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It had been a long day. One of those days that Trinity Santos wanted to wash away with a scalding shower…the kind that was too hot to be comfortable. A shower so hot that steam permeated every crevice of the bathroom, water streaks as evidence along the walls. But no, not even boiling her skin, or scrubbing it raw, would clean this kind of day off.
It was the kind of day that took a toll on everyone. Nearly 15 hours of severe trauma after severe trauma. One of those days where the waiting room, filled with lacerations, broken arms, and stomach aches, was an afterthought. They had barely made a dent in the minor injuries.
Trinity alone had handled five Level 1 patients, two of which were still in critical condition as she transferred them to the night shift. She just couldn’t stay any longer. Even though she wanted to see her patients through, after twelve hours on the floor and three charting, nothing she was doing was productive anymore.
After making her last rounds and transferring her patients to fresher minds, she sluggishly collected her things from her locker and stumbled into the break room to grab her untouched sandwich. There had been no time to eat, let alone go to the bathroom or drink water. How could someone be so thirsty, and yet have to pee so badly?
Luckily, no one else was around when Trinity walked into the break room, so she took her time, grabbing a plastic cup from the counter and chugging two full cups of water before shoving the uneaten sandwich into her bag. Maybe she’d eat it when she got home. Maybe she was too tired to eat.
Trinity heard the break room door click open as she tossed the empty cup into the trash can. She looked up, meeting Dr. Al-Hashimi’s tired eyes. Dark circles had formed, more pronounced than usual—her hair springing wildly around her face, having been removed from its usual bind. Trinity had seen her fair share of tired doctors during her time at the PTMC, but none could wear exhaustion quite as gracefully as Dr. Al-Hashimi.
The attending nodded at Trinity as she made her way, quietly, over to the round table. Trinity watched as she sifted through her bag which sat neatly on a plastic chair. Her dark curls fell, obscuring the attending’s face from view as she pulled out a pair of wired headphones and her car keys. Dr. Al-Hashimi sighed, tiredly, turning back in Trinity’s direction. She seemed startled, even jumping slightly, seeing Trinity still standing there silently.
“Oh,” the attending sighed, putting her free hand to her chest, “Dr. Santos.”
“Sorry,” Trinity cringed, slinking off toward the door, “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.”
The corner of the attending’s mouth curled up in a small smile. It was a very Dr. Al-Hashimi-type smile, sincere yet reserved, composed. Trinity nodded, pursing her lips awkwardly and turning on her heals. She needed to get out of this damn hospital and into that hot shower.
Trinity paid no mind to the small clattering sound behind her—something akin to a plastic utensil skittering across linoleum. Her mind was foggy enough that it barely registered, along with the quiet shuffling of Dr. Al-Hashimi’s sneakers across the floor. Trinity’s body felt heavy as she opened the door, everything turning silent.
“Trinity…”
Trinity stopped in her tracks, halfway through the staff room door. She didn’t like the older woman’s tone, the way Trinity stung like a sharp edge wrapped in soft wool. It was a sickening mixture of dread and curiosity, which made Trinity uneasy. As soon as she turned around, she wished she hadn’t. She wished she’d just kept walking.
Trinity shut her eyes for a beat too long, jutting her chin out in frustration. Her eyelids served as the last physical barrier between her and this moment, temporarily shutting out the scrutiny and criticism that was sure to follow. Trinity could feel her fingertips start to tingle, a numbness she knew all too well. A numbness that years of therapy couldn’t fix. She couldn’t find any words, so she opened her eyes again, looking at the attending in front of her.
Dr. Al-Hashimi stood there, eerily still. One arm at her side, the other outstretched, palm up. In that hand, an unwrapped scalpel.
The attending watched Trinity intently, with unwavering focus, scanning her every move. But Trinity’s eyes were locked onto the scalpel, frozen. The room was silent until the younger doctor looked up to meet the attending’s penetrating gaze.
“Is there a reason why you’re carrying a used, disposable scalpel in your bag?”
