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The fluorescent lights in Exam 4 flickered, if only for a moment. Long enough for Mark Greene to close his eyes.
Just enough to catch her sigh.
She sat on the windowsill as usual. Legs crossed. A wool cardigan over her shoulders, the kind your mother used to wear when you were sick and 6. Her voice was soft. Low. Familiar.
“You didn’t sleep again.”
Mark let out a slow breath through his nose, squeezing the bridge of it. “Had a trauma come in at 3. Code Black. Car flipped over off Ashland. Drunk driver.”
“You still could have taken a nap after,” she said, cocking her head.
Mark opened his eyes. His hands shook a bit. No one noticed.
“There were notes I had to finish,” he muttered. “Radiology. Dispo. And then Carter said, “Can you confirm something — ”
“You’re just so good at explaining stuff,” she said, fond but tired. “You always want to ensure that everyone feels un-alone.
He blinked up at her.
“Maybe,” he whispered.
Life outside the curtain, in the hospital, never ceased. JERRYJerry asked for a psych consult. Kerry was paging the blood bank. Someone cried in Room 2. Life ground on like a sluggish contraption short half its screws. She folded her legs under her like a cat, exhaustion rolling across the couch like mist. Her hair was graying now. He didn’t know when that had begun. “You appear older than you should,” she said, softly.
Mark huffed, half a laugh. “Thanks.”
“It’s not the worst thing,” she added. “Just true.”
Mark rose, stretching his back until it popped. “How long you been here?”
Exhaustion smiled. “Since med school. “Ever since that night you stayed up studying the Krebs cycle and didn’t realize everyone was asleep and your nose was bleeding.”
He winced. “You remember that?”
“I was at the end of your bed,” she said. “Begging you to rest.”
“I had to pass the exam.”
“You had to prove you deserved to exist.”
He froze.
Exhaustion stood now, and advanced towards him at a slow pace. She didn’t touch. She never did. But she hovered. Near enough he could feel the cold of her breath. Like the after a long cry.
“Mark,” she whispered, “your body is falling apart. Your mind is fraying. You have only eaten breakfast yesterday. You left your daughter’s school thing behind. And you haven’t told anyone you cried in the elevator last week.”
He looked away.
“You’re unraveling,” she added.
“I can’t stop,” he said. “I don’t know how.”
She nodded. “I know.”
He sat back down. He sank so heavily into the chair that it groaned. “Susan’s been watching me. So has Kerry. Even Jerry keeps asking if I’m all right.”
“Because they care.”
“No,” he said quickly. “No. Because I’m slipping. And they know it.”
Silence.
“I don’t want to die this way,” he finally said.
Exhaustion crouched beside him. Her face inches from his now. She had eyes that were gentle and endless. Like all the other nights you got home and just couldn’t get to bed.
“You’re not dead,” she whispered.
“Feels like it.”
“You’re just lost.”
A pause.
“Then help me,” he whispered, so low he almost didn’t hear himself.
Her smile was small. Sad. Almost proud. “You never ask.”
“I’m asking.”
She opened her coat and took out a napkin. A single pill was tucked inside.
“Melatonin,” she said. “Just one. Just tonight. Just try.”
He took it.
Then looked up.
She was gone.
Mark left the hospital that evening at 1:00 a.m.
He left his pager on the desk, but did not return for it.
He drove home with the windows open.
He didn’t put the TV on. Didn’t check his email. Didn’t sort laundry. Didn’t rehearse tomorrow’s patient list.
He kissed Rachel on the forehead, took off his shoes and, for the first time in longer than he could recall he slept.