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1. Mary
Kenya / 1970 / 12 years old
Only two students have permission to stay in the classroom during Phys Ed. One of them is Kerry, whose lopsided gait and lack of balance mean she can't always keep up. The other is Mary, who was sick when she was younger and still gets tired easily. Kerry can't account for Mary's feelings, but she doesn't really mind that she's not a part of her classmates' games - she'd rather stay inside and read, anyway. The shrieks of kids in the schoolyard fall into the background, and she flicks idly at the pages of her dusty paperback.
Mary occupies the chair beside her. At the start of the year, when everyone else filed outside, they'd retreated to opposite corners of the room, Mary perched by the door and Kerry stationed in front of their teacher's window desk. Kerry liked this setup, she enjoyed her own company, but with every passing week Mary seemed to migrate closer and closer to her. She did this without saying a word, though her dark eyes would increasingly flick to Kerry, barely glancing at her own her book as she tactlessly spied.
"What." Kerry had eventually snapped one day, her clipped tone indicating it was a warning rather than a question. She was sick of the way her neck would prickle when she knew she was being watched.
Mary hadn't sounded the slightest bit put off.
"I like that book!" She replied, cheerfully. She seemed to delight in getting Kerry's attention, her toothy smile widening further when the other girl slid in her bookmark and put down her paperback. "Is it your first time reading it?"
Kerry's cheeks had blazed with embarrassment, but she felt the tightness in her shoulders slacken too.
As the school term wore on, the expanse of tables that stretched between them begun to close. It turned out that Mary, so well-read and light years ahead of the rest of their class, gave the best recommendations - Kerry's horizons suddenly seemed to open up, stretching far beyond her father's rickety little bookshelf and the few novels he approved of.
"You'll love this one!" Mary promises one day, plopping herself down next to Kerry and tugging a brick of a book out from her backpack. Mansfield Park. Kerry's never read Austen before, barely recognises the world she's describing, but she falls in love with it anyway. Chapters are snuck in under the desk when she finishes her math worksheets, she devours more on the bus home, and in her bedroom's dying light she squints at the tiny, smudgy font.
The more stories Kerry and Mary share, the closer they become. Whispering about plot twists and romantic dreams in class gets them told off more than once, but Kerry knows her teacher's threats to separate them are idle - Miss Kimani eyes the two girls with affection, delighted to see Kerry pulled out of her shell. She even loans them extra notebooks to write their own novels in, the two girls hunching over the paper and bickering and scribbling away for hours. They both go home with marker ink all over their hands.
Kerry screams at her father when he announces that they're moving to Minneapolis. She feels bad about doing this, because she loves him, but after 4 desperately lonely years in Kenya she's finally made a friend and now she has to start all over again. Mary begs her to write, and on Kerry's last day of school, says she should keep her copy of Mansfield Park. Kerry sobs quietly in the car to the airport, tracing the embossed title on the cover over and over again with her fingers. She pens her first letter while she's still on the airplane.
2. Tracy
Chicago / 1976 / 18 years old
The lecture hall is massive. The campus bars are loud and crowded, with minimal seating and no obvious entrance point into the throng of students. Kerry, on her single bed in her single room, has zero clue where to start with this 'making friends' business.
She's been at Northwestern for three weeks now, but her interactions with other people remain limited to the cafeteria ladies and the guy who gives her her mail. Before she goes to sleep, Kerry reviews the missed opportunities, times she could've tried harder to be social and didn't. Okay, so she's the only one who sits in the front row for psych - but doesn't that just show how much she cares? If other people are put off by her enthusiasm then she doesn't want to know them.
There's always study groups, she supposes. Kerry regularly peruses the pin board in the pre-med building, though it's dominated by ride-share pleas, roommate requests and guitar lessons. The one person looking for a reading buddy hasn't bothered to spellcheck their notice, so she doubts she'll find a kindred spirit there.
On one particularly lonely night, Kerry tugs open the wide drawer of her desk and pulls out a wad of flyers. When she was still full of hope and excitement, she had attended the activities fair, collecting leaflets from almost every club. Her mind sparked with possibility, visions of potential selves conjured up by the poster boards and card-table stalls.
