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“I’m not sick,” Samira argues, but the stars spinning around her head when she rises from the bed would beg to differ.
“Oh, no? You’re just clammy, and tired, and dizzy,” to prove her point, Cassie pushes Samira back to the mattress and watches in real time as she reaches to hold her head. “Come on, honey. You’re obviously under the weather.”
“I’m a doctor, I know when someone is sick.” Her eyes were half-lidded, her hands scrunched the bedsheets. Normally, Cassie loves that view - Samira’s fists scrunching the linen desperately. This time, it made her stomach knot with concern.
“I’m a doctor, too. That’s how we met,” Cassie rocks back on her heels, the cold air hitting her legs where her black boxer shorts end. “Samira, light of my life, please. You are not well.” She holds her hand to Samira’s forehead, but it quickly drops to just cup her face. Samira leans into it, forgetting her stubborn disposition in the joy of Cassie’s tenderness.
“You’re not well,” Samira pouts, and leans harder. Cassie holds her, the whole weight of her head, with twitch of her lips.
“Great comeback. Go back to bed.”
“No. I have to go to work. We’re already short-staffed, ‘cos someone has a day off.” Samira pokes Cassie’s thigh, the centre of her sunflower tattoo where seeds would tumble out if it were real.
“I’ll cover your shift.”
“No, you won’t!” Samira rises all too quickly, gravity takes her back down both a metaphorical, and literal, peg or two.
Cassie’s lips purse. Her girlfriend, an incredible unstoppable force, had to be stopped. “You’re right. I won’t. You’ll take the day off, and I’ll keep my day off to spoon feed you tea and kiss your head to check your temperature.”
“I’m not sure that’s a proper form of temperature monitoring,” Samira’s smile was weak, her head lulling into McKay’s hand. “I’ll take some Tylenol, I’ll be fine.”
“Samira.”
“Cassie.”
“Samira.”
“That’s ‘Dr Mohan’ to you,” she takes Cassie’s hand in her own, away from her face, and kisses the knuckles one by one, an act usually resulting in Cassie’s breath shaking worse than single-glazing windows near an airport. Her lips were dry.
“Okay, Dr Mohan. Can you listen to me, just for once?” Cassie kneels down on the cold floor, in front of her, fingers splayed on Samira’s bare thighs. The pair quickly adopted a nighttime uniform - both clad in Cassie’s boxers and t-shirts.
“I listened to you once before, and look where it got me,” she gestures to Cassie’s bedroom, which was washed yellow from the bedside lamp. “’Get a life’… some pick up line.”
Not yet defeated, but white flag in hands, Cassie’s laughter leads her to rest her chin on Samira’s left knee. “You are…” She shakes her head, still spluttering out tired morning laughter. “You are sick.”
“Not yet!” Samira’s hands clapped together, as if to wake herself up, but all she did was startle Cassie. “I’m fine. Let me take some Tylenol.”
“You’re annoying me, now,” Cassie stands up, and folds her arms. She spins on her heels to see Samira’s grin pointing at her in the floor length mirror. “What? Is my annoyance funny?”
“A little bit,” Samira shrugs, and stands, slowly this time. The room spins less, her head throbs with the movement. She rolls her neck, a throb for each second of motion. She must pale, because Cassie rushes to take up her arms. “I’m fine, McKay.”
Complete with a scorned pout, Cassie says “Don’t call me McKay at home.”
“I’ll call you whatever you want,” Samira shed her t-shirt, always a handy tool when it came to silencing Cassie, “when I get back from work.”
The argument sustained itself until Samira was in her car. Cassie would’ve driven her, but Harrison was in the apartment, readying himself for school. Settling with a drawn out kiss to her forehead, and shutting the car door for her, Cassie waved Samira off. Samira waved out of the window as she crawled down the road, littered with street parked cars. Cassie frowned, hands on her hips, wishing she was more persuasive.
Back when Harrison was small, a day off meant a day reading books and singing ‘the wheels on the bus’ until the tiny dictator was content to move onto another song. A park, a play centre, a splattering of paint on the wooden floors of her living room. When her days with him were just days, not weeks or months at a time. Now, her day off looks incredibly different. Harrison waved her away from the school car park with little regard; comforting, in a sense. He’s so confident these days, like he mixed the cement he walks on. Cassie loves it. Cassie envies it.
