Page 15 of Love Medley
Still, I find myself wondering if Jake’s here and if I’ll see him at some point.
“Lucy,” Dr. Simons calls out from her computer. “Do you want to see the patient in Room 16?”
Dr. Simons is one of the ER doctors that I’ve been hoping to work with this month. In her fifties, she’s one of the few femaledoctors her age in a specialty still dominated by men. I’m eager to make a good impression.
“Sure,” I say automatically, and I glance at the one-liner on my computer screen. The patient is in her twenties and probably has a fracture in her right forearm. Pretty straightforward. I’ll take a quick history and do a cursory physical exam, report to Dr. Simons, and order an X-ray.
Rising from my chair, I adjust my pink skirt before walking down the long hallway to the patient’s room. After rapping on the sliding glass door, I enter Room 16 with a smile. “Hi, Tanya?”
A woman is sitting on the bed with what looks like a swelling on her cheek, although if there’s a bruise, it’s been caked over with concealer. A jacket is draped over her shoulders obscuring my view of her injured arm. She attempts a smile, but something clenches in my chest when her frightened dark eyes skitter everywhere but my way.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Tanya says in a hoarse voice, like she hasn’t talked in a while.
I’m not sure why, but panic blooms inside of me.
“What brings you here today?” Shoving my trembling hands in my white coat’s pockets, I keep my voice as steady as I can.
“Slipped on my kitchen floor and fell,” Tanya says, not truly meeting my eyes. “I’m such a klutz.”
Other than the large oversized jacket, she has on long pants even in this super hot weather. When she shifts, part of the jacket falls open and I see the hint of a few green and purple discolorations on both arms. When Tanya notices my stare, she tugs the jacket back closed, involuntarily wincing when she accidentally moves her wounded arm.
Alarm bells ring in my mind. “Did you fall on anything?”
“Nope. Just the floor. I was lucky.”
The false note on the word “lucky” tips the scales. All of the red flags combined convinces me this woman is being abused. That’s why I’m feeling a wave of nausea.
She reminds me of myself.
I sit down heavily in a chair before I can lose my footing.
“Do you...” I clear my throat. “Do youfeel safe at home?”
Tanya’s face immediately reddens, and her eyes dart around the room as if she is expecting someone to jump out at her. “What are you talking about?”
“We just always have to ask for injuries like this.”
My mind flashes back to a second-year lecture on abuse—bruises in different stages of healing, a mechanism of injury that doesn’t make sense, a frightened affect. Tanya checks every box. A dull roar rises in my ears.
It’s strange, learning these markers of abuse in class but never once applying them to myself. After all, Weston never hit me. But now, the parallels are sharp and inescapable.
In another timeline, I could have been Tanya. If I hadn’t called Amelia, if I had remained in a relationship with Weston… if, if, if. It’s still hard to believe Weston might have hit me that night, but I’m beginning to realize he truly could have. It was only luck that prevented me from having the remaining hallmarks of abuse. I was so fortunate to get out when I did.
Unlike Tanya.
“Well, I’m leavin’ if you’re gonna ask me things like that. I’m fine,” she mutters.
Tanya isn’t meeting my eyes, her body stiff with tension. I’m experiencing déjà vu because I’ve responded to Weston’s anger in a similar manner. I’ve hidden my torment under smiles, not revealing anything.
And if Westonhadhit me? Scarily, I’m unsure I’d have told anyone then either.
For once, I pause and actually consider what I’m going to say—and debate if I even want to say anything at all. I hate talking about Weston. There’s a reason I change subjects when my friends bring him up. But somehow seeing this broken woman in front of me, I’m desperate to connect with her. I can’t help her if she doesn’t talk to me.
The stakes are high, and I don’t want to scare her off. I’m not even sure if it’s kosher to talk about one’s own experience when talking to patients. Isn’t that breaking some kind of code?
“My ex didn’t hit me, but I think he would have,” I say, finally. “I had to call a friend while he was threatening to break down my bathroom door.”
“Yeah right.” Tanya laughs caustically, but her body tilts just the slightest bit towards me. “You’re a doctor. Stuff like that doesn’t happen to people like you.”
