Page 6 of Christmas On Call
Asha blinked, hard. In the present, her hand had drifted from the chart and hovered midair, clutching a pen as if it were a surgical instrument poised over a sleeping patient. She forced the memory down, buried it under a triple-check of ventilator settings and a brisk reordering of the charts. Routine was the vaccine. Routine would protect her.
She was so intent on recalibrating her orbit that she didn’t register Max’s approach until she was already at her side, balancing two mugs in one hand, the other tucked behind her back in a pantomime of service. The air around her vibrated with the scent of fresh coffee, faintly scorched, and the citrus bite of hospital soap.
“Late rounds, Doc?” Max said, voice pitched just above a whisper, as though the sound itself might shatter a baby’s REM cycle.
Asha straightened, smoothing her lab coat as if expecting an inspection. “There are a number of new admits. I wanted to verify orders before the six a.m. labs.”
Max’s lips twitched—an almost-smile, calibrated for minimum mischief. “And here I thought you’d be on the roof, scolding Santa for not following protocol.”
Asha considered an eye roll, but Max’s eyes were soft, unguarded. The joke an offering, not a weapon. She let the comment hang, then nodded toward the mug in Max’s outstretched hand. “That’s not regulation,” she said, though there was no force behind it.
“Technically, it’s decaf,” Max replied. “Unless you think I’d dare violate policy after last time.” She nudged the mug closer. “Besides, even Dr. Bah Hum Bug needs caffeine.”
Asha’s fingers tensed. She had never liked nicknames—too familiar, too slippery—but Max had a way of using them that stripped out the malice and left only the intent to connect. Still, she drew back slightly, folding her hands at her waist. “Thankyou, but I prefer my own blend.” She didn’t specify that her “blend” consisted of instant granules stirred in the dark with whatever was at hand; it was a matter of pride, or perhaps of not wanting to accept comfort where none should be offered.
Max shrugged, not a trace of offense. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, it’s the good stuff from the second-floor cart. Not that break room abomination.” She set the mug on the desk beside Asha’s stack of charts, careful not to disturb the order. There was a snowman sticker on the cup, a detail so small and inexplicable that Asha had to work not to stare.
Max lingered for a moment, gaze scanning the open pod, then let her eyes rest on Asha’s face. “You know,” she said, voice low, “the decorations aren’t just for the parents. The staff could use a little cheer, too.”
Asha fought to keep her tone level. “We’re here for patient care, not seasonal affective disorder therapy. A little decor is fine, but it can get a little overkill.”
For a second, Max looked like she might say something more, something sharp or even personal. But then she just smiled—real, this time, no challenge in it—and inclined her head. “That’s what I like about you, Doctor Patel. Always on mission.”
She turned, heading back toward the nurse’s station, her steps unhurried. For a moment, Asha watched her go, the hem of Max’s scrub pants swinging just above those cartoon socks, each step leaving a trail of impossible color in an otherwise sterile world.
When she was alone again, Asha eyed the mug. The snowman grinned up at her, lopsided and oblivious. She considered tossing it, or at least hiding it behind the supply cart, but found herself instead drawing it closer, the warmth seeping into her palm. It was absurd—a thing of no consequence, an object with no power—but her hand lingered on it anyway, the gesture both surrender and defiance.
Asha set the mug down, squared her charts, and turned back to her rounds. But the taste of burnt sugar and cheap coffee followed her, sweeter than she would ever admit, and the glow from the twinkle lights seemed, somehow, less distracting than before.
At pod two, Baby Rodriguez slept beneath the buzz of a radiant warmer, limbs curled, eyes sealed in an expression of effort. The monitor above the isolette stuttered with the erratic Morse of neonatal distress, every dip and recovery telegraphed in red or green pixels. Asha checked the chart, then the ventilator, then the chart again, as if the act of cross-referencing would reveal some hidden variable that might tip the balance from peril to peace.
The parents were there, as always. The mother slept with her forehead braced against the incubator wall, her breath fogging the plastic in slow, even clouds. The father—impossibly young, with a crescent of dried blood on his cuticle—sat a half-step away, watching his son through the veil. In his hand he clutched a hospital blanket folded into a crude origami heart.
They had been there for seventy-two hours straight, taking turns with the vending machine and the bathroom, never once leaving the field of their son’s gravity. This, Asha understood. It was loyalty as a survival mechanism, discipline as comfort. If you never looked away, you never risked missing the moment it all fell apart.
She tapped on the incubator, careful not to startle, then turned to the shadow behind her. “You’re the new resident, correct?”
The resident—awkward, impossibly thin, posture telegraphing equal parts terror and reverence—stepped forward. “Yes, Doctor. I mean, yes. Here for the check-in.”
Asha kept her eyes on the monitor as she spoke. “Walk me through the numbers.”
The resident stammered, but quickly rallied. “Sats hovering between eighty-eight and ninety-one. We’re on high-flow nasal cannula, but he desats with minimal stimulation. Blood pressure is stable on the pressor. CRP trended up overnight, so I drew a repeat culture. He’s not peeing much—still less than one per kilo per hour.”
Asha nodded, pleased at least by the recall. “And the differentials?”
The resident took a visible breath. “Sepsis, possible PDA. Rule out NEC. I increased the TPN rate and started a slow feed, per your prior note.”
“Good.” Asha said it in the same tone she reserved for correcting ventilator settings or smoothing a corner of tape—not warmth, but not unkindness, either. She peered through the porthole, scanned for mottling, ran a gloved finger along the umbilical line to check the tape’s edge. “You’ll want to stay on top of the fluid status. He’s dry, but if you overshoot, you risk edema and?—”
“Compromise the lungs,” the resident finished, eager.
“Exactly.”
Asha replaced the hatch on the isolette and straightened, finding Max at her shoulder, holding a printout of the latest labs.
“Vitals for two,” Max said, holding out the slip of paper. Her face was unreadable: all business, the prior levity reduced to a low, background hum. “Labs came up. No change on the CBC.”
Asha glanced at the sheet, flicking through the numbers with speed. “Keep him at baseline, then. We can reassess at shift change.”