Now she looks at the papers and wonders if she was on drugs. The student magazine? As if she'd have time, alongside her studies. Feminist poets? Nah, she probably just took that leaflet to be polite. Crossword team? Kerry shudders a little, imagining the kind of nerds that do competitive puzzles. Now that she's come down from the orientation week high, pretty much none of the clubs that had enticed her seem like a viable option anymore. She heaves a sigh, and pinches the bridge of her nose where her glasses have started to rub.
Then one day, on her way out of class, Kerry spies a new poster on the department corkboard. She pushes through the stream of her exiting classmates, the neat calligraphy and careful illustrations drawing her in - PRE-MED VEGETARIAN POTLUCK!, proclaims the bubble-writing heading. There's a date, Thursday evening next week, and an address at the bottom which Kerry delightedly realises is in her building. No need to call ahead!, the flyer finishes. Just look for the door that says Sue and Tracy!
Kerry isn't vegetarian, but she loves to cook and this might be her way forward. Meeting other girls in her cohort, a relaxed, dinner-party environment... She allows herself to get excited.
The campus library has little to offer in the way of vegetarian recipe books, so Kerry catches the train into the city. She trawls independent bookstores and health-food shops, looking for inspiration - then she goes a little crazy in a boutique, and buys herself a new sweater. It's easy to justify the cost against the value of making a good impression. She wonders what the other girls will be wearing, whether they'll be as studious as she is, whether they'll all get along.
For her contribution, she settles on a pasta bake. She tests it out in her dorm's shared kitchen, and eats frozen leftovers for a week; it's delicious, but by the day of the potluck she can't wait to eat something else. Once the assembled dish is chilling in the fridge, Kerry changes into her new sweater, rubs some perfume on her wrists, and spends twenty minutes fiddling with the wisps of her pixie cut to try and make it look fashionable.
Sue and Tracy's room is on the third floor of the dorm, so Kerry cradles her Pyrex in her arm and takes the elevator. She steels herself against nerves as she heads down the hall, affixing a smile to her face, and spots a sign in the same neat bubble writing as the poster. The door swings open just as she goes to knock.
"Oh! Hi! I was just going to get some beer." The woman says. "You're here for the potluck, right?"
"Yes. My name's Kerry Weaver. Kerry."
"Nice to meet you, Kerry! I'll be back in a minute." She weaves her way past, then stops and turns back around. "You can head on inside."
The vibe is a lot more relaxed than Kerry expected. Women lounge on the floor and on a sagging couch that's shoved between the two twin beds, drinking from cans and listening to some kind of jazzy music. There's five other people in total, and they're all dressed very casually. Confronted with their jeans and cotton t-shirts, Kerry suddenly feels insecure in her long skirt and brand-new sweater.
"Hey!" One of them suddenly calls from the sofa, turning away from her conversation. "Kerry, right?"
Kerry nods.
"Yes, that's me." She cringes as soon as the words leave her mouth, feeling everyone's eyes on her at once. "Sorry, have we met?"
"No." The girl says. "But we're in a lot of the same seminars. You know the answer to every question." Kerry's heard that statement delivered with a lot more venom, and she thinks this girl means it as a compliment.
"Well, it's been easy so far."
Someone groans now, but not unkindly.
"Speak for yourself! I'm already behind."
The first girl has sprung to her feet, and holds out her hands to take Kerry's dish.
"I'm Tracy." She says, beckoning Kerry further into the room. "Can I get you something to drink?"
Despite her initial awkwardness, the night goes well from there. Kerry's cooking is a hit, the tray scraped clean, and she also discovers a new affinity for tofu. She gets more than a little tipsy, too, and Tracy teaches her how to shotgun a beer. She hasn't had this kind of fun, well, ever, and the instant Tracy floats the idea of a study group she jumps on it.
"I'd love to come!" She exclaims, and when one of the girls laughs at her excitement, Kerry joins in.
Out of everyone, Tracy ends up Kerry's favourite to study with. She asks great questions, keeps detailed notes, and has an ambition almost as intense as Kerry's own - her volunteering history is diverse and impressive, from ambulance cadets in high school to helping out at a sexual health clinic this term. The two of them arrive first and leave last, so it also makes sense for them to carpool. Tracy's car has a tape deck, and she lets Kerry choose the music (within reason). They share clothes, go to talks, and hang out in Kerry's room, her lack of roommate meaning it's ideal for future parties and potlucks.
