~ Nick
I have no idea why I reacted like that. Overreacted, more like it. It just hit me, some weird primal protection thing that I can only assume stems from before when I should have been protecting her; even though she always told me she never needed my protection.
But this is different, because I barely know Emma and really, I have no idea whether she would have cared about this guy trying to hit on her. Maybe she was interested, although if I had to put money on it, I’d say she wasn’t.
She didn’t just look like she wasn’t interested; she looked overwhelmed, as though she had no idea how to deal with it. Which surprises me, given how attractive she is. I’m sure she gets hit on all the time.
In any case, I wasn’t quite ready to process whatever it was that came over me and I wasn’t up to facing her either. So I sent Tony down to check on her, make sure she was okay and get her another drink.
I knew he didn’t fully understand what was going on either, despite what had happened in the past. The way he’d asked, “What’s the story with this girl and you?” making that much obvious.
I hadn’t had an answer for him, because I didn’t understand it either. Instead I’d said, “Nothing, just make sure she’s alright, okay?” before I’d walked off and busied myself serving the other customers in my bar.
Eventually though, I knew I had to talk to her. I mean I’m the one who told her to stay, that she could talk to me. It would be a pretty shitty thing to say and then avoid her all night. So as a group of customers leave, I wipe down the bar where they were sitting, take a deep breath and head down to where she still sits. The bar is only half full now, the crowd thinning as people either move on to the clubs or decide to call it a night. It’s always a little slower in winter, allowing us to close on time and get home at a reasonable hour. Reasonable for a bartender anyway.
God knows the hours we keep are shit at best. Working when everyone else is having fun. Sleeping when everyone else is working. Sometimes it’s hard to work out when I get to have fun, if I even have a life. But, as I continue to remind myself, this is what I’d wanted. This was everything we’d dreamed of and worked so hard to achieve, and even though she’s now gone, leaving me to live the dream alone, it doesn’t mean that I don’t still love every minute of it.
Or feel guilty for feeling that way either.
I head down to the end of the bar where Emma is sitting. But before I reach it, I watch as she gets up out of her chair, catching my eye before turning and walking towards the back of the bar where the bathrooms are. She leaves her coat and bag behind though and the sudden knot that forms in my chest unravels as I realise she’s coming back. I move closer, to keep an eye on her things until she returns.
When she eventually slides back into her barstool, I flash her a smile. She tentatively smiles back at me, opens her mouth as though to ask me something that I’m sure will be about before. I don’t give her a chance though, spitting out the first thing that pops into my head.
“So, Emma, what is it that you do?”
Emma’s mouth snaps shut, a look of surprise on her face as though this was the last thing she expected me to ask. In reality, it was the last thing I expected to ask too, the question such a cliché, that even I want to punch myself in the mouth.
“Um, I’m a doctor,” she says, folding her arms across her stomach again. She does this a lot, as though she’s warding herself in, protecting herself and not letting anybody get too close. It makes me want to pull on her hands, gently unwrap them from her body so she can let me.
“A doctor, wow,” I say, leaning back against the bench behind my bar, crossing my feet at my ankles. “What sort of doctor?”
She tilts her head at me, as though she doesn’t understand the question or at least where I’m going with all of this. “ER at the moment,” she says.
“At the moment?” I ask, confused.
Emma nods. “Yeah, I’m doing a stint there while I try to figure out my specialty.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding like I understand. “And, what do you think, do you like it?”
I watch as she takes a deep breath, as though gathering strength. It reminds me of how she looked after the phone call when she first arrived, at the comments regarding her friends and them not waiting for her and I realise that was probably the dumbest question I could’ve asked her.
How could she like it?
Working emergency after emergency, trauma after trauma, death after death. Getting a glimpse of it the three times I was forced to go there was bad enough, I can’t imagine doing it day after day after day.
“Sorry, that was a shitty question,” I quickly say, scrubbing a hand down my face.
She looks at me as though she wants to ask me something, but then she shakes her head and says, “No, it’s fine. And to answer, yeah I do like it, but it’s tough too. Some days it’s really tough.”
“I take it today was one of those days?” I ask.
Emma nods. “It was.”
