April
Later that day I take an Uber ride to work, and as step out of the car and clutch my purse tighter to my side, it starts to rain. There're only a few raindrops here and there yet, but judging by the dark and thick clouds, it's about to pour. I pick up my speed and almost jump through the doors of the clinic.
I'm greeted by the smell of cleaning solution that only partly masks the repulsing whiff of vomit and a tired smile of my coworker Annie, who sits at the front desk and fills out some charts.
"Rough shift?" I ask sympathetically and stop to make a little small talk. There're no patients in sight, so I have nothing to occupy my mind with.
"Bit disgusting, but at least I got some action," she shrugs her shoulders and then looks me dead in the eyes. "You still don't drive to work by your car."
I don't hear a question in there, so I choose to ignore her and go to the lounge room, a little annoyed that she would bring it up. Four months ago my car was stolen. It was parked on the street one block away from the clinic since we don't have our own parking lot. It could've happened anywhere, but South Park, where I work now, is considered the most dangerous neighborhood in Seattle with the highest crime rate in the city.
I'm not the one to shy away from danger; I went to a war zone, for God's sake. But somehow ever since the car theft I can't help but feel uneasy around here, waiting for danger at every corner. Matthew thinks me silly for letting my nerves get the better of me and for always working myself up into a state. I get where he's coming from, just can't let go of my anxiety.
And that's why I use my new car for every possible destination or chore, except for driving to work. I just wish that all my coworkers, including and especially Matthew, would stop giving me such a hard time about it.
As I enter the lounge room, I hang my jacket on the hanger by the door and replace it with a white coat. I see Nicole, former paramedic and Matthew's partner, cleaning the dishes in the kitchenette and give her a gruff nod. She eyes me up and says with a grin on her face: "Geez, who chewed you out?"
"No one," I murmur. "I'm simply on edge today."
"Well, that's not good. Want to talk about it?"
"Not really," I answer quickly and follow it up with a polite thanks.
For a few moments she doesn't know what to say to me and simply watches me set up my laptop and take my notebooks out of the bag. I have no energy to come up with a subject for conversation, so I silently walk up to the electric kettle and boil some water. The coffee here is even more atrocious than at the house, so I opt for a green tea. Hopefully, it will calm me down a bit.
"You missed Matthew by a few minutes. We've just finished our shift," she says as if it was new information to me.
"I'd figured as much," I shrug my shoulders and walk over to my laptop, teacup in hand. As I realize just how snappy I am towards her, I berate myself and in an effort to smooth things over, ask: "How come you didn't leave?"
Nicole seemingly jumps at the opportunity to talk to me, as a bubbly smile graces her whole face. She sits right next to me and gestures towards a pile of papers on the table.
"Gotta fill out the charts."
The conversation quickly dies out, seeing as only one of us is interested in talking. I'm focused on more important things, drafting a proposal to expand the clinic to a fully equipped Health Center for the Homeless. Right now our clinic has only 5 beds and one exam room. We're funded by a local church's charity donations and are not accredited to perform any type of surgery. "Doing rounds" in my new reality means riding the ambulance, donated by the city of Seattle to the clinic, visiting various homeless camps, and giving out free medication like vitamins, sterile gauzes and band-aids, antiseptics, flu medicine, and cough syrups.
"What are you working on?" Nicole's perky voice rips me out of my thoughts, just as I was calculating the funds needed for ensuring a surgery program for the new Health Center. I almost grunt, but then think to myself, that now is as good a time as any to start letting my coworkers know about my plans for the expansion.
I clear my throat and explain to her my idea, point out the countless improvements of patient care we could implement, once we'd get the funding and the tools to expand. I try to read her facial expressions as I speak; she starts off being taken aback, then her mind wandered off as if entertaining my idea and in the end, she grins at me, showing the whites of her teeth.
"April, that's…I can't even fathom…" she stumbles over her words and looks at me with respect in her eyes. "That would be amazing! But how could we even afford something like that?"