Kerry feels lit-up around Tracy. They spend a lot of time laughing, but they also confide in each-other, talk about their insecurities and embarrassments. They swap scars. Kerry runs her pointer finger along Tracy's stomach, the site of her appendectomy, and says no boy worth his salt would mind a thing like that. Tracy likes the starburst of tissue at the base of Kerry's neck.
Tracy thinks everything about Kerry is beautiful, even says it when they're lazing around her dorm in pyjamas. Kerry's hair could be sticking up, her teeth unbrushed, and Tracy would tell her she's a catch.
Tracy's friends, the girls from pre-med and then some, become Kerry's too. Well, most of them do... Jill isn't nice at all. She's loud, she's doing something liberal artsy (which Kerry wouldn't have a problem with if she'd ever shut up about it), and she's always wearing these political t-shirts with rather angry slogans. Kerry's tried to listen and take her concerns seriously, but she's had enough of Jill derailing conversations to rant about this or that. And it's a wonder Tracy can stand her, the way she plays with the other girl's hair, and touches her knee when they talk. Kerry would slap her hand away if she could.
Worse still, Jill starts coming with them in the car. She likes this tape from a women's record label, so it's all they ever listen to. Tracy seems to enjoy herself, but Kerry - well, whether she likes the music or not is beside the point, it's about the fairness of the thing. The mixtapes she made Tracy are starting to gather dust, put away in the glove box. Her final straw is getting demoted to the backseat, when Tracy comes to pick her up and Jill's already riding shotgun. The indignity of it makes her mad.
She starts feigning sickness when Tracy calls over, complaining of nausea or an ache in her back. She also sits nearer to the door of the lecture room, thanking god and the university for her parking space by the exit. Tracy always says hi when they meet in the halls, and once tries to make conversation across a doctor's waiting room. Kerry is always polite, but she quickly runs out of things to say.
Tracy keeps shooting her hurt glances, when she thinks she isn't looking. And she and Jill post on the pre-med noticeboard, searching for a roommate next year.
Kerry keeps her head down when she walks across the quad.
By springtime, it's as if she never met Tracy at all.
3. Zahra
Somalia / 1992 / 34 years old
5 months and 23 days after her divorce goes through, someone tells Kerry that she needs to 'get back out there'. 5 months and 23 days is the longest she's been single since her internship; frankly, 'getting back out there' is the last thing she wants. She decides to go to Somalia instead.
Well, she doesn't choose Somalia specifically, but that's where Medicines Sans Frontières are sending her. She packs up her stuff, notifies her disgruntled ER chief, and puts her room up for rent.
Zahra, the doctor she's been emailing, picks her up in Mogadishu. She's tall, pretty, and has rescued Kerry's suitcase from the baggage carousel before the other woman can even get there. Kerry likes her immediately.
Zahra also drives pedal to the metal in her Land Cruiser, expertly navigating the traffic despite the size of the car. She seems to find silence intolerable, and has a barrage of questions about her new co-worker - what Chicago is like, why Kerry signed up for MSF, if she really thought she was going to need that coat in September. Soon, Kerry, who brought a book in case the drive was awkward, is chatting away with ease. She answers Zahra's inquiries the best she can: cold, needed a change of scenery, and honestly she feels a bit stupid about the coat now. Zahra laughs and says it suits her, but the dry season here is due to last another month.
They arrive at the clinic where they're assigned, and Kerry's given a quick tour - waiting room, beds, other doctors and nurses. There's a mixture of locals and foreign nationals, and the small building heaves with people. Zahra briefs Kerry on the sort of things they deal with here, and Kerry's eyes fill up as she looks around the admit area; the patients are mostly children, something she knew intellectually but couldn't grasp until now. Their complaints run the gamut from pneumonia to measles to extreme malnutrition, and this scares her, even though they're all things she's seen before. It's a question of scale.
At least throwing herself into work makes her feelings go away, all this sadness from her divorce and the states her patients are arriving in. Kerry doesn't go out on supply missions, but redirecting nervous energy into admin has always been her forte, anyway - she becomes the liaison to a few humanitarian groups, mostly organising aid deliveries and shepherding volunteers. She takes a lot of phone calls. All this between her shifts as a doctor, and by the end of her second week she is dead on her feet.
