Code Blues (2 page)

My turn already? I cleared my throat. "I'm
Hope Sze. I like long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and
family medicine."

Alex laughed out loud.

Dr. Radshaw's eyes twinkled at me. He'd
taken Alex's place on the sofa.

The program director, Dr. Bob Clarkson,
rotated his upper body from side to side like a perturbed puppet.
"Yes. Well. I was hoping for a little more explanation of the
reasoning, the process behind your selection of family medicine and
our program in particular, so..."

I smiled again, but added nothing. Neither
did Alex.

"All right then." Bob Clarkson cleared his
throat and tried the other side of the room. "Uh, Tori?"

Tori was the other Asian woman. She wore an
indigo dress with tiny blue flowers. She folded her hands in her
lap, and I noticed her long, artistic-looking fingers. "My name is
Tori Yamamoto." So her background was Japanese, not Chinese like
me. Her voice was clipped and low-pitched, with no accent. "My aunt
is a family doctor in Edmonton."

Next was the tie guy. "Robin Huxley." That
explained a lot about him. "I chose family medicine because I like
the continuity of care." He looked at the floor and straightened
his tie. Not a big talker.

John Tucker was a white guy with a shock of
wheat-coloured hair. I wondered if he dyed it, while he said in a
baritone voice, "Call me Tucker. Everyone does. You can call me
Tucker, Tuck, Turkey. I'll answer to anything." He winked at
me.

I wrinkled my nose. He was trying too hard.
Not my type.

Anu Raghavan had a single, long, braid of
hair behind her back and several gold and silver rings, but none on
her engagement finger. She said she was interested in doing
obstetrics and family medicine.

Mireille's chair squeaked. She kept
shifting, impatient for her turn. When it came, she wouldn't shut
up. "Before medical school, I went to Kenya, and since then, I've
been to Thailand and Guatemala, but I'm most fascinated by the
plight of the native people of Canada. The conditions on the
reservations are appalling."

I glanced at Alex. His eyelid barely
twitched, but I knew we were on the same page. Although I'm
interested in those issues, I don't bash people over the head about
it.

While Bob Clarkson sounded off about the
joys of family medicine, Dr. Radshaw's pager beeped. He leapt to
his feet and rushed over to the phone in the corner. Bob Clarkson
frowned and raised his voice over Dr. Radshaw's murmurs. Mireille
kept shooting glances at Dr. Radshaw.

While everyone was distracted, I tugged the
top sheet out of my orientation package. It was my schedule for the
year.

I'd be starting with emergency medicine.
Cool. That's what I wanted to do when I grew up.

Although I could've done without the first
shift on the first day of residency: Saturday, July first, at 7:30
a.m. Tomorrow.

I tilted the schedule so Alex could see
it.

"Sucks," he breathed, and tilted his
schedule toward me: palliative care. I didn't even know that was
part of our residency program. I rolled my eyes at him.

Alex scrawled on his envelope, "Want to go
out tonight?"

I scrawled back, "Yes." And for the rest of
orientation, my Spidey-sense was tingling.

Chapter 2

Alex laced his fingers together on the white
linen tablecloth. "So what did you think of the clinic?"

"Honestly?" I sipped some jasmine tea out of
a blue and white china cup. "It was scary."

Alex laughed. He'd taken me out for sushi,
which I'd only had once before, in Toronto, for a friend's
birthday. All I remembered was eating a piece covered in orange
sacs of oil called roe eggs. It was disgusting. The meal had also
cost me $40, and two hours later, I was so hungry that I ate a bowl
of Bran Flakes. I wasn't eager to repeat the experience, but Alex
had insisted, "I didn't like sushi either, until I came here. Come
on. It's baptism by raw fish."

I had to admit that the ambiance was great.
Elegant ebony furniture, white floral linen napkins that matched
the tablecloth, and tinkling music in the background. We didn't sit
on tatami mats, though. That was Alex's one concession to my
bourgeois upbringing.

The tea was fragrant, but had a subtle
flavor. I set the cup back on the table. "You know, I didn't bother
to tour St. Joseph's at the interview. So I'd never seen the clinic
before."

Alex raised his eyes. "You didn't like the
duct tape holding down the carpet? Or the examining rooms with no
running water?"

