Page 4 of Dating After the End of the World
“Yes, Dr. Warner,” Nurse Garcia says, before making a quick exit.
I blow on my hot coffee and look to Nate with a coy smile. “Wonder if there’s a spare bed for you and me.”
He snaps his fingers and points one in my direction. “That reminds me. My parents are coming into town in a few weeks.”
“The mention of us in bed together reminded you of your parents?” I cock my head.
Nate chuckles. “No,spareandbed.” He flicks a hand at me. “Anyway, they want to meet your dad, and I’d like too as well. I don’t want to meet him for the first time at our wedding. So, is there any chance he can come into town? Even just for dinner.”
I take a long sip of my coffee. It’s still too hot, but I need time to come up with an excuse while also going through the Rolodex of reasons I’ve already given him for why he can’t meet my dad.Let’s see. There’s the farm that doesn’t exist that he has to take care of. He’s had every doctor’s appointment under the sun. Jury duty. Can’t use that again. His truck’s in the shop. He’s on medication that he’s not supposed to drive on. He caught the flu again. He’s got an old army friend staying with him. Hmmm.
“I’ll ask him,” I say, knowing full well that I won’t, and ultimately, I’ll tell Nate that he can’t come for one reason or another, once I think of one I haven’t already used. It’s been nearly two years since Nate and I started dating, and a month ago, he slipped this sparkly rock on my finger and asked me to marry him. It’s too big for my taste, but I told him I loved it, and I said yes. Afterward, Nate wanted me to call my dad to tell him the news, but I claimed it went to voicemail and that I’d call him back. I never did.
“Your dad can stay with us too, and if driving in the city is a problem, he could take the train down from Harvard, and I’ll pick him up.”
“I’ll let him know.”Another lie.
The truth is, I haven’t really spoken to my dad in nine years—I mean, aside from occasional short replies to his lengthy texts, letting him know I’m still alive. But I can’t tell Nate that, because if I did, I’d have to explain to him why I don’t really have a relationship with my dad. That’s not something I ever intend to revisit. I left that part of my life behind, and that’s where I want it to stay.
“I’d really like to meet him, Casey.”
“I know, and he wants to meet you too,” I say. It’s not a total lie. If my dad knew Nate existed, he’d want to more than meet him. He’d welcome Nate with open arms and treat him like the son he never had.
Nate nods, accepting my answer again. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep up this charade. We’ve already agreed on a two-year engagement so I can finish my residency before I have to start thinking about planning a wedding. Plus, Nate and I haven’t been able to get out of the city for even a night, due to one of us always being on call. That’s the only reason I’ve been able to keep my past separated from my present. If I had known when Nate and I first started dating that our relationship would last longer than a few months, I would have told him my dad lived on the other side of the country, rather than up in Wisconsin.
“Dr. Warner to the hallway waiting area. Dr. Warner to the hallway waiting area,” a voice calls through the hospital PA system.
“Ready?” Nate asks, tossing me a charming smile.
Grinning back, I plant a kiss on his lips. “Always.”
Byalways, I mean from the age of fourteen—that’s when I knew I wanted to be a doctor. My father’s impractical way of protecting people never made sense to me, so I sought out a realistic way of actually doing some good. An ideal I still cling to in the early stages of my career, despite complaints from the other, more jaded doctors, who now seem only to enjoy the paycheck, Nate included.
Nate and I walk side by side through the long corridor, the walls a sterile mix of white and light blue, not shades you would ever pick for a room in your home.
Hospital beds line either side of the hall, spaced six feet apart, just as he requested. Half are still empty, but a dozen plus, set closest to the waiting room, are already occupied with newly checked-in patients. I recognize several from yesterday, but from their pale faces and sunken eyes, it’s clear their conditions have worsened.
A middle-aged woman presses her palms against her temples and lets out a moan. She rocks back and forth, trying to alleviate the pain. A thin man squeezes his eyes shut and winces. Nate and I pull apart to make way for a nurse pushing an ailing patient in a wheelchair. Nods and tight smiles are exchanged, our way of saying,This is totally fucked, without actually saying it, because it’s our job to stay calm.
We reach the first set of beds and do an about-face, surveying the work ahead of us. It’s madness, with hospital staff moving quickly and a couple dozen confused and sick patients waiting to be seen. Some sit calmly, coughing and sneezing, while a few writhe in pain.
“You take the left, and I’ll take the right,” Nate says. “Report anything out of the ordinary, and let me know if you have any questions, okay?”
“Sounds good.” I nod.
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it once before beelining to the bed located on the right side of the hall. My first patient is an older woman. She’s lying on her back with her eyes closed. Her breaths areslow and deep, and she must have dozed off between when she was assigned to the bed and now. I review her chart, picking out key details. Repeat patient from around ten hours ago. Symptoms started about twelve hours ago. Fever increased to 102.4 degrees. Headache reported as an eight out of ten on the pain scale. Experiencing confusion, brain fog, and extreme fatigue.
I touch her shoulder lightly. “Ms. Klein, how’re we doing?” My voice is soft to ensure I don’t startle her. She doesn’t stir, but her breathing remains steady. After ten seconds and a few more light touches, I decide to let her rest with the plan to circle back. She seems to be well enough, and there are too many patients to tend to. I approach a thin middle-aged man with a shiny goatee, either from good grooming or spittle and tears. He writhes in pain, begging for pain meds. I grab his clipboard, reviewing the notes: Repeat patient from yesterday. Symptoms started around twenty-four hours ago.
Just as I’m about to greet him, a confused voice calls from behind me, “Where am I?”
I turn, finding Ms. Klein seated in her bed, her mouth agape, while her eyes frantically scan the hall.
“Hi, Ms. Klein,” I say, quickly returning to her side. “You’re at the hospital. How are you feeling?”
Her skin has paled to the color of the crisp white sheets she’s sitting on, and there’s an emptiness to her expression, like she’s looking through me rather than at me.
“Who are you?” she asks.