Not the fucking questions. Trinity loathed fake inquiries. She’d know fake fact-finding from a mile away, working in an emergency department. She had to do it all the time to get patients to admit things she already knew.
Dr. Al-Hashimi waited, looking at the her expectantly. Trinity’s green eyes flicked to the side for a moment, considering her options. She swallowed, her throat suddenly too dry to form a coherent sentence.
“What?” Trinity asked, feigning ignorance. She looked down at her backpack, slung over one shoulder, and back up. She shrugged nonchalantly, shaking her head as her lips formed a flat line.
Dr. Al-Hashimi watched every move with calculated precision. Just like she did everything else in her Emergency Department.
“I watched this fall out of your bag. Just now,” the attending added, matter-of-factly.
Trinity blinked again, this time more quickly than before, her eyes fluttering like moths trapped in a jar. Her mind was trying to come up with something, anything, to deflect. It was coming up blank. She shrugged again, shaking her head.
“Um…I don’t know. It must have been in my scrubs,” she tried.
“You’re wearing your scrubs.”
“From a different shift, maybe.” Trinity shifted awkwardly on her feet, readjusting the bag on her shoulder. One of the front pockets hung open, unzipped. She held her chin higher, trying to convey some semblance of certainty that her voice lacked.
“Even so,” Dr. Al-Hashimi started, slowly, like she did when she was reminding the med students of something elementary, “we always dispose of scalpels in the sharps container after use.”
“Yes, of course—”
“I find it hard to believe that a second-year resident as skilled as you would forget the most basic safety lesson from her first year of medical school.”
Dr. Al-Hashimi took a step forward, gripping the scalpel tightly in her hand now. She hadn’t moved a muscle prior. Just like a robot, Trinity would have quipped in her own head if she weren’t completely cornered.
“Did Dr. Santos forget how to safely handle and dispose of scalpels?”
“No,” Trinity swallowed, clearing her dry throat. She resented the condescension.
“This is a foundational OSHA safety requirement.”
“I’m aware,” Trinity raised her voice, getting frustrated now. She wasn’t an idiot.
“Good.”
Dr. Al-Hashimi’s voice stayed measured, professional. But she could tell this was getting under Trinity’s skin. She knew there was something off. She also knew Trinity wasn’t the kind to give in easily, let alone trust.
The attending continued, “So either you, for some reason, decided to take home a contaminated tool, or something else is going on here.”
Trinity scoffed, “What? I probably just opened one and didn’t need it. Probably just forgot it was in my pocket or something.”
A loaded pause echoed across the break room, louder than silence should ever be. Dr. Al-Hashimi’s eyes flicked down to her hand.
“There’s blood on this, Trinity,” the attending added, softer now. Treading carefully.
Trinity looked over at the scalpel Dr. Al-Hashimi was holding up now, on display. The cover was on, but it was clearly not unused. Trinity’s eyes narrowed at the tool. The attending watched something unravel behind them, like Trinity was watching a highlight reel of torment.
But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced with the cold, hardness Dr. Al-Hashimi had become accustomed to during tough cases. Trinity was a tough case.
Before the attending could say more, try to defuse a bomb before it was set, Trinity turned and exited the staff room. The door swung open and shut faster than she’d ever seen it. Dr. Al-Hashimi tried to go after Trinity, but as she opened the door to look out, the girl was already rounding the corner, gone from sight.
The attending looked down at the scalpel in her hand, rubbing her thumb carefully over the plastic handle. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread bubbling in her stomach. Maybe she could’ve handled it better.
She shook her head, sighing, before tossing the tool in the nearest red disposal bin. There was really no way of knowing whether or not she’d just made the situation worse. But there was also no way Dr. Al-Hashimi could’ve stayed silent.
—
A few days had passed since Dr. Al-Hashimi’s accusation in the staff room, and Trinity was restless. She’d done everything in her power to avoid working with the older woman, opting for Dr. Robby instead.
Although, of course, it wasn’t always her choice, and with two attendings on at all times now, Trinity had to interact with Dr. Al-Hashimi on occasion.
