LITMIR.BIZ

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team, and as the doors closed, she called, “Nice work, people. Bobby, awesome job!”

      The doors closed, and applause broke out throughout the department.

      The next shift of ER staff was coming on, already aware that there’d been a good save, already jealous it hadn’t happened on their shift.

      Bobby and his team were in no hurry to pass the torch, either. They high-fived, made much ado about their bloody clothes, their part in the drama, Dr. McKnight’s speedy and delicate end-to-end anastomosis.

      Bobby didn’t say much—he didn’t have to, because it was clear he was their god.

      Finally, his eyes stopped on me. I smiled, proud of him, even as that little irritating voice said it was about time he’d seen me.

      “Oh, hey,” he said. We’d been together long enough that I could tell he’d forgotten I was working tonight, too. “Uh...we were gonna order a pizza and stick around to see how the patient’s doing.”

      “Sure. Of course. Hey, Bobby, that was amazing. I saw a little bit.”

      He shrugged modestly. “Were you waiting for me?” he asked.

      The irritation flared again. “No, I was on a consult. Twelve-year-old ate a toothpick. I scoped him, and it doesn’t look perfed. Think we caught it before he got septic, too.”

      “Cool. Well, you want to hang out with us?”

      I suppressed a sigh. I didn’t. I wanted to go home and take a walk with Bobby and Boomer and get pad Thai. If we stayed here, I’d have to call Gus, our dog walker. I wanted to tell Bobby about my good call, my instincts of guessing what had caused the pain, which was what separated good doctors from mediocre ones.

      But he was the one who’d had his hand in a man’s throat.

      “Sure,” I said.

      “Cool. Just let me get washed up.” He left, stopping so the janitor could shake his hand.

      Five minutes later, we went into the staff lounge, where the rest of the team was already in full adrenaline-junkie-chatter mode. More congratulations were given. More high fives. More jokes.

      “Who’s gonna get the pizza?” Jabrielle asked.

      Everyone looked at me, the outsider. The boring gastroenterologist (who had also saved a life tonight, though that story wouldn’t get aired).

      “I’ll do it,” I said. “What would you like?”

      Despite a magna cum laude degree from Tufts, medical school at the same and a profession in which I earned a third more than my boyfriend, it seemed I was back in the days of waiting on customers at Scupper Island Clam Shack.

      “Thanks, Nora,” Bobby said. A couple other people paused in their self-praise to echo him.

      “You bet.” I walked through the ER, trying not to sigh.

      In the hallway was a gurney. A young woman in a neck brace lay there, holding hands with a young man about the same age, also in a neck brace. College kids in a car accident, I’d guess. He leaned down so his forehead touched hers, and her hand went to his hair. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Their love was that palpable.

      Bobby and I had been like that once, right after the Big Bad Event.

      But not for a long, long time.

      It made me feel...gray.

      Outside lurked the typical raw Boston April night—rain splattering, a cold wind gusting off the bay, the smell of ocean and trash, since the sanitation workers were on strike. It was eight-thirty, which meant a quiet night in our fair city. SoHo we were not.

      I started off the curb, glanced to my left.

      There, right there, was a giant green ant on top of a van and the words Beantown Bug Killers. In a flash I saw that the driver had one of those hideous lumberjack beards with crumbs in it, and he wore a Red Sox hat and there were Dunkin’ Donuts napkins on the dashboard, and then the van hit me. I didn’t feel anything at first, but it would hurt, I knew that, and, boy, a lot of thoughts can go through your head in one second. Have they ever measured that? Brakes screeched as I sailed through the air like a rag doll, distantly aware that this would be bad. I hadn’t taken one step to get away; there hadn’t been time. Then the ground slammed up at me, my head bouncing on the pavement, hard. A car door slammed, followed by a thick Southie accent. “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, lady. I didn’t even fuckin’ see ya. Oh, my Gawd! You okay? Fuck!”

      His voice was fading.

      The smell of trash only now, sour and sickly sweet. I was lying near an overheaped garbage can. Would that be the last thing I saw? Trash? I wanted Boomer.

      I wanted my mom.

      The trash can was graying out. I couldn’t see anymore.

      I’m dying, I thought. This time, I’m really going to die.

      And then I was gone.

       2

      How will my dog cope with this?

      My soul, it seemed, wasn’t ready to leave just yet and was still hung up on the concerns of the material world.

      Poor Boomer, the Dog of Dogs, my sweet little hundred-pound puppy, who protected me and came into the bathroom when I showered to stand guard just in case someone broke in. Boomer, who loved me with all his giant heart, who would put his head on my leg, who asked for nothing other than an ear scratch, who was afraid of pigeons but adored ducks... No one would love him the way I did. He’d be sad and confused for the rest of his life.

      I knew I shouldn’t have waited for stupid Bobby! And why the hell was I the one getting the pizza? Why hadn’t I stood up for myself and told beautiful, snotty Jabrielle to go her damn self? She was a resident! I was a fully vested doctor, thank you!

      But I hadn’t, and now I was dead.

      I hope we can still go with open casket.

      I had often envisioned my funeral—me lying against the rose-colored satin, looking utterly stunning, U2’s and Ed Sheeran’s sadder songs playing gently in the background while my friends wept and laughed over their precious memories of me. A closed casket was not part of the scenario, hit by Beantown Bug Killers or not. I wondered if my face was smooshed in. Eesh.

      I have nothing to wear to my funeral.

      Granted, in life I’d been a clothes whore, at least during the past fifteen years or so. But for my funeral, I wanted something special. The navy-blue-and-white polka-dot Brooks Brothers dress I’d been eyeing, or that pink floral Kate Spade. But maybe that would be too festive.

      I’ll never meet Daniel Radcliffe now.

      It had always been a long shot, I knew that, but I’d imagined stalking him after he did a show on Broadway, waiting by the side door, our eyes meeting, his inimitable smile, going out for a drink, sharing our favorite moments from Harry Potter, me finding out that he, too, hated the destruction of Hogwarts and agreed that Ron was nowhere near worthy of Hermione. Now, with me dead, it definitely wasn’t gonna happen.

      True, no one was acting like I was dead, but I was fairly certain I was. Maybe they just hadn’t noticed yet. I guessed this ER wasn’t quite the be-all and end-all of modern medicine, was it? I thought I’d heard the words dislocated patella and ortho consult and trauma alert. I was pretty sure I’d seen the tunnel of light, but my spirit was tuning in and out.

      What was that beeping? It was really hurting my head.

      I’d read about this kind of thing happening. Out-of-body experiences. The soul lingering a little while before heading for the afterlife. Did I know anyone who’d greet me from heaven? My dad, maybe, if he was dead? That mean-ass grandmother of mine who used to tell me I was fat?

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