Page 2 of What We Break
"How's the weather there?" Mom asks. "Are you getting enough to eat? You know how you get when you're busy — you forget to take care of yourself."
"I'm eating fine, Mom."I had cereal for dinner last night but she doesn't need to know that."And the weather's been beautiful. It hit seventy-five today. No rain all week."
"Good. I always worry about you getting enough sunshine out there. It always looks so gloomy on TV."
There's definitely less sun here than most of the places I've worked. But honestly? I could live the rest of my life without another hundred-degree day. My thighs touch — they have since I was twelve — and humidity is their mortal enemy. I have been at war with my own skin in tropical climates for the better part of a decade. Eugene's climate is basically like winning the lottery. Chub rub begone!
"And you're making friends? I worry about you being so far away from everyone."
I don't know who she means byeveryone. We moved so often growing up that our closest connections were other missionary families we'd bump into every six to ten years. I have a circle of travel nursing friends, but I can't say I'm close to any of them. Not like the tight female friendships you see on TV anyway.
"I'm making friends," I say, and it's mostly true. My coworkers are great. I'm trying different group exercise classes — yoga kicked my butt last week in ways I'm still feeling. I chat with my neighbors. I'm volunteering on the weekends. It's more social connections than I've had in years, even if none of it has crossed into the deep, tell-you-my-darkest-secrets territory yet.
Give it time, Mitchell. You've been here three months. You can't microwave a friendship.
"That's wonderful, sweetheart. You know, Mrs. Henry's daughter lives in that area too. Portland, I think. I should get you her number."
"Mom, Portland's two hours away." Also, I have no memory of aMrs. Henry or her daughter. My mother collects acquaintances like other people collect stamps — she's got them organized by country, and she willdeploythem. "And I'm doing fine meeting people on my own."
"I know, I know. I just want you to be happy."
"I am happy."
And sitting here in the parking lot, watching the sky turn that bruised purple that Oregon does better than anywhere I've ever lived — yeah. I am. Not the giddy, temporary high of touching down in a new country and thinkingthis is going to be amazing.Something quieter. Steadier.
Don't jinx it. You'll jinx it. Stop thinking about it.
"I should go," I say, checking my watch. "My shift starts soon. Tell Dad to be careful with his back."
"Of course. We love you, sweetheart."
"Love you too."
I hang up and stand there for a moment, looking at the hospital. It's not much to look at — a big concrete building with too many windows and not enough parking. The sign out front has a letter out. Very inspiring. Verywe definitely have our act together in here.
But inside, it's starting to feel like mine. And I don't have a lot of things that feel like mine.
The automatic doors whoosh open as I walk in, and the familiar smell of antiseptic and floor cleaner hits me. Some people hate that smell. I find it weirdly comforting — it smells like purpose. Like someone is taking care of things.
Or it smells like chemicals. Let's not romanticize floor cleaner, Laine.
I wave to Sylvio at the security desk — he waves back with the hand that's not holding his massive thermos of coffee, the man is ninety percent caffeine — and head for the elevator.
"Evening, Laine," Joyce calls from behind the nurses' station. "You ready for another fun night in paradise?"
"Always," I say, grabbing my stethoscope from my locker. "What've we got?"
"Three cardiac patients, two possible strokes, and a guy who thinks he swallowed a spider."
I stop mid-loop with my stethoscope. "Did he swallow a spider?"
"Probably not. But he's pretty convinced."
"Well, that's going to live in my head rent-free for the rest of the night. Thanks for that."
Joyce just smiles. She's been doing this for thirty years. Nothing rattles her. I want to be her when I grow up. If I ever grow up. Jury's still out.
I check my assignment board and start making rounds. Mrs. Singh in bed three is waiting for discharge paperwork after her chest pain turned out to be heartburn. She's embarrassed about coming in, keeps apologizing for wasting everyone's time. Her hands are clutched together in her lap, knuckles white, like she's bracing for someone to scold her.
