Page 193 of What We Break
And I hate it. But I don't know what the heck to do about it. There really is no good choice.
Joyce is waiting in the break room with two cups and her I'm-going-to-fix-you face.
"Sit," she says.
I sit. The coffee smells amazing—real coffee, not the burnt sludge from the ER pot.
"So," Joyce says, settling across from me. "Want to tell me why you've been sleepwalking through your shifts?"
"I haven't been?—"
"Laine." She gives me the look. "You've been here seven months. In that time, I've watched you light up this ER. You make the meanest patients smile. You tell terrible medical jokes. You sing in the supply closet when you think no one's listening."
Oh god, she's heard the supply closet singing? There’s something about the acoustics in there that makes me want to belt 90’s love songs.
"But lately?" Joyce continues. "You're doing everything right, but it's like you're not really here. You're performing the role of Laine instead of being Laine. At least the Laine I’ve come to know and love.”
I take a sip and the coffee burns my tongue. I focus on that instead of the way her words hit exactly where I don't want them to.
"I'm just tired," I try. "We've been busy, and?—"
"Honey." Her voice goes gentle, which is worse than stern. "What's going on?"
I stare at my coffee. There's a little swirl of cream on top, making patterns. Kind of pretty, actually.
"Is it work? Are you having trouble with anyone here?"
"No." That comes out fast because it's true. Work is fine. Work is the only place that still feels normal. "Everyone's great."
"Is it your family? I know they're overseas?—"
"They're fine. Same as always." Mom's latest email was about a new water filtration system they're installing and Dad included photos of the clinic's new roof. Normal parent stuff, if your parents are medical missionaries.
Joyce waits. She's good at waiting which today is all kinds of annoying.
"It's..." I start, then stop. How do I explain this without sounding pathetic? My boyfriend's roommate doesn't like me. That's it. That's the whole stupid problem that's turning me into this dim version of myself.
"Relationship stuff?" Joyce guesses gently.
I must make some kind of face because she nods.
"Reid and I are great," I say quickly. "He's wonderful. He's—we're really good together."
"But?"
But his best friend hates me and I'm walking on eggshells in what should be a safe space and I don't know how much longer I can pretend everything's fine.
"It's complicated," I say finally.
Joyce takes a sip of her coffee, considering. "You know what I've noticed about you, Laine? You're a fixer. Someone's in pain, you fix it. Problem needs solving, you solve it. It's what makes you such a good nurse."
"Thanks?"
"But some things can't be fixed by trying harder." She leans forward slightly. "Sometimes trying harder makes it worse."
Yeah. She's definitely psychic. "I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do." Her voice is still gentle but there's steel underneath. "You're dimming yourself, honey. Whatever's going on, you're making yourself smaller to deal with it. And that's not sustainable."
