We were holed up in the nursing office, returning a few triage phone calls that had come through while we were busy with office patients, and I couldn’t deny that I had a love-hate relationship with my fellow nurse.
Her sarcastic remarks while talking to patients were useful for my personal enjoyment—as well as for implementation as a device of a distraction from a sexy as hell doctor who liked to say things like he needed me—but I also kind of hated listening to it at the same time. Christ on a crutch, I’d spent way more hours than I’d like to admit wondering what he’d meant by those words and if I wanted them to mean anything at all. Did he like me? Was he just happy to have a nurse other than Marlene? Was my vagina a beacon of his desire? I didn’t know.
In a way, I had to be thankful for Marlene’s theatrics for finally smothering all of my overanalyzing.
But there were only so many times you could overhear your fellow nurse telling patients that her hemorrhoids were more painful than Braxton Hicks contractions and that said patient just needed to “Netflix and chill.”
I honestly didn’t even think Marlene knew what Netflix and chill really meant.
And I sure as hell didn’t want to know about her goddamn hemorrhoids.
She was a brilliant nurse. She knew her shit when it came to Obstetrics and Gynecology, and she’d seen and experienced more than anyone around her—even Will. But that brilliance was overshadowed far too often by her lack of compassion and patience. After working the same job for far too many years, she’d become jaded and, most likely, bored.
Plus, she was, like, seventy years old. By the end of one eight-hour shift, I knew more about her spider veins and bunions and back problems than any human would ever want to hear.
But sometimes, when she wasn’t insulting people callously or giving me the stink eye just because I was in her vicinity, overhearing Marlene’s phone triage conversations with labor patients was one of the highlights of my day. She had no filter. Like, no filter. She said all of those things normal human beings think but don’t voice out loud. And it certainly didn’t make me feel pure inside, but some of the shit she said was just too funny to ignore. I’d even started to catch Will milling around from time to time trying to listen.
“No,” she sighed into the receiver. “One contraction in two hours doesn’t equal labor. You probably have gas and need to fart,” she paused and then shook her head in annoyance. “Honey, if you’re in labor and deliver at home, then you’re a medical marvel. Fertility statues should be made in your honor.”
She rolled her eyes in response to whatever the patient was saying and brushed a crumb from her coffee cake off her pants. “I’m the head nurse. I’m giving you the best medical advice anyone can give you in this office. Stay home. Rest. Drink some water. Try to fart or take a crap. And call the office back if you reach the point where you’ve had five contractions an hour for two hours straight.”
Try to fart or take a crap. Beautiful and professional medical advice from Nurse Marlene Donahue.
Once the call ended, she hung up the phone, and at a snaillike pace, she pulled the patient’s medical chart up on the computer. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she started to type her version of the phone conversation into the patient’s chart.
9:55 a.m.: Patient called office to update that she has had one contraction in two hours. Contraction only focused on lower abdomen and does not spread around abdomen to her lower back. Patient rates the contraction pain a 2 on a scale of 0-10. She denies vaginal bleeding or leaking fluid. Nurse advised that patient drink water, rest, and attempt to fart or take a crap. Nurse instructed patient to call office back if contractions increase to five contractions an hour for two hours straight.
I had to give it to the woman, she didn’t hesitate to put her exact words into the patient chart.
As I finished up the notes on my earlier triage call, Melissa peeked her head into the room. “Load-y, Dr. Cummings’s ten o’clock is here.”
I glanced up from my computer with a furrowed brow. “Load-y?”
What the fuck is a Load-y?
Marlene slammed her fingers on the keyboard and cursed about technology under her breath, making me jump. I wondered how many weeks of working here it would take to get me used to her lack of finesse.
“Yeah,” Melissa said and popped the pink gum inside of her mouth. “That’s your new office nickname. Isn’t it great?”
Load-y? My nickname? Like someone just shot their freaking load on my face? Was she shitting me?
“Uh…not really,” I responded. “How about I just go by Mel?”
“Because I’m the Mel in this office.”
Of course.
“But everyone calls you Melissa.”
“Yeah, but sometimes I go by Mel.”
Sometimes? More like never. Two weeks into the job and I’d yet to hear anyone call her Mel.
“Okay… Then, I’ll just go by Melody,” I decreed and hopped up from my seat before she had a chance to argue. “And we can put the new patient in exam room six.”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and handed me the patient’s chart before sashaying on her heels into the hallway. I followed her lead and noted that Melissa was walking straight toward an unsuspecting Will. He sat at a desk in one of the small alcoves in the main hallway and appeared busy reading through a patient’s medical file.
Instead of watching what would most likely be an entertaining exchange, I shuffled into exam room six to get the room set up. Melissa had turned into Nancy Drew, sleuthing on a daily basis in an effort to figure out which staff members Will had possibly slept with.
Not her, I’d deduced. Not her.
Which, I had to admit, made Will all the more impressive. She made it pretty obvious he’d had opportunity.
Not that I didn’t understand her a little. I wanted to be near Will too—but I’d also been fighting that feeling. The last thing I needed was another guy who wasn’t looking for something serious.
I didn’t know much about him. Maybe he wasn’t a player. But I knew all too well that women from all over Manhattan were willing to help him give it his best go.
“Dr. Cummings, your ten o’clock is here,” Melissa’s far too loud voice echoed down the hall and into my ears while I busied myself with pulling fresh white paper onto the exam table.
“Okay,” he said at what I guessed was a normal volume.
“Load-y should be bringing her back to exam room six now.”
Jesus Christ. This bitch.
“Load-y?” he asked, confused. Justifiably motherfucking confused. No one on the planet should have a nickname based on a come shot.
Melissa sighed. “The nurse.”
Silence descended between them until she elaborated. “Your new nurse.”
“Are you talking about Melody?”
“Yeah. Load-y. That’s what she likes to go by.”
“She likes to go by Load-y?” I could literally hear the disbelief combined with amusement coloring his voice. If his tone had an actual color, I’d say it was aubergine—because what the fuck kind of color is that anyway?