Page 186 of What We Break
We push through the ER doors together, and I pull my coat tighter against the October chill. The sun's already down, the parking lot lights casting everything in that sickly yellow glow.
"That poor family," Joyce says quietly. She's been a nurse longer than I have. She's seen everything. But even she looks worn down.
"The sisters are the ones that get me," I admit. "They keep taking turns. Like they're trying to hold each other up."
"Mmm." Joyce adjusts her bag on her shoulder. "The father's the one I'm watching. He's barely made a sound for the last hour. That kind of quiet worries me more than the screaming."
She's right. The mother has been wailing, raw and animal. The sisters collapse into each other. But the father just sits there, holding his son's hand, staring at nothing.
This isn't the hardest night I've had. There's been loss and blood too many other times. But today, everything feels harder to compartmentalize. "How do you do it?" I ask. "After all these years. How do you leave it at the door?"
Joyce laughs—a tired, knowing sound. "Oh, honey. You don't leave it. You just learn to carry it differently." She glances at me. "Some shifts break your heart. That's not a flaw in the system. That's the cost of giving a damn."
A car pulls up to the curb with an older man behind the wheel, gray at the temples, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. He spots Joyce and his whole face softens.
"There's my honey." Joyce squeezes my arm. "You okay to get home?"
"I'm fine. Go."
She studies me for a moment—that look she gives when she's deciding whether to push. Then she nods. "Get some sleep, Laine. You've earned it."
She climbs into the passenger seat, and her husband leans over to kiss her cheek like it's the most natural thing in the world. Thirty-five years of marriage, and he still picks her up after a hard shift. Still looks at her like that.
That's the dream I never knew I had until I met Reid.
The car pulls away. I stand there for a moment, the cold biting at my cheeks, before I turn toward the parking garage. I want Reid. Hugs, kisses, a cuddle — the whole package would be about perfect right now. But he's working today, and I'm going to have to wait.
My footsteps echo off the concrete. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, half of them flickering. I dig my keys out of my pocket and try not to think about the boy in Room 4. About his mother's wails andthe way his father's silence felt heavier than all the screaming combined.
Some shifts break your heart.
I find my Honda on the third level. Climb in. Turn the key.
Click. Click. Click.
Nothing.
I try again. The engine doesn't even attempt to turn over.
"No." I drop my forehead to the steering wheel. "Not today. Please not today." There's never a good day for your car to break down, but some days you're better equipped to handle it.
Today is not that day.
My phone's at eight percent because I forgot to charge it yesterday. I call Reid, but it goes straight to voicemail. He must already be on a call. I try again. Same thing.
I could get an Uber. I should get an Uber. But the battery is draining while I stare at the screen, and my charger is sitting on my kitchen counter doing absolutely nothing useful, and everything feels impossible right now.
Reid
On a call. You ok?
Car won't start. Battery maybe?
Three dots for what seems like forever.
Reid
Blake's closer. Sending him.
