Code Blues (11 page)

Everywhere I looked, I found politics. Too
bad I couldn't make it work for me. I smiled at all three of them.
With a little luck, Vicki would get back to me. It was a long shot,
but still a shot.

On my way out, the woman in labour was
taking deep breaths, while the nurse yelled, "Push! Push!
Pushpushpushpush..."

I practically ran down the stairs.

The moving van was supposed to bring my
stuff today. It was Monday, July fourth, so they'd avoided the
Canada Day crunch and should sail up to my apartment. I imagined
good-looking men flexing their muscles as they moved my boxes into
the Mimosa Manor. I'd called them this morning and left my pager
number, just to be sure.

On cue, my pager went off. I ran to the
quiet, green-carpeted library to dial the 1-800 number of my moving
company.

A woman asked, "Is this Hope, ah, Zzzz—"

"Sze. Yes."

"This is the Zippy Moving Company."

"Great. When is your van coming?" I hoped I
wouldn't have to miss lunch with Alex, but if I did, it would make
us even.

"There has been a problem."

My hand tightened on the black plastic
receiver. "What's that?"

"All your things were packed in London and
scheduled to be driven to Montreal today. However, we had a
shortage of trucks over the weekend, so your items are still in
storage. In London."

"What?" Visions of my oh-so-comfortable
mattress and blanket promptly evaporated. The ache in my lower back
ramped up a notch.

"The good news is, we should be able to get
you a van tomorrow."

"But I'm sleeping on the ground and I've
been wearing the same clothes all weekend!" An exaggeration, but it
couldn't hurt. "Do you think that somehow, you might be able to
manage—"

"I'm sorry, Ms., ah, Zee, but if you look in
your contract, there is a clause about unforeseen
circumstances."

Forget the honey. Try
vinegar. "This is a
foreseen
circumstance. If you had organized your trucks
properly, my stuff would be here today. It's not like a tornado
touched down."

"If you look at your contract, you will find
the exception for trucks. I'm sorry, Ms. Zee. There's nothing I can
do about it. It's one of those things."

"I'll post my feedback on Yelp," I said, in
my most haughty voice. "I expect that van to arrive tomorrow. At
what time should I expect you?"

"Afternoon."

Of course, I was working a day shift. "I
won't be home until after 5 p.m., more like 5:30 or 6—"

"Fine." She hung up on me.

What happened to "the customer is always
right"? Ever since I moved here, I'd met so many people who were
just plain crazy or rude or both.

My pager went off again. Not the moving
company, a hospital extension. I dialed and Alex promptly picked
up. "Don't say there's no such thing as a free lunch."

"There's no such thing as a free lunch," I
replied.

"Gadzooks! Now you'll have to pay. I hope
you brought your wallet. Just kidding. Meet me in the resident's
lounge at 11:30."

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise. Eleven-thirty."

I wondered if I was dressed right. While
awaiting Zippy Moving, I only had three outfits to mix and match,
and Montreal was the most fashionable city I'd ever lived in. No
one said anything, but just walking down the street, I'd spy a
woman in a t-shirt and jeans, somehow looking more chic and
fabulous than I'd ever been in my life.

What was the secret? After
three days, I was no expert, but at least part of it was their
attention to detail, with their hair upswept in careless but
flattering 'dos and their understated makeup. Their clothes were
more tailored, neutral pieces with the occasional touch of funk.
The
pièce de resistance
was impeccable shoes, ranging from designer
sandals to retro sneakers.

Which was not to say that you didn't see
chubby girls in ripped T-shirts with their bellies hanging over
their low-rise jeans. Also, the average man's fashion tended not to
be very remarkable. Still, the overriding style was elegance, with
a judicious amount of flair.

I could see all this, but I wasn't able to
duplicate it. Walking in Montreal was like being in high school
again, studying the girls in the hallway, and trying to imitate
their style without falling for the millennial equivalent of
acid-washed jeans.

Today, I was wearing omni-purpose indigo
jeans, a red-ribbed top so fitted that it bordered on tarty, a
fitted white cardigan to cover the top at work, and beat-up,
hand-me-down brown leather boho sandals from my mother. I thought I
fit in okay except for my sandals. Montreal style wasn't built in
three days.

