm a doctor. Cardiology. What do you
do?”

“A little
of this, a little of that.”

“Sounds
whimsical.”

“I
guess,” she said. She looked liked the kind of person that guessed a lot. “But
I saw you from across the room, and I knew that I needed to say hello.”

So we
shook hands, and like a deal, the events that followed sealed themselves. I
took her back to my place, and fucked her on the couch while she was still
wearing her cocktail dress. I didn't come, but she did, so I chalked it up to
an overall success. And when she was asleep, with a blanket draped over her
pretty gown like some typical PG-13 rated rom-com (only there was no romantic
dalliance here), I sat up in bed with my laptop open, staring into the glow of
the single photograph of Mia that I could find – on her Facebook page. A new
low in terms of the middle-aged-male-stalker, of course, but when in Rome.

Her eyes
were lit up. She wore a hooded sweatshirt, with plain jeans, and no makeup. It
made me think about the girl in the other room, and how these women all tried
so fucking hard.

The thing
is, people often think that because doctors have a substantial salary, and can
buy nice things, that their women need to look like the starlets on magazine
covers. People often forget that we were born from mothers who wore old jeans
and carried us around in worn T-shirts. People forget that we're not all
striving for unattainable perfection.

I didn't
come that night. Sure, I could have. But instead, I fell asleep with that image
burned into my head.

That was
enough.