I shuddered. "I've heard of 'shabby chic,'
but that was just shabby." The upstairs rooms were much more
run-down than the conference room had been. "And that nurse who
made us stab ourselves—"

He laughed. The nurse had insisted that in
order to check diabetics' blood sugar, we should practice on
ourselves. I had to jab my left pinky with a needle and drip the
blood on a paper strip. My finger still ached. Plus Tucker had
taken the opportunity to point out that my post-cookie reading of
7.5 was higher than his own 4.9. "I guess you're sweeter," he'd
said. Yuck.

Alex tapped the tablecloth just next to my
hand. "Dr. Kurt is awesome, though. You'll love him. Everybody
does."

I hoped Dr. Kurt was awesome enough not to
mind me interrupting his speech. I squirmed.

Alex didn't seem to notice. "The whole thing
with the pager? It's true. You can call him anytime. I think he
clips it to his bedpost. Seriously."

I found it a bit weird, but Dr. Radshaw had
certainly seemed delighted to answer his page during Bob Clarkson's
speech.

A slender, Japanese woman
appeared at our elbows and laid an enormous china platter in front
of us. My eyes widened at the neat bundles of rice topped with
shrimp, fish, caviar, and other items I couldn't identify. Alex had
ordered octopus, eel, and all sorts of goodies.
"
Bon appétit
,"
the server murmured and withdrew silently.

Alex laughed at my expression. "Are you not
in Kansas anymore?"

I looked across the table at him. His bangs
were long, and he tossed his head, flipping them out of his eyes. I
was on a date with a guy who intrigued me, for the first time in
two years, and it felt damned good. I grinned back at him. "Yeah,
but now I don't miss Kansas as much." I picked up my wooden
chopsticks, which did not come in a paper wrapper and have to be
snapped apart. "Do you miss Kitchener at all?"

He frowned. "What about it?" He looked away,
focusing on the boisterous birthday crowd in the corner.

I tried to ignore the foot-in-mouth feeling.
He was the one who'd mentioned his roots. "I don't know. Your
family? Oktoberfest?" I paused, trying to dredge up more memories
of the area. "The Mennonites?"

His fingers tightened on his chopsticks
before he carefully laid them back on the tablecloth. His eyes
didn't quite meet mine. "Have you been talking to people?"

I shook my head. I'd hardly had a chance.
After orientation, I'd zipped to my new apartment, moved in a few
boxes—the rest were coming via the Zippy Moving Company—showered,
and slipped into a strappy silver top and a black miniskirt. My
hair was barely dry before Alex had buzzed my apartment. "What's
wrong?"

He picked up his chopsticks and arranged a
smile on his face. "Nothing. Do you want wasabi or pickled
ginger?"

"Uh—" I was still five steps back.

"I find that people are
either into one or the other, not both. What's it gonna be?" He
gestured at the triangular green mound in the centre of the dish.
"I bet wasabi. Because you're a
very hot
chick
." He waggled his eyebrows with the
last three words.

I giggled. Tucker could take lessons from
this guy. You can say cheesy things, as long as you're funny.
"Well, I've never been into the ginger."

"See?" He picked up the soy sauce and poured
a black puddle into a porcelain dish in front of me.

The sushi turned out to be delicious. No
oily roe eggs. When some wasabi shot up my nose and made my eyes
water, Alex handed me his napkin and watched me in concerned
silence. I had to laugh as I wiped my eyes. "I'll live,
doctor."

"Yeah, but I don't want you to hate sushi
from now on. First the roe eggs, and now, attack of the
wasabi."

"I don't hate sushi," I said softly, to my
porcelain plate.

"Good." He took my hand. His hand was bigger
than my ex's and definitely paler, with blunt-cut fingernails.

No. This was not the time to think about
Ryan Wu. I smiled at Alex instead. He smiled back.

For dessert, I would have been happy with
green tea ice cream, but Alex said, "I want to take you downtown,
show you the action. There's a nice café on Ste-Catherine."

"Sold." I squeezed his hand before I
reluctantly dropped it.

I would have split the bill, but Alex waved
my MasterCard away. He wouldn't even let me see the final tally.
"You can get the next one," he said, as he scrawled his
signature.

I had to admit, I was relieved not to know
the damage. I'd be getting my first paycheque in two weeks, but my
student loans and moving costs cried out for repayment.
"Thanks."