I still had almost an hour before lunch, so
I hit St. Joe's gym. I'd signed up on the first day. For ten bucks
a month, I got a card with 24-hour access. I figured the gym would
come in handy between shifts or at lunch time. One of the surgeons
once told us during clerkship, "Never stand when you can sit, never
sit when you can lie down, and never lie down when you can sleep."
So working out was a bonus.

The gym was located in a
corner of the second-floor cafeteria, its door tucked at the end of
the wall lined with drink machines. I ran my card through the
reader. It flashed green, permitting me entry to another world.
Four TV's blared CNN,
A Makeover
Story
,
Much
Music
, and
Musique Plus
, the latter two being
the English and French Canadian version of MTV. Two women walked on
whirring treadmills. A man rowed in one corner, his jaw set and
arms flexing. A well-padded woman stretched her legs in the
mirrored corner diagonally across from me. The water cooler beside
the door glooped as a man filled his water bottle. No one was using
the weight machines. The room smelled like rubber and
sweat.

I hadn't brought my running shoes, but no
one was paying attention to me, so I did some cursory stretches,
pulled off my cardigan, and stepped on the elliptical trainer
between the treadmills and the rowing machine. A few strides, and I
was up to speed. I like the elliptical machine because it's fun. It
feels like I'm bouncing on air. Bikes remind me of biking to work.
Running on a treadmill just seems like work, period.

The two women huffing on the treadmills
yelled so they could hear each other above the TV's. The one
closest to me, a middle-aged lady who was wearing a lot of makeup,
called, "Did you hear about Dr. Radshaw?"

"Yeah, I know! Isn't it terrible!" said her
hefty friend.

Lipstick Lady shuddered. "I was terrified! I
almost didn't come to work today!"

Her friend slowed down her machine.
"Why?"

"Well, it was very suspicious how he died. I
heard that he may have been strangled, but it was all hushed up.
You never know who might have done it!"

Strangled. Where did that come from? I
stepped faster.

"Really?" said her friend. "I heard it was
drugs. Heroin, actually."

I made a mental note not to die at St.
Joe's. Post-mortem gossip was vicious.

The made-up woman widened her eyes.
"Honestly, Kathy, that's just ridiculous. I knew Kurt. He was as
straight as they come. There is no way he would ever do drugs."

Her friend twitched her shoulders. "I'm just
saying what I heard."

"Well, hear this." Ms. Max Factor on the
treadmill was a decade or two older than me, wider, and more sure
of herself. She smiled at her own image in the full-length mirror,
despite the sweat beading her face and dampening her cleavage.
"Kurt would never do drugs. There were other things he'd rather
do."

Her friend almost stopped walking, but her
treadmill forced her to start marching again. "Glenda! I never knew
that!"

Glenda shook herself and
laughed, running a hand through her spiky hair. "It was a long time
ago. When he first came to St. Joseph's. But let me tell you, my
dear. He was as
straight
as they come." She gave her friend a large,
mascaraed wink.

The other woman pursed her lips.

Glenda laughed again. "Remind me to tell you
about it sometime. In private." I felt, more than saw, her glance
at me in the mirror. I pretended not to notice.

They fell silent, lifting
their heads to watch the VJ on
Musique
Plus
.

I checked my watch. It was 11:20. I popped
over to the water fountain, gulped some plasticized water, and
stretched half-heartedly. My scalp was slightly damp, but I
couldn't see any sweat stains. Asian women don't sweat much. It's a
genetic thing that's useful in the summer.

I draped the cardigan over my shoulders and
ambled down to the residents' lounge. It was just around the corner
from the cafeteria and gym, in a hallway full of offices. It was
the only door with a combination lock under the doorknob. I pressed
the digits for the secret code and twisted the knob open.

The first thing that struck me was the
sweet, rotting odor of discarded orange peels and spaghetti in the
overflowing blue garbage pail immediately to the left of the door.
What a romantic place to meet Alex.