The day, until three p.m., is hers. Then, from three ‘til seven, it’s hers and Harrison’s. Her favourite part of the day starts at three. It only improves when the big hand ticks onto the number seven, and she knows that in theory, her girlfriend should be free from the brutal, oh-too-tight shackles of employment. Optimist Cassie awaits seven with glee, realist Cassie knows it’s more like seven fifty, at the earliest.
If her girlfriend had listened to her this morning, she’d be here when Cassie returned. If her girlfriend had listened, she’d have a warm lemon and ginger tea in her hands and her head would rest on a rising and falling chest all day. Cassie would never move until told to, she’d be the perfect pillow for her perfect girl. She sighs into the empty car as she pulls out of a junction, mind filled with images of Samira Mohan and her sweat slicked brow.
Cassie lost the fight, and now her bed is empty and the lemon and ginger teabags will sit undisturbed until this evening. Maybe Dana will send Samira Mohan and her aching head home, Cassie could pick her up. She would save the lecture until tomorrow, or whenever Samira returned to full fitness. But the lecture would have to happen.
Samira was seeing her first patient, not ten minutes after her arrival into the hospital. The Tylenol dulled the throb enough that she could focus on one other thing at a time. The lights were excruciatingly bright, like someone was pressing the bulbs to her eyes. She tried hard to keep her eyes low, but establishing a good relationship with her patients was always priority number one. That involved meeting their eyes. Her neck was tight with tension, hands wobbly in front of her.
“You OK, Doctor?” Princess’ voice is soft, as if she can sense the aching in Samira’s skull. Samira nods, her mouth is dry and wet at the same time, eyes straining for focus. Someone must have shoved her into a washing machine with nothing but fluorescent bulbs emitting scorching heat.
“Princess, take over,” Samira chokes out each syllable, and stands from the stool. It wheels out from under her, or maybe she trips over it. The floor is much colder than she could’ve hoped for, when she hits it.
Cassie is in the middle of a grocery store, her basket filled with ingredients for a soup recipe she found online. Some sort of spicy chicken noodle soup, filled with lemon juice and fresh herbs. As a back up, she has a frozen pizza - Samira isn’t exactly a foodie. And for sweet treats, chocolate muffins and fresh strawberries. Just in case none of those options are suitable, she always has ingredients for grilled cheese in her apartment. Her eyebrows furrow as she stares at the shelf of medicines. Almost frantically, forgetting her years of medical training, she picks up most of the boxes and packs. Methol sticks for inhalation to ease blocked sinuses, sticks of minty gel for rubbing on sore temples, more Tylenol, even electrolyte tablets.
The bag in her hands is heavy, the fabric handle digs into her shoulder as she lugs it towards her parked car. Gleaming sunshine would’ve otherwise made for a pleasant setting, but the bag isn’t the heaviest thing Cassie is lugging around. In her stomach is a massive rock of worry, it refuses to budge even an inch as the time passes around her. It’s just past eight a.m., and her last message from Samira was to alert her to her arrival at PTMC. Not inherently abnormal, but extra perturbing given Samira’s sunken eyes and shaky hands this morning.
Mere seconds after she starts the car, her phone begins to vibrate in the pocket of her khaki cargo trousers. Cassie pulls it in record time, sliding the green button to hear the bemused voice of Dana Evans.
“I’m calling for Cassandra McKay - is this she?”
“Yes - God, what’s happened?” Cassie raises her thumbnail, threatening to chew it.
“You’re really Mohan’s emergency contact?” Dana continues.
“I’m what? I mean, yes. Yeah. Sure. D, what’s wrong? Is she OK? Is she… alive?”
“You think I’d be so light and- whatever. Dr Mohan fainted while tending to a patient, she’s fine, ‘cept for a big welt on her forehead. In for a head CT as we speak, but conscious and talking. How did you two slip this one under the rug?”