It wasn’t long before people started to notice something was off, Whitaker especially. He knew that Trinity didn’t particularly like “Robo-Doc”, as she called her, but he had noticed a significant increase in snarky comments. Even ones within earshot of the attending herself.
There was one particular instance that shocked not only Whitaker, but everyone nearby. Trinity had been sitting at the computer, charting, for at least an hour—not taking on new patients in that time, which people were starting to notice. Whitaker took it upon himself to mention it.
“Hey,” he said, passing behind Trinity on her stool, “there’s a patient in South 15 that needs a resident.”
“Got it,” Trinity quipped, monotone.
“You might need another name on the board…” Whitaker tried being less subtle.
“I said, I got it.” Trinity raised her voice, swiveling on her stool to look at him. Trinity didn’t scare Whitaker, he was used to her temper, but her gaze was unusually cold this time around.
A voice at the counter behind her made Trinity’s jaw clench.
“Dr. Santos, you’re getting behind on picking up patients. I’d spend less time bickering with Whitaker and more time working. I expect to be presented a case in the next 15 minutes.”
Whitaker raised his eyebrows in an “I told you so” manner as Trinity swiveled back around. Dr. Al-Hashimi was already picking up a tablet and sauntering off.
“Actually, I’m currently diagnosing a severe case of stick up your ass,” Trinity mumbled under her breath.
She heard Whitaker’s sneakers squeak on the vinyl as he stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide. Perlah and Princess, who had been sitting across the way, nearly snapped their necks looking in her direction. And even McKay stopped eating her granola bar mid-bite.
She heard the heavy slam of a tablet on the counter above her. Too defiant to look up, Trinity pressed the plastic dictation microphone to her forehead and closed her eyes.
Fuck.
“Stand up.”
The attending’s voice was commanding, but not loud. Dr. Al-Hashimi didn’t tend to erupt when pushed, like Robby. She would simmer, keeping a lid on things, as frustration bubbled under the surface.
Trinity didn’t move.
“Stand up. Now.”
Trinity could feel dark brown eyes boring a hole in the top of her head. It burned.
She slowly set the microphone down, clicking out of her charts on the computer. She stood, finally eye level with her attending. Unyielding green eyes met determined brown ones. For a moment, it was like an unstoppable force trying to shake an immovable object.
“Come with me, Dr. Santos,” Dr. Al-Hashimi said calmly, turning away and walking toward an empty room.
Trinity heard various whispers as she followed her attending, a Jesus here and a tsk-tsk there. She even heard McKay let out a heavy breath she must’ve been holding. The nurses were going to have a field day with this. She’d never hear the end of it.
Trinity followed Dr. Al-Hashimi into one of the empty trauma rooms, staying close to the door in case she needed a quick escape from whatever came next. The attending turned to face her, bringing her hands to her mouth, resting her chin on her steepled fingers to carefully weigh her options. Like she was testing the words in her head before saying them out loud.
“That behavior is completely unacceptable,” Dr. Al-Hashimi started, pointing the tips of her fingers toward Trinity now, her hands still pressed together. Her fingers clasped and unclasped, as she worked out what she wanted to say next.
“You would never…say something like that to Dr. Robinavitch.”
Trinity could see a fire burning behind her dark eyes. She almost looked like a feral cat who had been cornered. It made the hairs on the back of Trinity’s neck stand up.
She continued, “I am your attending. I will not be treated with disrespect nor will I be collateral damage during your emotional outbursts.”
“Emotional outbursts—”
“Dr. Santos,” the attending interrupted, putting a hand up to stop her. “You’ve said enough. Do not dig this hole any deeper. Do you understand?”
Her voice was stern, harsh, almost like a mother scolding a child. It made Trinity’s cheeks heat up and her mouth fill with saliva. It made her nauseated. Trinity swallowed hard, clenching her jaw. She just wanted this to be over.
“I understand,” Trinity offered, focusing her eyes on an object behind Dr. Al-Hashimi, instead of looking directly at her.
“Good,” the attending brought a hand up to her forehead and rubbed her temples with her thumb and middle finger. “We’re done here. Do not embarrass yourself like this again.”
