Under the Knife



Rita was in the shower, staring at the drain, thinking about nothing but the warmth of the water hitting her neck, when she realized she’d forgotten to call Darcy back.

Again.

She rapped her forehead gently against the tiles below the showerhead.

Dammit.

Finney was really messing with her brain. She couldn’t keep her thoughts straight. Darcy had called her to say she wasn’t feeling well—

Oh God.

She jerked her head up so that the jets of water were slapping her in the face.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

What had Darcy said?

I woke up with a horrible headache this morning.

And Finney had said: Ask her where her head hurts.

Her left side. Her left ear.

Just like Rita.

He’d done something to Darcy, too.

With new dread—

(don’t panic)

—she turned off the water, wrapped herself in a towel from a nearby hook, and stepped out.

Finney had been quiet since she’d returned to the women’s locker room. Not a word as she’d nibbled on a granola bar and a couple of ondansetron antinausea pills she’d scrounged from her locker; or when she’d announced she was going to pee and then hop in the shower, then removed her glasses and stuffed them in her locker before undressing. She’d taken her time, especially in the shower. Screw the drought. It was supposed to rain tonight anyway.

But she knew he was still there, listening. She could sense his presence. The air around her seemed heavy and electric, like before a summer thunderstorm.

The locker room was busier now. Surgeons and nurses periodically filed by her locker. She wanted to ignore them, wished she could crawl into a hole somewhere. But they all knew her, so she managed the obligatory smiles and hellos, scanning their expressions and wondering how many had already heard about her … situation. But none acted like they had.

She opened her locker, took out her phone, and dialed home.

“Checking on your sister, Dr. Wu?” Finney said in her ear.

Shut up, she thought back. She wondered how he knew what she was doing, with her glasses still tucked in the back of her locker under a spare pair of scrubs.

Monitoring my phone calls, maybe?

The line rang several times, then: “Hi, this is Rita. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now—”

She hung up and tried Darcy’s phone.

It went immediately to voice mail.

She took a deep breath.

Calm, lovely Rita. Stay calm.

She dialed home again.

“Hi, this is Rita. I’m sorry—”

Dammit!

She stabbed the redial key with her index finger.

“Hi, this is—”

She hung up. Sweat broke out all over her body, mingling with the drops still clinging to her skin.

“I wonder what’s happening?” Finney said.

Shut. UP!

She sat down on the bench in front of her locker and dialed home once more.

Another cycle of rings. It seemed to stretch for hours.

“Pick up, pick up, please pick up, kiddo,” she whispered.

And then Darcy’s voice, thick with sleep. “Hello?”

“Darcy.” Rita’s stomach, which had risen into her throat, dropped back into its normal position.

Thank you thank you thank you God.

“Ah. There she is,” Finney said.

“Ree. Sorry. I went back to bed.” Darcy yawned. “Didn’t hear the phone.”

“No—I’m sorry, kiddo. You wanted to talk earlier, and I … totally forgot to call you back. I’m so sorry. Things here have been, um—” She groped for the right word. “Crazy.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” Finney said.

“S’okay.” Darcy yawned again.

“How are you feeling?” Rita asked.

“Um … better. My head’s better. When I first woke up, it felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, Ree. And there was some dried blood on my left ear.” Rita’s stomach lurched back into her throat. “Isn’t that weird? I must have slept on it wrong. Or something. The weirder thing—actually, the thing that kind of freaked me out a little … what I was trying to tell you earlier—”

“What?”

“Well … I swear to God, I’ve been clean, Ree. Swear to God. Three months this time. You know that. Totally clean.”

A nurse in street clothes, carrying a set of folded scrubs under her arm, smiled at Rita as she went to the locker next to Rita’s and started dialing the combination. Rita smiled back, stood up, walked to the opposite end of the room, and cupped her hand around her mouth. “What do you mean?” she said quietly.

“Three months. Clean. Swear to God.”

“Okay, yes. Clean. I believe you, Darcy. What are you talking about?”

“I just felt a little … I don’t know. Kind of, like, out of it? Like I had a hangover, or something? Like I had partied last night? But I didn’t party last night. I know I didn’t. After you left for the hospital, I just watched a really dumb movie, some lame Adam Sandler thing, and went to bed. Swear to God. So it kind of, like, freaked me out a little?”

Oh God. Just like me.

Rita swallowed hard.

Calm, lovely Rita. Situational awareness.

“Have you noticed, uh, anything else, Darcy? Any other … uh, symptoms?”

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