Page 3 of Free to Fall

“Good thing you tacked on the last part or I’d have wondered which one of the family missed me.”

My father leans in. “I’m hearing it from your other uncles. Make plans for dinner. Soon. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be alarmed if there was a kidnapping in your future.”

I chuckle, knowing they’re only partially joking. Our immense family—and extended framily—is so close I’m just waiting to be stolen from the hospital one night and whisked away in one of my father’s company SUVs to be with family.

Family. Ours started with my mother, her four sisters—Emily, Alison, Corinna, and Holly—and their older brother Philip carving a dream for themselves out of the ruins of nothing. Then the gods stepped in and intersected their lives first between my Uncle Phil and his husband Jason. Which led to my parents meeting as a result of my mother planning my Uncle Ryan’s wedding to my Uncle Jared. Which led to Aunt Ali and Uncle Keene reuniting. Then Corinna and Colby reconciled. Emily met Jake. Then finally, Holly’s life intersected with Joe’s.

Amidst all that, there are numerous tenets of framily that sprang from those relationships.

The Amaryllis Heritage, which is one way we’ve been described in the media, is a hodgepodge of people whose love is unshakeable. When we love, we love with the intent of forever.

“Oh, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Mama?”

“You should see what StellaNova wrote about you.” She names the world’s most popular news magazine.

“I’ll look at it when I hang up.”

“We’ll let you go, sweetheart. Love you, Laura,” my father calls out.

“Love you both.” I blow my parents a kiss and disconnect the call, knowing I don’t need to go to StellaNova’s site. I know what the tabloids write about me. I’ve been dubbed the princess of weddings, a courtesan in the Collyer court of billionaires. Then they came up with my personal favorite: the queen of blood and gore.

With a quick glance at my scrubs, I reach out and knock firmly against the table I’m sitting at.

“What the hell was that for, Lockwood?” a stringent voice barks, intruding into my thoughts.

Flashing the all too irritating chief of staff at Greenwich Hospital, Dr. Bryan Moser, a lazy smile which causes his lips to quirk—a rarity that shows why half the staff hates him but still drools over his silver fox gorgeousness. The other half, being any of us who work beneath the taciturn chief and are immune to his superficial charms.

Eager to get the chief’s attention off me in case he bugs me again for my monthly financial report, I joke, “It’s the cleanest I’ve been since I started full time in the ER. I’ve given up counting the number of times I came dressed to work according to our,” I air quote. “Documented dress code only to have my clothes puked or bled on within minutes.”

Gurgles of laughter all around me let me know my point is welcomed by the other residents, attendings, doctors, and nurses who have a scant few minutes to wolf down a bite of food in between patients. Moser even presses his lips together to keep from laughing aloud, but his shoulders shake beneath his perfectly tailored suit.

Even as I wrap up my fourth-year residency, I know my first-year exploits in the ER will never be lived down within the hallowed halls of this hospital. Then again, they likely softened any antagonism aimed in my direction from previously employed senior residents in the ER because of my family lineage. Mentally, I tell each and every one of those doctors to kiss my ass.

It’s now my ER. Just the thought of that sends a familiar surge of pride running through me at what I’ve accomplished.

My appointment had absolutely nothing to do with the family I was born into. If anything, I think as I study the taciturn chief, being a Lockwood was firmly a black mark against me. Chief Bryan Moser knew I graduated college at nineteen. He also knew I graduated top of my class from med school at twenty-three from one of the most prestigious programs in the country. The bias I was up against was the perception of nepotism due to the fact the last name of varying branches of my family is emblazoned on various walls of the building I stride into every day.

Still, I recall my twin brother’s recent teasing when he came to take me to lunch and everyone bursting into laughter at my mentioning I needed to change—again. “What have you been doing to make your mark in these hallowed halls, Laura?”

“Let’s just say what I did in med school isn’t nearly as memorable as what I’ve done since I became a resident.”

“I have no doubt.”

Jon’s question made me flashback to all my firsts here at Greenwich Hospital. There was Billy French. My first puker, I remember with fondness. Poor kid hit the emergency room doors and booted on the first thing in front of him—me. He only doused bile on my Burberry overcoat. Nothing too significant.

Then there was Bernadette Hagen. The sweet cherub hadn’t particularly appreciated when I took her temperature rectally due to an ear infection. Her baptism of urine blessed me as well as several peds nurses in her indignant fury. That fountain took out the white jacket with Dr. Laura Lockwood so carefully embroidered on it. My entire family cracked up when I relayed that story at a family dinner, considering it was a gift I received from my parents when I graduated from medical school.

Still, I can’t forget Maverick. A street kid, that little beast tried to knock me unconscious just because I was putting pressure on the knife wound on his side. Unfortunately, he still made me trip, causing me to send a trach tray toppling over in the trauma room and slicing my hand open in the process. There went my cousin’s silk blouse. Right into the trash.

Grace, despite understanding it wasn’t my fault, still made me replace it.

But the pièce de résistance, what finally tore everyone away from the idea that Dr. Laura Lockwood was some kind of pampered princess, was when I split seam a pair of vintage Chanel slacks my Aunt Em bought me while she was in Paris for a runway show of her newest bridal gown designs. I vaulted on top of a gunshot victim who coded within seconds of him hitting the ER doors. The cool air hitting each of my cheeks as my pants tore from crotch to waistband only penetrated once the patient was being wheeled into surgery, and catcalls and wolf whistles followed me down the brightly lit corridor. As I explained to Moser earnestly in his office after he blew his stack over my lack of professionalism, “It wasn’t like I meant to show the whole ER my thong; I was saving a life.”

His expression filled with resignation. “Get the hell out of my office, Lockwood. Find some fucking scrubs and try to finish your shift without flashing the rest of the hospital.”

I backed out of his office, getting my bare ass back to work as soon as possible.

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