He reached out to run his thumb up the
delicate inner skin of my wrist. I had to catch my breath. He said,
"You're welcome."

As Alex ordered dessert at the café, I
watched the passers-by on Ste-Catherine through the glass windows
on its south wall. Just walking down the street seemed to be a
Friday night party. A guy stumbled along in a green-sequined
miniskirt, fishnet stockings, and high heels. His friends bellowed
and laughed and shoved him down the street, probably on their way
to a stag party.

I realized, too late, that Alex was handing
the cashier a ten for our slice of Black Forest cake, coffee for
him and papaya juice for me. I unzipped my purse, but he shook his
head and faked an accent. "Your money no good here!"

A group of college kids lounged at the back
near the bathroom. They seemed to be playing some sort of game, not
checkers, but using the same board. A middle-aged man read the
newspaper and nursed a coffee near the front of the café, ignoring
the Ste-Catherine pedestrian party.

Alex chose a small table on the west wall,
facing a quieter side street, away from everyone else. He slid our
cake and drinks off and dropped the tray on an empty table behind
him. When he put away his change, he ended up flashing a pack of
cigarettes tucked away in his pocket. He caught me staring and
said, "They don't let us smoke inside anymore, but we can hit the
sidewalk if you want."

"You smoke?" I stalled.

"Sure. They're clove," he said, as if that
made a difference.

I had taken a drag or two of clove
cigarettes during medical school and enjoyed posing and flicking
the ash. But first I had to be a nerd. "You're a doctor."

He laughed. "Yeah." He plucked a cigarette
out of the packet and held it expertly between his teeth while he
still managed to speak. "And you're Little Miss Muffet."

"Shut up." Just for that, I wasn't going to
smoke. Peer-pressure booted me in the opposite direction. "But I
thought you said they didn't allow smoking in restaurants
anymore."

A red lighter appeared in his hand. He
flicked it on, and brought the flame to the end of the
cigarette.

I glanced around to see if anyone was
watching. The counter girl shot me a worried look. I pointed at
her. "See?"

Alex mimed astonishment. "Hey, you're right!
My bad." He pocketed the lighter and held the cigarette out for me
to inspect. The end hadn't caught.

I didn't understand him any better than this
crazy city, but both of them were growing on me. "So where are we
going after?"

"There are a few clubs downtown. But it's
still early. They don't start rockin' until after midnight."

I struggled to keep a deadpan expression.
"Rockin', huh?"

"Rockin'," he repeated firmly. "You probably
don't know what that means, after living in London for four
years."

I raised my eyebrows. "Have you ever been to
clubs in London?"

"Yes." His lips quirked.

I believed him. "Dang."

We both laughed. He said, "You like
frosting?"

I nodded. "It's the best part."

He spun the plate around so the cake's
frosting end pointed toward me and the tip toward himself. I toyed
with the cool metal handle of my fork and dug in. Thank goodness,
they used real whipped cream. I'm a real snob about that. In short
time, we polished off the cake.

Alex's cell phone played a tinny, Bach riff.
He held it up to his ear and almost immediately, his eyebrows drew
together. "Yeah."

I sipped my too-sweet
papaya juice. Maybe we could hit the Jazz Festival.
Place des Arts
was
probably within walking distance, and I'd heard that there were
lots of free shows.
It was almost ten, so
we still had two hours to kill before midnight.

"So?...Uh huh. Yeah." Alex was half-turned
away, his shoulder hunched. "Yeah. Okay." He jerked his chin at me,
then at the door. He was going outside to finish the call.

I reached for my purse. He shook his head,
gestured at me to stay there. He held up his index finger.

I got it. One minute. Well, that would give
me a chance to go to the bathroom.

The bathroom was small, with cobalt tile
walls and a terra cotta floor. More importantly, it was pretty
clean except for a twirl of toilet paper in the corner of the
stall. An ad mounted on the door warned me about sexually
transmitted diseases. Nice.

I washed my hands and combed my
close-cropped black hair. I'd cut my hair during clerkship, on my
surgery rotation, and kept it short because I liked it. My eyes
were a bit red, from smoke and from my contact lenses, but I looked
good. My skin was a clear, smooth tan, and my smile was
genuine.