She's wrestling with her scrub top in the small staff area when Zahra and another man arrive. Mlungisi, he introduces himself as, a paediatrician from South Africa - this is his second time in Mogadishu, and to toast his return Zahra produces a bottle of rum from her backpack. Alcohol is hard to get in Somalia, Kerry knows, but she's too exhausted to start in with questions about smuggling right now and besides, she really wants a drink. Her eyes widen hungrily, and Mlungisi beckons her to sit down.
"I was just telling Mlungisi what an asset you've been!" Zahra enthuses, as they slide themselves onto low plastic chairs. "She's so good with the kids, seriously, I don't even think we need a paeds resident anymore."
Mlungisi cackles at this, and nudges Zahra playfully with his elbow. He turns to Kerry.
"You're coming after my specialty, then?"
Kerry blushes ferociously. Two pairs of brown eyes burn into hers.
"I mean, I love children, but I'm actually in emergency medicine."
Mlungisi smiles, as if he's actually charmed by Kerry's literalism.
"Almost as good. The more of us who work with kids, the better, you know..."
His voice trails off, and Kerry knows exactly what he's thinking about. She's lost young patients in Chicago, it's part of the job, but rarely do they die from cholera, starvation, diseases completely preventable by routine vaccination programs. In a war waged by adults, many of those caught in the crossfire are children.
She grabs the glass bottle from their little folding table and takes a long swig. Zahra, surprised, laughs and claps her hands together.
"Hear, hear!"
Kerry passes the rum to Zahra, who passes it to Mlungisi, and they take turns sipping 'til it's gone. The three of them laugh together easily, trading stories from med school and their fledgeling careers: Kerry's in Chicago, Mlungisi's in Durban, Zahra's in Sydney. It's marvellous how much they have in common, how the same kinds of difficult patient seem to exist everywhere, how Kerry's so far from home but has rarely felt this comfortable amongst friends.
Their late-night hangouts soon become a regular affair. They're sober, more often than not, but still raucous - the stress of the day tears them open, lowering inhibitions and intensifying emotions. Kerry admits to things she would struggle through with her closest confidantes. They talk about her divorce, Mlungisi's family, Zahra's homesickness. Of course there are things she keeps back - do you think I'm incapable of love?, and related discussion topics - but the others must have their secrets too. It's enough to share just a little bit, sticking her head above water to gasp at the fresh air.
One night, Mlungisi heads to bed early, leaving Zahra and Kerry to it. At first it's weird without him, but they persevere anyway, sharing stories from their day and gossip from the area's other hospitals. Mlungisi visited a local cholera centre last week, according to Zahra, and came back talking about a pretty nurse.
Kerry's not really interested in anyone else's love life, but it seems polite to play along. Zahra's always patient with her, so generous and kind.
"Oh, really." She says.
Zahra wrinkles her nose, which makes Kerry's stomach ache. Maybe she didn't sound interested enough.
"What did she look like?" She tries again.
This goes down better. Zahra's expression clears.
"I knew it." She smirks, not bothering with Kerry's question. "You're jealous."
Kerry feels her chest tighten, a lump in her throat straight away. She stumbles over her words, stuttering out noises of utter incomprehension.
"Whu-"
"It's obvious, Kerry, I'm sorry. But you should totally ask him out, before that nurse-" Zahra gestures, karate-chopping the air, "Y'know, gets in there and cuts you off."
Kerry has no idea how Zahra reached this conclusion, and she reviews the evidence, skipping back through memories like surveillance footage. Nothing suspicious here, she thinks, and snorts a little at her private, stupid joke.
"No." She finishes.
Zahra clearly interprets this response as defensive, because she barrels on.
"I mean, you can't stop giggling... you're always blushing, too... and he's the only person we ever hang out with. It's typical crush stuff." She pauses, studying Kerry's expression further, and seems to come to a conclusion. "Don't be embarrassed, please! You know he's not my type, but he's cute! Oh, God, I'm sorry for bringing up the nurse if it upset you..."
It didn't upset Kerry, that's the thing. She didn't care. And now she's busy turning the facts around in her head, adding them up but never quite reaching Zahra's figure.
I laugh at your jokes, too, she thinks. I blush when I'm nervous, which here is all the time. And I hang out with you just as much, if not more than I see Mlungisi. I mean, he's nice, and all, but he's not even my favourite person at this clinic.