"That is what I'm working on right now. If we present our project and all necessary calculations to the board of the Catherine Fox Foundation and sell them on our case, we're good to go."
As I say this, I watch her eagerness turn into an unease. She bites her lower lip and gazes at me, worry and suspicion on her face.
"So basically you want to ask your ex for money?" she then asks.
I'm so shocked by the absurdity of her question, that the first couple of seconds I just stare at her in disbelief, opening and closing my mouth like a fish, thrown out of the water.
"No…" my voice cracks and I repeat, this time loud and clear: "No! I would never do that. I will go through all the hoops and refuse any kind of a leg-up."
I feel my cheeks blush a little since technically I'm not being completely honest with her. It was Catherine, who gave me this idea in the first place. I accidentally ran into her at Grey Sloan, as I was dropping off Harriet at the daycare. We exchanged pleasantries, more than usual, quite surprisingly. She seemed really interested in what it is that I do and wanted to hear more details from me. But she had a budget meeting to attend to, and I was already late for my shift at the clinic, so Catherine took it upon herself to invite me for a coffee and a casually business discussion, as she herself put it. My first instinct was to graciously turn her down, since not always we'd been on the greatest of terms. But she looked at me with such warmth in her eyes, as she squeezed my upper arm that I was taken aback and gave in. She is my daughter's grandma after all.
She invited me to some fancy coffee place, with marble floors and espresso machines that looked like something straight out of a spaceship. She gave me a probing look as if entertaining an experimental idea, and then spoke in a typical Catherine fashion, firmly but with a little tease to it.
"So, tell me about this little clinic of yours," she asked, one eyebrow arched, her whole body shifting forward to catch my single word.
I explain to her the ins and outs of my job, trying to be as objective as possible. I state facts, give her the statistics, repeat again and again how important and rewarding it is to help those less fortunate than us. Catherine listens to me in silence, and I get the feeling that her eyes – intelligent and all-knowing – see right through me. She stops me with a slight hand gesture.
"That simply won't do, dear," she says, and I instantly feel like a small kid, warily listening to a pastor at the Sunday service. "Helping the homeless is a god dead, but, child, there is a better way to do it!"
It was then and there that she spoke about different grants and charity donations available through the Catherine Fox Foundation. My mind jumps at the idea of using the money to do pro bono surgeries for the homeless, and as I say it out loud, she gives me an empowering smile.
"I'll have my assistant send you the requirements for getting the funding you need. I won't be in town for the next two weeks. When I get back, be prepared to present your project. It better be good, or else you'd be wasting my time."
Having said that she got up off her chair, expensive bag in hand, and delivered her last blow: "One more thing: you are a very talented surgeon, capable of saving lives. Ignoring this fact would be a shame. Sin really, come to think about."
As she was leaving, I realized that I want this. I want something to challenge me professionally. I want to emulate the adrenaline rush I was feeling when running the E.R. at Grey Sloan. I want to hold a scalpel in my hand and feel the life seep through my fingers into the bodies of my patients. I feel the closest to God when I'm in an O.R., saving lives with my knowledge and God's blessing. I've missed this feeling so much. And now I have a chance at getting it back.
Two weeks, Catherine said.
Tomorrow will be two weeks.
"Earth to April!" Nicole snaps her fingers in front of my face and looks at me, eyes wide open. "What does Matthew think about all of this?"
Of course, he won't be overjoyed, but if I explain how important it is to me, he'll understand and agree with me. The alternative would be too depressing.
"Let me worry about Matthew," I reply and send her a quick smile.
But she doesn't.
When I get home late in the evening, tired and tense, Matthew is already in the living room and calls me to join him for a talk. I know the secret is out the minute I lay eyes on him. Damn Nicole.
He stands in the middle of the room, his back facing the TV, arms crossed, and eyes burning with righteous indignation. He somehow manages to look like a timid victim and an angry accuser at once.
We keep silent and eye each other with intensity. I feel the tension flooding the room.
"What do you have to say to me, April?"