Trinity felt her eyes sting. She nodded quickly and left the trauma room. Somehow scoldings from Dr. Al-Hashimi hit much worse than those from Dr. Robby, of which she had many. He was always quicker to anger, shouting things he didn’t mean, losing control. Trinity could deal with yelling; in fact, she preferred yelling. She almost liked it, even though she wouldn’t admit it, when she could make someone else lose control.
It was the calculated, poignant truths she didn't like. She didn’t like the way Dr. Al-Hashimi could serve a cut so measured, so precise.
A cut.
—
Trinity thought about it the whole way home. Her head was screaming over the radio. Over Whitaker singing. Over the beer she downed when she got home. Over the scalding shower she took. Over the movie she turned on to fall asleep. Throughout her dreams. All she could hear was
nor will I be collateral damage during your emotional outbursts
and
do not embarrass yourself like this again
and
did Dr. Santos forget how to safely handle and dispose of scalpels?
and
there’s blood on this, Trinity.
Trinity woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Her hair stuck to her face and neck. Her shirt clung to her body, like it was trying to suffocate her. She ripped off the covers, stumbled around the apartment, looking for any signs of Whitaker. She made sure her footsteps were loud enough to wake him up.
No sign. Damn it.
She looked around for a note. He always left a note.
And there it was, on the fridge: Went to Amy’s. Theo has a fever. Be back in the morning.
Trinity’s heart sank for a moment. She could feel it beating in her ears, through her fingertips. She felt a little dizzy. Her mind raced.
She had been doing okay for a while, when Whitaker moved in and he was there every night. It was like having a puppy around all the time, asking for her attention. It kept her from living in her head so much. But when he started to get close to Amy, well…things changed again.
She tried to occupy her time with Garcia. It was almost a twisted sort of punishment, being with her. But even Garcia wouldn’t come around all the time.
Trinity felt her ears get hot, thinking of the things she could do when no one was home. It made her feel ill sometimes. Her fingertips tingled…no buzzed, like electricity. Fuck, she had to find a distraction.
She walked to the freezer, throwing a few ice cubes in her mouth. She held them there, and held them there, and held them there, padding around the apartment looking for her phone. She found it on the floor by her bed. Her mouth ached, her cheeks burning from the cold.
She sat down on the edge of her bed and scrolled through the list of contacts.
Whitaker…no.
Garcia…no.
Mel…GOD no.
She texted Javadi really quick, asking her some dumb question about whether or not she found her missing AirPods. Just to see if she’d respond.
Then she scrolled back up. A number she had never texted.
She didn’t like the way Dr. Al-Hashimi could serve a cut so measured, so precise. Or maybe she did.
She tapped the number, opening a new message, and typed out.
Hi, Dr. Al. It’s Trinity Santos. I’m sorry to text so late.
She looked at the time. 1:47 a.m.
She put her phone down for a second. All the ice in her mouth had finally melted. She balled her hand up in a fist and hit the side of her thigh a few times. Ugh.
Then she heard a ding.
Trinity, is everything okay?
Trinity blinked a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. Dr. Al-Hashimi had responded…in the middle of the night. She quickly typed a response.
I just wanted to apologize for earlier today.
Or, yesterday, sorry.
She closed her eyes, slapping her hand against her forehead. Dumbass.
Not too long after, three dots appeared.
You wanted to apologize? At 1:47 in the morning, over text?
Another message.
It’s okay, Trinity. Apology accepted. What’s really going on?
Trinity looked down at the message, unsure how to respond. In truth, she really didn’t care to apologize. Maybe she was a bitch for that. She was just fishing—wanting to see if Dr. Al-Hashimi would bite.
Nothing, sorry. I was just thinking about it is all.
She responded, quickly.
Thinking about it?
Trinity tried to play it off.
Yeah, I couldn’t sleep and I had to get it off my chest.
All of the sudden there was an incoming call. Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi was calling her.
Trinity jumped off the edge of her bed, looking down at the phone in disbelief. She spun in circles, trying to decide if she should answer or not. Shit.
