Page 95 of Yearn
Final week of medical school meant no one was sentimental about sparing us. Pre-rounds at seven, case presentations at eight-thirty—cardio first, then the inpatient heme-onc list that never got shorter.
I scrubbed for a short procedure afterward, gloved and gowned, retractors biting into the webbing of my thumbs while the attending narrated in a dry voice.
Between cases I hunkered at a computer terminal and checked labs, charted, fielded a resident’s raised eyebrow when I smiled—apparently against protocol on a week like this.
Noon turned into three, then five.
I ate standing up, a granola bar that tasted like cardboard.
My brain ran two tracks at once: the rhythm of medicine, precise and merciless, and the quieter beat of domestic tasks waiting for me in the evening.
I needed to prove myself to Teyonah and show her that I wanted arealrelationship. Not just her jacking me and my getting her off.
If I could hold a scalpel steady for eighteen hours, I told myself, I could hold a bedtime steady for two cool kids every night.
Then, rounds came again.
Someone’s oxygen dipped and came back.
I kept my mouth shut and my ears open.
When a nurse handed me a baby to weigh and the tiny body settled against my forearms with complete trust, something in me knotted and loosened at the same time. I thought of Oliver’s hand slipping into mine at crosswalks, of J’s quiet voice when they asked a big question like it was a secret.
We’re going to make this work.
Finally, the hospital clock ticked.
I chased it to the door.
Later that evening, when I returned with the kids, I slowed the car as I came into the driveway.
I checked Mrs. Patterson’s house. The curtains across her windows were drawn with no glow behind them, and for once I thought maybe she had gone to bed early.
Thank God.
But as the kids and I got out of the car, I saw her at the far edge of her yard.
Still in that same floral housecoat from this morning.
However, this time she had a small shovel and was digging a hole. No bucket, no plants, no purpose I could see—just a neat, slow rhythm of metal biting dirt.
What the hell is she burying or. . .digging up?
I didn’t linger to find out and herded J and Oliver inside.
Whatever she was burying, I decided it was between her and God.
Hours later, warm lamplight pooled in the living room.
The dishwasher hummed a soft mechanical lullaby.
In the kitchen, my jazz playlist purred low, more breath than brass.
Okay. I think dinner is done.
The smell of roasted chicken threaded the air, salt, rosemary, and lemon, and for half a second, I was shocked that I’d even cooked it.
My childhood had been chefs.