"We're working hard, you deserve a bit of fun." Zahra is now saying, somewhere in the distance. Kerry's nail bed is bleeding where she's picked at it. She'll have to find a band-aid. "Nothing wrong with a rebound."
4. Susan
Chicago / 1995 / 37 years old
Kerry likes Dr. Lewis, she really does. The 2nd year resident is the kind of woman Kerry's always been in awe of, competent not only in her work but in every aspect of her life; she thrives socially, she's drop-dead gorgeous, and she makes it all look easy. Everyone in the ER likes her, they take her words as she means them, and when Mark or Doug crack a joke her laugh tinkles in the air.
It makes Kerry miserable to compare herself to others, and she means not to do it.
Except she's uptight where Susan is relaxed. She’s awkward and crabby and tactless. Her voice seems to grate on other people. Susan is soft in the right places, and Kerry's all sharp edges. These facts are unavoidable. She knows them to be true.
Susan, obviously, knows too. She acts the way she does because she can get away with it, because she's a talented doctor and a beautiful woman on top of that. And Kerry remembers the guilty smirk on her face, watching Ross parade around in the break room - not a look of remorse, but the illicit thrill of punching down.
Kerry inspires this reaction in people, though she's never known why. It's like they can sense something’s off about her, even though she means to be gentle, tries to make jokes, and does all the things that she’s expected to. Maybe it's her ambition, her disability, maybe it's the harshness in her tone that she cannot smooth out no matter how hard she works at it. Maybe there's some essence innate to her, an awfulness that always comes bobbing back up to the surface.
She thinks about this, and she thinks about her mother.
Kerry decides, for at least the thousandth time, that tomorrow is going to be different.
Her alarm goes off an hour before she'd usually set it, giving Kerry some time to deliberate over her outfit for the day. She'd never sacrifice professionalism to chase social capital, but she does pick something a little less buttoned up - a soft blue tee-shirt, some pretty earrings, and a comfy pair of slacks. Contacts, too, because sometimes she worries her glasses make her look geeky. Makeup, though not a lot because Kerry isn't very good at it and she doesn't want to go over the top.
She drinks tea instead of coffee, because coffee can make her irritable if she has too much. She makes sure to smile and greet her co-workers, even if they only grunt in response. She holds herself back from judgement, even when one of the interns screws up and makes her job harder, and remoulds her frustration into something vaguely encouraging.
She's also very, very patient with Dr. Lewis. When Susan shows up late, Kerry tells herself it's probably something to do with her sister, or the baby, and limits herself to a 'phone ahead next time'. An hour into her shift Susan snaps at a patient, calling him a pervert, and Kerry thoughtfully decides to let Mark handle it. Susan even moans about people leaving the coffeemaker empty, and in a gap between traumas Kerry dashes to the lounge and puts on a pot.
She's not letting Lewis' attitude problem slide, exactly, but sometimes (rarely) it's necessary to ease up in order to improve workplace relationships and foster an atmosphere of trust. Kerry thinks back to Doctor Lawrence as an example and asks herself, what would he say? Probably something funny. Kerry's not great at funny. A good joke comes to her, she says it, people look at her like she's insane.
She aims for nice. Understanding. She hopes she got it right today.
Kerry's yanking her pants up in a toilet cubicle, ready to wash her hands and head on out, when she hears her own name.
"It's weird, right?" Dr. Lewis is saying to someone, as she emerges into the bathroom. The other woman laughs, and Kerry guesses it's one of the nurses. Carol Hathaway? She's not sure.
"What's weird?"
"Whatever's in the air today!" Susan sounds exasperated. "If I didn't know better, I'd think Weaver was hitting on me."
More laughter, but Kerry's frozen. She feels colder than even the Chicago winter justifies, and the backs of her knees knock against ceramic as she sits with a thump.
"You think she's gay?"
"No clue." Susan sighs, raising her voice over the sound of the flush. "But I keep catching her staring at me, and she's always asking about Little Suzie. When I said I wanted coffee earlier, she all but ran off to go and make me some, but then she's on my back about everything else. She can't stop herself from bitching when I'm five minutes late, or if I ask for time off. I don't get that woman at all."
A pause. Kerry isn't sure if she's even breathing. Someone turns on the tap.