She gave in, slowly putting the phone to her ear.
“Hello?” Trinity spoke, timidly.
“Trinity?” Dr. Al-Hashimi’s voice filled the line. It was a bit higher over the phone, tinny. But she sounded tired, like she had been woken up.
“Shit. Did I wake you up?” Trinity asked.
“No, it’s fine.”
“You sound like you just woke up,” Trinity added.
“Thanks,” the other woman huffed. Trinity could hear her adjusting her position.
“No…I just mean. Ugh. Sorry.” Trinity closed her eyes in annoyance, at herself.
There was a pause on the other line. A little long for Trinity’s liking.
“Are you doing okay, Trinity?” Dr. Al-Hashimi said, softly.
Another pause, this time Trinity’s doing. Her eyes wandered around her bedroom, eventually coming to a stop at her left thigh. Trinity almost always went to bed in shorts. She didn’t like feeling restricted, suffocated under all that fabric.
But then, there was always a reminder.
“Trinity?” Dr. Al-Hashimi broke the silence. Trinity couldn’t help but like the way her name sounded, coming from the older woman’s mouth. Well except for…
Trinity…
and
there’s blood on this, Trinity.
“Sorry,” Trinity breathed, shaking the memory our of her head, “just distracted.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I just…” Trinity tried, but faltered.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” Dr. Al-Hashimi asked, sincerely.
An amused huff escaped Trinity’s nose, barely audible.
“I’m serious,” the older woman added. Nothing escapes her, Trinity realized.
“I appreciate that, Dr. Al-Hashimi…But I’m fine, there’s nothing to share.”
“You can call me Baran,” she replied, almost like she was pointing out a well-known fact that Trinity had forgotten. “Outside of work, of course.” she added, matter-of-factly.
Trinity could sense a hint of playfulness in the other woman’s tone, something the attending only reserved for special occasions. She didn’t have a lot of time to be playful at work. Too much responsibility.
“Okay…” Trinity quipped, drawing the word out for longer than necessary. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good.” Baran replied, smoothly. She could keep up with banter. That, Trinity knew.
“I’m sorry I bothered you so late…Baran.” The corner of Trinity’s lips twitched into the slightest of smirks. Thank god they couldn’t see each other right now.
“But,” Trinity added, “I’m fine. You should go back to sleep.”
“Can I…” Baran started, pausing for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
Trinity couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread wash over her—the lighthearted moment forgotten completely. She cleared her throat before responding.
“Sure.”
“Are you alone?”
Oh. Trinity’s brows furrowed. She wasn’t expecting that question.
“Yeah,” Trinity responded simply.
“Whitaker?” Baran asked.
“He’s with his girlfriend, or whatever,” Trinity replied, not masking the annoyance in her voice very well.
“Ah, I see.”
There was another pause, like Baran was questioning whether or not to ask something else. Trinity waited, not having anything clever to say.
“And, Garcia?” Baran asked.
“What?”
“I heard that you were maybe seeing each other?” Baran added, her sentence tapering off halfway through, almost like she regretted asking.
“Oh, yeah…um,” Trinity started, “sort of. We aren’t like seeing each other, seeing each other.”
“I see.”
“It’s not a big thing. It doesn’t affect my work—”
“No, no, no. Trinity,” Baran interrupted, “I’m not asking because of that.”
Baran sighed softly. Trinity swore she could feel her breath up against her ear. It was nice. Like ASMR or something.
“Trinity…”
Oh no. Trinity’s jaw clenched, her eyes flinging shut. Not that tone again.
“I’m worried about you.”
Trinity’s free hand clenched, leaving indents in her palm, “I’m f—its not like—we don’t have to—”
“Trinity, why did you text me?”
She asked it in a way where Trinity knew it wasn’t a question. It sounded like a question, but Baran wasn’t seeking an answer. She was seeking confirmation. Confirmation that had been hanging in the air, waiting to be acknowledged, for days.
