Trial for Love
Chapter One: The Discovery
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Be quiet; I'm trying to sleep.
Thud.
I groggily opened my eyes and blurry squiggles swam into my vision. I blinked, and the squiggles formed connecting lines which, after a moment, I recognized as my own handwriting labeling biology notes from last Thursday. A few sleep-deprived seconds later, I realized the pounding in my head that had woken me up was nothing more than blood rushing through my head. I peeled my face off the notebook and tried to remember what I had had to drink the night before.
Hmm… Nope, no alcohol. Must've been a brain overload. Studying for med school finals should never be done the night before the tests. Ever.
Shoving my notebook onto the coffee table, I hauled my sleepy body from the couch where I had fallen asleep. Maybe studying shouldn't be done on the couch, either. I padded down the hall to the bedroom, taking quiet steps so I wouldn't wake Aaron. I tiptoed to the bathroom, but before I went in, I allowed myself to gaze at his sleeping face. He had been my boyfriend for nearly four years, but I never tired of watching him sleep. I think I truly fell in love with him when I saw him sleep: curled up, clutching the pillow like a lifeline, his peaceful face giving him the impression that all was right in his world.
Lucky him. I had finals in a few hours. I longed to crawl into the bed beside him and run my fingers through his shaggy brown hair and fall asleep again but, tired as I was, there was no way I was going to miss the test that would send me out to residency and a real job.
* * *
The warm water tumbled down upon my head, the reassuring stream finally waking me up. Wiping the drips away from my eyes, I reached for the shampoo, mentally reviewing medical terms. What had I been studying? Oh, that's it. Systems. Respitory system, endocrine system, digestive system… the list went on and on.Naming the systems was the easy part; I knew I would remember the terms when I took the test. It was spelling the names of the systems that was the big problem.
I had fought dyslexia all my life, but the one day in third grade when a kid had begun calling me "Dyslexic Alexa" when I couldn't read "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" aloud to the class was when I really started to understand what it meant to have a learning disability. I had thought his taunt was terribly unoriginal. No rhyming, nothing catchy; there were just two words that contained some of the same letters in the same order.
Determined not to worry about my horrible spelling, I got out of the shower and squeezed the water out of my hair with a towel. I slipped on my comfiest pair of jeans and purple V-neck sweater, remembering how favorite outfits can help you relax. I spent the next five minutes trying to force my curly, frizzy hair into submission. I tugged at a dirty blonde lock and admired how long my hair was getting. A year and a half ago, I'd cut my waist-length hair to my shoulders, thinking it was more practical for med school. Donating all eighteen inches of it to Locks of Love was just an added bonus.
I delved deep into the graveyard of curl-enhancing products under the sink and scrunched my hair into moderately neat ringlets.
I blinked at myself in the mirror a few times and decided that I really didn't look that bad, having been up most of the night studying. I left the bathroom and made my way into the kitchen to grab some breakfast, but not before I feasted my eyes on Aaron's sleeping face again. Pouring myself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, I sat down to eat, reading the cereal box like I did every morning. Sure enough, the flimsy cardboard was printed with a toucan and a little red car that was supposed to be somewhere inside with the cereal. Little red car. Car.
Oh shit.
The car. How was I supposed to get to class? I usually used Aaron's car, or he dropped me off. But Aaron was currently fast asleep, having returned home at four in the morning, and he needed to drive to the hospital at one, so the car was definitely not an option. Emergency room doctors have weird hours. It's very inconvenient for people like me who depend on their cars.
I thought about taking the bus, as I'd occasionally done before, but a quick glance at the lit-up clock on the microwave told me that the bus had left seven minutes ago. Fine. The bus was out, the car was out. How was I supposed to get there? I glanced at the clock again. It still displayed the same time in neon green numbers. I could always ride my bike. If I left at that very instant I might have a chance of making it to class on time if I rode really, really fast. I stared out the window into the darkness beyond the glass. Riding a bike was really not very pleasant in weather like this. Although it wasn't snowing, by ten o'clock I knew that sleet would be pelting down from the sky. Oh well. That's what I get for living in northern Minneapolis in the middle of January.
I pulled on a pair of thick socks and a warm waterproof jacket and headed out the door, leaving my Cocoa Puffs nearly untouched on the table. Outside it was freezing cold. So cold I wondered why my nose hadn't turned black and fallen off as soon as I pulled the door open. Okay, maybe not quite that cold, but it wasn't exactly a nice temperature. The wind wasn't helping either. Icy blasts kept tearing into my coat and chilling my arms though the sleeves, Great; I'd be late and a popsicle to boot.
I hopped off the porch and would have made my way through the wind to the shed (where my bike lived) but something on the steps caught my eye. I tentatively ran my fingers over it and was met with the familiar feeling of wicker. It was a basket. An old-fashioned-looking unfinished wood basket. I knelt next to it and peered inside. Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind, a little voice reminded me to get to class. After all, I had finals didn't I? I shouldn't have been wasting my time looking into strange baskets that appeared on my porch, but for some reason, I ignored the insistent voice and examined the threadbare cream-colored blanket thrown over the handle of the basket. I felt strangely attracted to it, as though some sort of magnet was drawing me in and wouldn't let me go. I must have a really screwed up sense of curiosity. Fingering the soft wool, I gently lifted it up.
I'm not sure what I was expecting to see, but I certainly didn't imagine that beneath the blanket there would be… more blankets. A bunch of them. I stood up, feeling stupid that I had wasted so much time over a basket of blankets when it moved. The blankets moved. I stared at it, feeling adrenaline suddenly rush through my veins as my breathing quickened and my heart pounded in my ears, even louder that it had been when I woke up that morning. I carefully lifted the blankets away, peeling back layer after layer until I touched something soft and warm. I removed another colorful cloth and realized what I was looking at. It was a face. A very tiny face. A very tiny, pink face. A baby's face to be exact. I gasped in shock. Someone had left a baby on my doorstep! In the cold, no less! Instinct took over and I completely forgot about all my finals and scooped the basket up and whisked it inside, out of the biting cold air.
Inside, I lifted the baby out of the basked, leaving the poor thing wrapped in a thick blue blanket. It was tiny; the tiniest baby I had ever seen. I hadn't spent the last eight years studying to be a pediatrician for nothing and I could tell that this particular infant was fully developed, even though it was the size of a premature baby. Its little cold hands looked barely large enough to wrap halfway around my finger. I hugged the child, blanket and all, to my chest trying to warm it up, all thoughts of school disappearing as I faced the new mystery of the little baby on the doorstep.