Some other geniuses had left dirty cafeteria
plates and plastic glasses on the round table in the corner, near
the phone and the computer. Rumpled blankets lay on the two sofas
by the TV. Shoes huddled under the mailboxes by the door. Backpacks
and shoulder bags were mostly hung on hooks over the garbage can,
but had also been abandoned against all four walls and even one on
top of the refrigerator.

At least the coffee table
was relatively clear, except for a scattered edition of the
Montreal Gazette
. I
plopped on a sofa, avoiding the blanket, and clicked on the TV,
breathing through my mouth instead of my nose.

Just as I paused at a documentary on whales,
the combination on the door went click-click. Pause. Click.

I propped my feet on the coffee table and
pretended to be fascinated by the Right Whale. Normally, I would
have been. I donate money to the World Wildlife Fund. But this
time, I was finely tuned to the man walking through the door.

I saw a flash of red out of the corner of my
eye and turned to see a tanned male hand beside mine, pushing down
on the sofa arm. Then a chestnut head lowered toward my feet.

I whipped my feet off the table and out of
the way. "What are you doing?"

Alex peeked up at me from under his bangs.
"Groveling."

I had to laugh.

Alex lunged at my feet again.

I leaped into the corner, behind the
intersection of the two sofas. "Stop it!"

"I'm trying to kiss your feet, woman! At
least let me do it right!"

I laughed so hard, I practically bent in
half. "I've just been exercising. On the elliptical trainer."

"So? You think Jesus's feet were clean and
bright before Mary Magdalene washed them?"

I gave him a strange look. "I have no idea.
I guess not."

"You bet your sweet ass not." His gray eyes
glowed. "So?"

I was embarrassed that he'd commented, even
peripherally, on my ass. "So what?"

He laughed. "You should see your face."

I put my hands on my hips. "I think I liked
you better groveling."

"Your wish is my command." He stuck his head
between the chesterfields and kissed my left foot, between the two
straps of my sandals. His lips were soft.

I nearly kicked him in the head as I tried
to back away, but I was wedged between the walls, the sofas and
Alex.

He grinned up at me. "Aha. You're mine, all
mine." Then he kissed my right foot. And gave it a tiny lick.

I bit back a yell.

"Salty," said Alex. He didn't look one bit
self-conscious, even though he'd literally kissed my feet and was
crouched on the ground, peering up at me from under his bangs. "So.
Am I forgiven?"

"Yes," I hissed, angry and humiliated and
turned on at the same time.

"Do I still have to take you out to
lunch?"

I crossed my arms on my chest. "Do you have
to ask?"

He stood up slowly, eyeing my body along the
way. When he met my eyes, my face matched both our shirts. He said,
"No. But you're so much fun to tease."

I wanted to stamp my foot. I refrained only
because it might have highlighted recent lip action, and Alex would
have enjoyed it too much.

He extended his hand. I took it and allowed
him to assist me out of the corner. His hand was dry and warm.

We smiled at each other. I felt suddenly
shy. He opened the door for me and stepped back, without letting go
of my hand.

As we walked down the stairs together, he
pulled my arm in close to his side. I blushed again. It had been a
long time since I walked like this with anyone.

The door at the bottom of the stairs opened.
A woman's loud voice declared, "Don't you usually have to fill out
a form for that? And he said, 'What form—'"

I stiffened and tried to pull my hand away,
to avoid any PDA, but Alex's clasp tightened. His eyes were
amused.

Mireille and Sheilagh, the super nice
resident coordinator, stared up at us. Mireille's mouth thinned for
just an instant. Then it curved upward in a smile, so fast that I
wondered if I'd been imagining things. "Hope! Alex! Where are you
off to?"

I hesitated. Should we invite them along? It
would be polite, especially since she had just hosted a party at
her place.

But I wanted Alex to myself. We were holding
hands for the first time. That was worth some privacy points.

"Places to go, people to see," Alex cut in,
his hand moving to the small of my back. His face was calm, his
voice as smooth as Scotch. "See you back in the salt mines." His
hand urged me down the hall, toward the emerg doors.