“Thanks,” I say, but I still don’t move, watching the automatic doors, the flow of families going in, a child in a wheelchair being wheeled out.
“Um, Parker?” Charlie asks, inclining his head toward the entrance.
I sigh, then grab my bag from the back and step outside.
As soon as I shut the door, Charlie’s out of there.
Seven
OKAY, HERE IT GOES, the first day of the rest of my life, I think as the hospital doors slide open.
Stepping into the main lobby with its bright oranges and greens and yellows and blues is like going back in a time machine.
Focus, Parker. Focus.
I walk toward the front desk, and a friendly woman with short permed white hair and a name tag that says BETTY, VOLUNTEER cheerily says hello.
“I’m here for the internship program?”
“Another one of our interns! Welcome!” She hands me a temporary badge. “You’ll get a photo ID later today,” she says, motioning me to the elevator. “Second floor, head to the right. Room 221. Have a good day!”
My hands take the badge, and I smile automatically at Betty Volunteer.
The first elevator is too crowded. Even though a man in scrubs offers to make room for me, I shake my head, stepping back to wait for the next elevator.
As I’m standing there, my bottom right eyelid starts to twitch. I hope no one can see it.
Another elevator comes. There’s plenty of room, but my legs won’t move, and I shake my head politely when someone holds the door for me.
My teeth want to chatter, and I clench my jaw shut, feeling the energy building in the back of my throat.
A third elevator arrives, and even though the lobby is super air-conditioned, I’m sweaty all over and my head feels light.
I don’t even look at the people in that elevator.
I remember standing in a waiting room, looking at my shiny red gym shoes, a nurse holding my hand as Dad walked down the hall, through doors at the end of the hallway, to find Mom and Charlie, and how right then, I knew with absolute certainty that it would be my fault if Charlie died.
I blink, trying to force the memory to leave, and everything around me gets extra loud and muffled at the same time. The volume in my ears is turned up to super sensitive, but I can’t tell what anyone is saying, their words going in and out like trucks honking on the highway for no good reason.
The fourth elevator comes and goes.
I look at my watch. I have three minutes until the orientation starts. I know I should get in an elevator if I want to be on time, and I have to be on time. I can’t be late for the first day of the rest of my life. It shouldn’t be this hard; it’s just getting in an elevator. But adrenaline is shooting through me, and I wipe my clammy palms on my pants.
When I look over my shoulder, Betty Volunteer is watching me, puzzled, and I think, Parker McCullough, you are the valedictorian you are going to Harvard get your act together what is wrong with you there is nothing wrong with you you are healthy get in the elevator to strive to seek to find and not to yield. NOT to yield.
I push the thudding heart coming out of my mouth back down in my chest where it belongs and squeeze into the crowded elevator.
“Can you press two, please?” I ask, my voice shaking.
? ? ?
When I enter the room, it’s full, and everyone looks expectantly at me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say to the stern-looking gray-haired man at the front of the room. He glances at his watch and then points at the sign-in sheet. I sign the only blank space left while he speaks.
“As I started to say, I’m Dr. Gambier, the head of this internship program at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center. I’d like to take this opportunity to personally welcome each of you to our summer internship program. You’ve been accepted amid an elite group of students.”
As he continues, I find the only empty seat, banging my thigh into the corner of the table when the girl next to me won’t scoot in.
“Today is orientation. You’re going to learn some of the basic procedures of working at Children’s Hospital, in particular what you need to know about cleanliness. If you’re in this room, you’re already up-to-date on your vaccinations, which is great, but it’s paramount that if you’re sick, you call in. We want to minimize as much germ exposure as we can with our patients.”
I look at the other people sitting around the table. Several of them are taking notes as Dr. Gambier speaks, so I grab a pen and pull the informational folder in front of me closer.
My mind wanders to the first time Charlie went through chemotherapy, how he got terrible sores in his mouth.
“Huh. So I guess we’re partners,” the girl next to me says, startling me out of my thoughts. Everyone around us is introducing themselves to one another.
I feel the same familiar terror I always feel when I have to talk to new people.
The girl is tall and thin, wearing diamond earrings that look like they cost more than our house. She smells like the entire perfume department at Macy’s.
My nose tickles.
“I’m Laurel,” she says, flicking back her long white-blond hair and not really looking at me. “I’m going to Harvard next year, focusing on pediatric endocrinology.”
“Me too. I’m going to Harvard too, that is,” I say, and Laurel gives me a closer look.
“Huh. Are you rushing anything?”
“No? I’m planning on finishing in four years?” I say, wondering if I should be finishing earlier. Would it improve my chances of getting into a good med school program if I completed undergrad in three years?
“I meant a sorority,” she says.
“Oh, no, sorry. I’m not.”
She looks disappointed. “Huh. Well, they’re really great for connections and recommendations. You should think about it.”
“Um, okay.”
Laurel fiddles with a ballpoint pen, and I feel a desperate need to make this interaction work.
“So, why do you want to be a doctor?” I ask.
Laurel lights up so much, it’s like she’s a whole new person. “I love how bodies work. I’ve always thought it’s kind of like we’re a symphony, every part of us working together, contributing and playing its part, and when something’s out of tune, it’s a matter of finding that part, getting it back in tune, so the symphony’s whole again. As soon as I was old enough to figure it out, I knew that’s what I wanted to be. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”
“Wow,” I say.
“How about you?”
Around me, the other interns talk to one another. I try not to think about the day I found out Charlie’s cancer had come back. Instead, I focus on getting my Harvard letter, Dad’s joy, Mom’s quiet pride.
“When we were in fourth grade, my twin got cancer, and I wanted to help other kids.”
Across the table, two guys are intensely comparing notes on Johns Hopkins’s research program, talking about advances in gene research. I hear the guy to my right say that his dream is to join Doctors Without Borders and the girl he’s chatting with say she wants to get into AIDS research.
I swallow hard. “I want to be a doctor so that kids like Charlie won’t get sick again. . . .”
It’s not enough.
The words fly into my mind, and even though I’m sitting, I feel like I’m going to fall over, my stomach turning and my body breaking into a cold sweat.
“Excuse me,” I say, standing suddenly and pushing around Laurel, out of the room.
It takes me a second to find my bearings in the hallway, but when I do, I run to the restroom and into the first stall, kneel on the floor, and promptly throw up all the HealthWheat cereal I made myself eat this morning.
I wipe my mouth and stand up to leave, then lean over, vomiting again.
I try to tell myself I’m just nervous, that it’s first-day jitters. Of course I can help kids with cancer. I’ve always wanted to be a doctor.
I owe Charlie this.
It’s not enough.
I dry heave, then slide back down on the floor.
I hear clicks on the tile getting closer, two designer patent-leather flats ending up primly outside my stall.