“It’s not- there’s no rug. I’m coming to get her.” Cassie pins the phone between her head and her shoulder, fumbling with her keys. “Can you just…”
“Keep it under wraps ‘til you get here? My pleasure. After that, you’re on your own.”
Cassie has never felt so twitchy. Twitching with nerves for Samira’s health, and for Samira’s reaction to the sudden publicity of their relationship. Though it’s five months strong, the goal was to keep it quiet for as long as possible. Not for fear of it ending, but because it’s theirs. Their quiet, their soft snoring, their passing touches and quick hugs in the stairwells. Their parking lot kisses, in the dark, alone. Two residents dating will make front page news within seconds, especially considering Samira is technically Cassie’s senior. Cassie clenches her jaw, willing the thoughts to disperse themselves.
The doors part to welcome her as they do several times a week, she waves to Lupe at the desk, who promptly buzzes her into the stairwell. Cassie exhales and climbs the steps two at a time, trousers stretching to accommodate the extension of her legs. The floor is hectic, now a member of staff down, she dodges Santos in a surgical gown as she rushes into a trauma room. Maybe, Cassie thinks, they’ll get away with it for today. Dana beckons her over to the nurses station, a thinly veiled smirk tugging at her lips.
“Mrs Mohan, is it?” She mumbles, and takes some paperwork from the surface in front of her. She hands it over to McKay, who shakes her head with a frown.
“D, seriously. Where is she? Is she out of CT? Is she OK?”
“She’s still in, and she’s fine. Migraine with dizziness. You must be a shitty girlfriend,” Dana puts a pen on the desk, some form for Cassie to sign is pushed just under her nose. She’s affronted by Dana’s words. “C’mon McKay, give the girl a shoulder rub every now and then. Help her relax.”
“Oh, shut up,” Cassie rolls her eyes, and stares at the elevator, as if Samira might materialise. “Why are you so grouchy, anyway? Where’s Heather?”
“Home,” Dana sighs, “probably watching Desperate Housewives without me.”
“My girlfriend is fainting, yours is watching the Housewives without you… It’s brutal out here.”
“I can’t even give her the silent treatment, she’d kill me if she found out about you two from someone else.”
Cassie rolls her eyes, subconsciously tapping her foot on the floor. “What room is she in? I don’t want to linger out here, it might look suspicious.” She looks up at the board, hoping Mel is on Samira’s case. It’s an odd sight to see: Mohan, loss of consciousness, Santos and Princess. “Great.”
“Santos is a brilliant doctor, Princess is a brilliant nurse.” Dana shrugs, as if she doesn’t see the issue.
“They’re both brilliant rumour spreaders, too.”
“It’s not a rumour if it’s true, no?” Dana seems to be relishing in McKay’s anxiety, Cassie excuses herself to the room Samira will return to.
She waits five minutes, every second more arduous than the last. Eventually, the door is opened and Samira is wheeled in, all the while insisting she is fine. Still clad in her scrubs, her arms are folded over her chest. “It’s completely overzealous and a waste of resources,” she grumbles, the pain is audible in her voice. Princess turns the lights down in the room, and eyes McKay with raised eyebrows as if she owes some sort of explanation. Samira is lined up with the plush chair where Cassie sits, and she sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Nice to see you, too,” Cassie leans closer, retreating as Santos clears her throat to speak.
“As, er, intrigued I am to whatever is going on here, and as much as I’d love you to stay so I can truly, truly study this, I think Dr Mohan will be good to go after the CT results. You know the drill.” She nods to Cassie, and stuffs her hands in her pockets. “Before I ask mine, have you got any questions?”
“Yeah… Can you give us some space?”
“I haven’t prescribed ‘kissing it better’, McKay.” Santos quips, opening the door for Princess. Cassie opens her mouth, but Santos pipes up again, “Or… friending it better. Whatever.”
Samira groans and tries to sit up, she manages to prop on her elbows. “Vitals and bloods were fine. No dehydration. Standard migraine, tension related probably. Site pain where I fell.”
“Yeah, OK, Doc. Lie down.” Cassie’s hand is firm against her scrubs, Samira gives in almost immediately. “You’ve lost, princess. You’re not well.” Ignoring the glass windows, Cassie stands up to plant her lips on Samira’s forehead. It’s clammy, but she kisses three separate times before sitting back down. “You scared me. Not fair.”