Trinity was sure Baran already knew. But why hadn’t she just come out with it? Why ask these questions? It was like she was waiting for Trinity to pull the rabbit out of the hat. Like she knew the punchline, but was waiting for Trinity to deliver it. But no, not really. Because it wasn’t a joke to her. It wasn’t a magic trick. It was a secret. A truth, that from Trinity’s experience, no one wanted to deal with.
Trinity wondered why Baran was treading so carefully. Usually, when people know, they do one of two things. They ignore it and pretend like it doesn’t exist. Like Garcia. Or they treat Trinity like a fragile, little, traumatized doll that could break at any moment. Like her parents. Neither one of those reactions ever ends well.
“I wanted to see if you would respond,” Trinity finally answered.
“Because…”
“Because I wanted to talk to someone.”
Trinity could hear Baran’s phone shifting from one ear to the other as she adjusted positions again. She wondered if Baran was in bed. Was she wearing pajamas? She seemed like a matching set type of woman. Trinity wondered what her bedroom looked like.
“Are you thinking about hurting yourself?” Baran said simply, but gently.
Reflexively, Trinity’s whole face clenched, her muscles pinching together in an effort to block out an extreme emotional response that bubbled in her stomach.
“No,” Trinity managed through her grimace. It wasn’t nearly convincing enough. So she tried again, “No, I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Fuck, I said I’m good,” Trinity snapped. Lashing out was always easier.
“Okay,” Baran resigned, “I hear you.” Trinity heard Baran take a slow, long breath, centering herself. Or maybe she was trying to center them both.
Baran spoke again, “I want you to know, Trinity, that I’m not upset with you. This isn’t an attack. I’m sorry if it feels that way, but it’s not.”
Trinity didn’t know what to say.
“I could feel some tension in the air all week. I know that’s probably the reason you said what you said today. And I just want you to know that you can let all that go. You don’t have to avoid me. I’m not upset. I’m just concerned.”
Trinity chewed on the inside of her cheek. She was genuinely confused. This wasn’t the reaction she had playing on a loop in her head for the last decade.
All Trinity could get out was, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m not upset.”
Trinity’s eyes suddenly felt heavy. Her body, slowly slumping lower and lower. Exhaustion had taken it’s toll and her inability to get proper sleep had only exacerbated her bad mood. As much as she tried ignoring it, Trinity’s entire life felt like skating on a frozen lake, not knowing if, at any moment, the ice would just give way and plunge her into the depths of childhood trauma she kept locked away. This trauma, sat, frozen, rigid, and sharp in her muscles every day—chilling her to the bone and preventing her from getting close to anyone. Most people couldn’t handle the cold…couldn’t handle knowing her. In a way, it protected Trinity, keeping her from harms way. But it also kept her frozen in time, like she was still a helpless little girl inside.
But, with just five words, Baran had managed to release Trinity of something. Some shame she had been holding on to. The release felt like a warm sun melting all rigidity away. Like the ice cubes had melted in her mouth not that long ago, painful at first, then calming.
It’s okay. I’m not upset.
Trinity blinked slowly, tiredly, hearing Baran breathe through the phone. The older woman hadn’t said anything for at least a minute, just waiting for Trinity to make the next move. Trinity wondered how much better it would be if she was right there, within arms reach. How calming her breathing might sound in person.
“Is it okay,” Trinity asked, a shyness in her voice that Baran hadn’t heard before, “if you just stay on the phone for a minute while I fall asleep?”
“Of course.”
She said it so simply, like it was silly of Trinity to have ever thought Baran would say no. Trinity smiled to herself, crawling under the covers. The tightness in her chest was gone. The numbness in her fingertips, that ever-constant, humming reminder, was gone. For a sweet moment she actually felt at peace.
She put Baran on speakerphone and set the phone next to her head, on her pillow.
“Don’t hang up yet,” Trinity whispered, yawning.
“I won’t,” Baran breathed, a soft chuckle escaping. It scratched something satisfying in Trinity’s brain.
“Trinity…” Baran whispered. Her tone was light. It felt warm against Trinity’s ear.
“Yeah?” She whispered back, her eyelids closing involuntarily.
“Goodnight.”