"Maybe it's like when little boys pull on little girls' pigtails." Carol says, eventually. "Or maybe she realised what people around here think of her, and she's trying to be nicer."
"That would be the day."
"Maybe someone told her about the cake."
"If she found out about the cake, none of us would have jobs anymore."
The two women giggle again, and move to leave the bathroom. Kerry leans, shellshocked, against the cistern.
5. Jeanie
Chicago / 1998 / 40 years old
Kerry supposes this is what female friendship is supposed to feel like, and wonders how she went without for so long. When she's worked herself up to the point of tears, arguing with some colleague about this-or-that, finding that one raised eyebrow of disbelief (Jeanie's pointed 'can you believe this?' look) is like suddenly coming across a life-raft in a choppy ocean. They agree on what's right and what's wrong, get pissed over all the same injustices. When Kerry's accused of being irrational, hysterical, or stubborn, Jeanie's always there to offer a sympathetic grimace. She just gets it.
Maybe they're still not as close as Kerry would like, maybe Jeanie keeps turning down Kerry's invites for coffee or dinner. They've had their ups and downs, to put it mildly. But it's enough to know that there's someone in her corner when it counts.
So when Kerry wakes up in a hospital bed, thirsty and sore and exhausted, it only makes sense that Jeanie's is the voice she hears first. Her eyelids feel heavy, and her vision is unfocused and somehow kind of sparkly, but she feels people shifting above her and can make out snatches of conversation.
"Jeanie?" She blurts, struggling underneath her blankets. "Jeanie, why are we outside?"
She can smell the other woman's perfume as she leans down, mingling with the cold night air. Her breath is hot on Kerry's face.
"It's okay, Kerry. We're going to take you to the cafeteria."
Jeanie keeps talking as she guides the gurney back indoors, saying something about benzene and seizures and toxic spills. She might as well be speaking another language, but her lilting voice washes over Kerry like a bath of warm water, soothing her agitated mind. Gloved hands affix something to Kerry's face, stroke her sweat-soaked hair, squeeze her limp and tingling fingers. Jeanie keeps checking in, as minutes slip by and memories return in fragments, and she guides Kerry back against her pillows with a reassuring pressure.
"Take it easy." She finds Kerry's discarded nebulizer, closes Kerry's hand around it with her own. "Carter's got it covered."
After a while, of course, the hubbub begins to die down. By this point Kerry's brain still feels like cotton wool, but she's been in this job long enough to know what comes next - accident reports, press conferences, and phone calls with OSHA. The sooner dealt with the better. From where she's propped up in bed, she waves down a nurse and slurs out a request for scrubs, which she pulls on roughly underneath her blanket.
She can't see Carter anymore, and assumes he's back in the ER. Unfortunately, the same probably goes for her crutch, which Mr. Arteburn, her new friend, says she dropped when she started seizing - huffing with annoyance, she figures it'll be easier to just head down there than hunt for a replacement. On her way across the floor she muddles through a conversation with Harriet Spooner, agreeing to meetings and new safety guidelines and whatever else the administration department need in situations like this one. Yosh trails behind her with an oxygen tank in tow.
Now, if Kerry's honest with herself, her legs feel weak and shaky even with the aid of her crutch. Her feet skid on the tile, her back twinges, and her breath keeps catching in her throat - Jeanie, unusually attuned to Kerry's pain as it is, has asked 'you okay?' three times in the space of ten minutes. The other woman's expression twists with nervousness as she watches Kerry stagger down the hall, hand outstretched for balance on what is usually her good side. The doctor is swallowed up in her scrubs, skin pale and waxy against the bright teal fabric. She looks like hell, but with so much to do she can hardly go home.
Then Kerry doubles over, clinging to a cabinet as her body shakes with coughs. Jeanie gives up trying not to fuss.
"Yosh, get a chair!"
The man hands Jeanie the tank he's been lugging around, and sprints off to find a spare wheelchair - they've been in short supply today, with people fainting all over the place. While they wait, Jeanie rubs a firm hand up and down Kerry's trembling back.
"Hey, sit down. I can't stop you working, but you're wasting your energy trying to stand, okay?"