“Not fair on you? I’m in agony,” Samira squeezes her eyes shut, her neck warm from Cassie’s proximity.
“We’ll finish this when you’re back to fighting fitness, this isn’t a fair argument… I could win with you like this.”
“That’s not acceptable. I agree. Raincheck.” Tentatively, Samira reaches out to find Cassie’s hand. She finds it, Cassie’s fingers interlace hers effortlessly. “Guess the secrets out?”
“The secret’s out to me, too,” Cassie wants so badly to kiss Samira’s hand. “I had no idea I was your emergency contact.”
“’M full of surprises.” Her lips stretch into a half-hearted grin. Cassie gives into her earlier urge. “You OK with everyone knowing?”
“Meh. Was bound to happen sometime,” Cassie shrugs. “I’d rather they found out in a world where you didn’t pass out and smash your head on the floor… but we can’t choose our fate, etcetera. You OK with it?”
“Ask me later.” Samira shuffles closer to the edge of the bed, Cassie places her whole arm on the plastic covered mattress. Within seconds, Samira’s head is nuzzled into her bicep.
Samira sleeps in a daze of strong painkillers for ninety minutes, breath warm against Cassie’s bare skin. Santos wraps her knuckles on the glass door faintly, the door squeaks loudly to announce her entry. Samira stirs, only to squish her face closer to Cassie’s skin.
“Do I need to wake her up?” Cassie whispers, taking her other hand from Samira’s head, where she rubbed gentle circles on her scalp.
“No, she’s fine. Nothing abnormal. Just make sure she goes home.” Santos shows McKay the results on the screen of the tablet, McKay studies it intensely but her deduction is the same as Santos’. “D’you want the run down of treatment?”
“I’m guessing migraine meds, rest, avoid driving and bright lights, blah blah blah.” Santos nods with her assumption, and tucks the tablet under her arm.
“What are you, month four?”
“Five.” The simple answers is coupled with a pang in her stomach - just five months? That’s all? That’s all the time she’s had with Samira so far? Unjust, unfair. She knits her brow and stares over at the sleeping girl. Five, six, seven or eight months would never be enough.
“Emergency contact, huh?”
“Apparently so,” Cassie whispers, with a bashful smirk.
“Look after her.” Santos says it with conviction, voice loud enough it might rouse Samira. Cassie nods, as if to say ‘my pleasure’.
The nausea brewing in Samira’s stomach is understandable, a head injury and such distress in her skull. She is entitled to her nausea, it’s reasonable. Cassie’s… well. Cassie’s is plain old nervousness; it’s time to walk the scrub-clad Samira through the main lobby of the ED. So many times have they walked together past the rooms and nurses station, but never like this. This is together together. Cassie wraps a secure arm around Samira’s waist, they both pause just in front of the door. Samira’s laugh fills her ears, a hymn she’d listen to on repeat.
“Something funny?” McKay arches an eyebrow, squeezing her girlfriend nearer to her.
“You look like you’re gonna faint.” Samira straightens her back, squeezing her eyes shut as she accepts the throb that comes with the motion. “I’m OK with it, if you’re OK with it.”
“Course I’m OK with it, it’s just not what we pictured, huh?”
“No. I suppose not.” She stares out of the door, where the others all pretend they don’t see the pair. Or, maybe they just don’t see them. “I just wanna go home.”
“I can do that. Do you want the fireman’s lift, or bridal style?” McKay’s beaming grin is lopsided, Samira opens an eye to admire it. She wonders if it might trigger her light-sensitivity.
Eerie stillness befalls the otherwise manic main room as Cassie shuffles out with Samira pinned to her side. Samira’s head is held as high as the pain will allow, she takes her own arm and puts it over Cassie’s. An anchor for her anchor, they wade through those who stare plainly and those who have the decency to pretend they’re not staring. Cassie waits for a comment, they’re two paces away from the door. Trinity Santos’ voice cuts through the crowd:
“Don’t let her come to work until she’s fixed.”