Page 2 of Bad Blood

Bad things always happen on Mondays.

And today is no exception.

I stare at the fridge, the bare shelves glaring back at me, taunting me—except for the half gallon of untouched milk in the door that expired yesterday. I count back the days trying to figure out the last time I went to the store and surrender to my self-inflicted predicament.

The milk smells fine, no clumps. I slide it across the counter and survey the well-stocked, never-touched overhead cabinets before I grab a white china bowl from the highest shelf, looking for any excuse to use the dishes saved for special occasions. The day being over is good enough for me.

I want the devil to hate me. Maybe then he’d stop dragging me through hell. I chose this form of torture, but sometimes, I think I made the choice in error. Saving lives is what I do, but on the days when the universe doesn’t get the memo and one of my patients loses their battle, those are the days I could do without.

I set a teakettle on the stove in anticipation of curling up with a mug of chamomile before my nightly run.

My cheerios spill over the edge of the bowl as I pour the milk, the idea of the expiration date looming in my mind.

I can’t do it.

There’s no convincing my brain that it’s still palatable, even if it’s only one day.

Screw the tea. Tonight calls for some rosé.

I’m not paying attention as I grab a wineglass from the cabinet, my mind too occupied with the call I got from Dr. Gibbons earlier today. He has a special referral. And I owe him for helping me with a patient a few years back. If this will make us even, I’m all in.

Special cases and I don’t mix well. I agreed to do it before I had all the details, and now I wish I hadn’t. The last time I saw a patient with my brother’s diagnosis, things didn’t go as planned. Too many choices led to poor judgment calls on my part and an ever-looming threat to my career.

I can’t go there. Not tonight. My thoughts and everything that goes along with them get stored in the compartment in my brain where I keep all my overwhelming emotions. And I move on.

I pull out a chair, dropping into it as I prop my leg against the table’s edge, and my phone starts to ring.

My purse topples off the chair as I rifle through it. Shit. There’s hardly anything in here, why can’t I find my damn phone? I upend the contents, watching them spill across the table onto the tile floor.

The ringing stops as I crouch, scooping up the ChapStick and a travel-sized bottle of Advil. I set them on the table and crawl across the floor to grab my stethoscope, a couple of pens, and my badge.

I hit redial without listening to the voicemail. There can’t be a good reason for the hospital admin to call me at this time of night. The phone starts to ring on the other end.

It only rings once. “This is Luca.”

“Hey, sorry I missed you.”

“Thanks for returning my call. I hope it’s not too late. Do you have a minute?”

I roll my eyes and shake my head. It’s not like I’d call him back if I were busy. And it’s not like I’m busy. Ever.

No life outside of work—check.

Consumed by thoughts of my patients—check.

Dreading my latest referral—check.

“Of course.” I slide my laptop in front of me, assuming it’s related to a patient.

“Have you seen the news?” His question and the idea that my assumption is wrong surprises me.

“No, not tonight. I just got in. Haven’t had the chance.” The laptop powers up, and I beg the universe to ensure this has nothing to do with one of my patients. If it’s not about a patient but significant enough to be on the news . . .

“It’s probably better you hear it from me first, anyway.”

I shift my weight, lean on my elbows, and force a wary chuckle. “That doesn’t sound good.”

He clears his throat, takes a second, then says, “We’ve been hit with a malpractice litigation.”

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