Kerry gives a tiny nod, grumbling under her breath. She's slow to let go of the cabinet and hand Jeanie her crutch, every movement seeming to require unbearable effort. Jeanie takes the chair from Yosh and firmly grasps the handles, holding it in place as Kerry awkwardly lowers herself down - a small sigh escapes her mouth when her butt hits the vinyl.
"I'm sure we can find you a room, or I can sit with you in the lounge." Jeanie reasons, once Kerry seems a little more comfortable. "Where do you want to go?"
"I need to use the restroom." She mumbles her response, voice still thick and barely audible over the ER's relieved chatter. "Have to pee."
"That's okay." Jeanie says, simply. "But, um, I'd like to stand guard, in case you fall. Or have another seizure."
"Outside?"
"Outside." she confirms. "But if you need help transferring, or if you slip, just give me a call."
Kerry gives a brisk nod of thanks.
Jeanie lets her lead the way; time passes without further incident.
When Kerry thinks back to that day, she still feels nauseous.
The knowledge that her residents had to hold her down, wipe vomit from her mouth, soothe her through postictal confusion... it chips away at the confidence and security she'd worked so hard to build. She's glad that Carter did a good job handling the crisis, but now, when she tries to instruct him, he listens with the exaggerated patience that a parent might show a child. It’s frustrating. The authority she'd proudly held now chafes against her.
But Jeanie stays the same.
She's always there with a genuine smile, a helping hand that's non-judgemental. She always gets her work done with efficiency. She lets bygones be bygones.
Kerry's glad she's back. Kerry's sorry she ever had to fire her.
Kerry hopes Jeanie stays at County for a very long time.
+1. Sandy
Chicago / 2003 / 45 years old
A blast of freezing air greets Kerry as she steps through the ER's sliding doors. The early evening sky is black. She rarely takes nights now, but it doesn't seem to matter in the winter - 5pm or 5am, it's always dark when she finishes work.
Her car is warm, at least, and the drive is short. The traffic doesn't bother Kerry, giving her a break to roll and stretch her shoulders after hours scrunched up behind a desk. It's weird that being sedentary all day can feel worse than 12 hours on her feet, and she suspects it's the tension of phone calls and lawsuits and arguments and budget cuts. Everyone thinks she's some sort of admin freak, but that's not really true; Kerry just likes seeing her advice implemented, the creases getting ironed out before her eyes. There's a simple satisfaction in seeing the ER run a bit smoother, and up here her decisions lack that tangible payoff.
She's also older than she used to be. As inconvenient as that truth is, it's there in the clicking of her ankles and the scraping of her hip, as sure as night follows day. She's been falling more lately, feeling less and less sure about icy sidewalks and the ambulance bay. Everything's getting harder.
That said, she wouldn't trade the last few years for anything. Kerry's heading home at a reasonable time, to her cozy new apartment and her beautiful, pregnant wife. She's getting takeout, Chinese food, because that's what Sandy's been craving. They're going to watch Jeopardy.
"Baby!" Sandy exclaims, the second Kerry crosses the threshold. "Get in here!"
Kerry moves as quickly as she can, the takeout bag banging lightly against her thigh.
"San?"
"He's kicking! Quick, feel- here-"
Sandy closes her fingers around Kerry's wrist, guiding her with gentle movements.
Kerry's palm slides up Sandy's soft belly, searching for movement and finding it. Their son's feet flutter beneath her touch.
"That never gets old." Kerry breathes, her other hand locating one of Sandy's and squeezing it tight. "He seems extra feisty this evening."
"Tell me about it." Sandy says, rolling her eyes, but she's smiling too. For all her hesitance at first, pregnancy suits her well. Kerry never glowed, like women are supposed to - she was all sweat, puke, and tears - but Sandy really, visibly shines. "Maybe he's hungry?"
She nudges the takeout bag with her foot, wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. Kerry chuckles.
"I'll go get some chopsticks."
She disappears into the kitchen, rushing back as soon as she hears the Jeopardy theme; arm braced against the backrest, she eases herself onto the couch with a contented sigh. It's comfiest for Kerry to sit side-on, a hot-water bottle wedged next to her hip, warming her toes under Sandy's soft thighs.
"Your feet are so cold, baby!" Sandy says, like she always does, and makes no effort to move.
As the studio audience goes wild, Kerry tucks into her noodles, and decides she'll wait for the commercials to heat up some water. For now, she's okay.