I take a deep breath, wondering why I am so interested in this girl or her life. Why I’m pushing this. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She bites her bottom lip. “No,” she says, hesitantly. “It’s okay.”
“You can if you want,” I say, knowing how many times in the past I’ve been a sounding board for my customers. How them being able to give voice to whatever is troubling them is usually much more helpful than the alcohol they come in here looking for. The alcohol they assume will dull the pain of whatever burden they’re carrying.
I also know how much of a hypocrite that logic makes me given everything I refuse to talk about, but I ignore that part of my brain, pushing the voice aside as I wait for Emma to talk instead.
She chews on her bottom lip for a second, as though contemplating whether she should. I’m not sure whether it’s the anonymity of the bar or the knowledge that we will likely never see each other again that does it, but eventually she takes a sip of her beer and starts to speak.
“I lost a patient today,” she says. “He died,” she adds as though it needs clarification.
Almost immediately I can feel the familiar stab of pain through my heart, twisting on itself as though to remind me that it’s still there, that it never really goes away no matter how much I might like to pretend it does.
“A young guy, maybe twenty-one,” she continues, the pain in my chest slowly spreading. “He’d been in a car accident, a bad one. The engine block had pushed the whole steering column into his sternum, crushing him. We tried everything we could, but it was just too much. Too much trauma,” she says, in a voice that sounds oddly detached.
Too much trauma.
The familiarity of those words makes my head spin and I can feel the churning of my dinner as it threatens to make an appearance all over my bar.
“It wasn’t even his fault,” she continues, oblivious to what I’m now feeling. “Some guy in a van ran a red light, pushed him into a brick wall. High impact blunt force trauma,” she says. “No chance.”
I force myself to swallow, to look at her as she tells me about this, so clinically and so cold, as though she’s completely removed from the situation. It was like this before, when the doctors told me it was too late to save her, too late because the shock and the trauma of it all had literally stopped her heart. I remember wondering then if this is something they taught you in med school. How to be so cold?
“And the kicker of it all,” she continues, with a humourless laugh. “Is that after we told his family we were unable to save him, his dad had a heart attack and is now in the ICU. It’ll be touch and go as to whether he survives the night.”
She stops now and a part of me is grateful. I don’t want to listen to words like heart attack and ICU and touch and go survival. They were painful enough the last time I heard them and I don’t want to relive any it.
“Sorry you asked, huh?” she says, nudging my arm.
Her touch sends a jolt through me and it snaps me out of the memories that I usually manage to keep buried. I turn and grin, trying for normal as I say, “Not at all. And I’m really sorry. It must be hard to go through that kind of thing. It…well, it impresses me that you’re so normal given you have to deal with that stuff on a daily basis.”
Emma rolls her eyes. “Don’t be too impressed,” she says, sarcastically. “And for the record, most people would not consider me to be normal.”
I search her eyes for an explanation to this. And as I do, I’m surprised at what I find. I was wrong about the detachment, about the coldness. While it might have sounded that way as she told me about her day, her eyes betray her, giving away how she really feels. Because within their brown depths, I can see the compassion she has for her patient, the frustration at not being able to save him, her anger at the fact it happened at all. The sadness she will have to live with now as a result. It makes me feel…I don’t know, like I want to know more, like maybe I could tell her about my frustrations and anger and sadness because she knows exactly how it feels.
“Well, I think you are,” I say, trying to lighten the situation. “And I also think it was pretty shit of your friends to leave without you given the day you’ve had.”
Emma scoffs, taking another sip of beer. “They weren’t to know.”
“You didn’t tell them?” I ask, surprised.
She shakes her head. “No point.”
“Why not?”
She finishes her beer now, placing the bottle firmly on the bar before looking up at me. “Because they wouldn’t get it. Nobody does. It’s the kind of thing you can only understand when you’ve lived through it.” There’s a touch of bitterness in her voice as she says this and I get the feeling this is not the first time she’s been asked this question. I wonder why it is she felt like explaining it to me. Did she see something in me that told her I’d understand what she goes through?
I’m about to say something, anything to change the subject so we don’t go there when a voice calls out my name, a mass of red hair rushing towards me. Almost immediately, I relax and smile as the girl leans over the bar, grabs my arm and pulls me in for a hug.
“Hey, Amy,” I say, grateful for the distraction.