Code Blues by Melissa Yi
Authors: Melissa Yi
Tags: Suspense, Chick lit, Romance, Medical, Women's Fiction, doctor, nurse, hospital, Women's Adventure, Suspense & Thriller, romance adult fiction, Emergency Medicine, romance action adventure, Medical Care, womens fiction chicklit, physician, medical humour, medical humor, emergency, emergency room, womens commercial fiction, medical conditions, medical care abroad, medical claims, physician author, medical student, medical consent, medical billing, medical coming of age, suspense action, emergency management, medical controversies, physician competence, resident, intern, emergency response, hospital drama, hospital employees, emergency care, doctor of medicine, womens drama, emergency medical care, emergency department, medical crisis, womens fiction with romantic elements, physician humor, womens pov, womens point of view, medical antagonism, emergency services, medical ignorance, emergency entrance, romance action, emergency room physician, hospital building, emergency assistance, doctor nurse, medical complications, hospital administration, physician specialties, womens sleuth, hope sze, dave dupuis, david dupuis, morris callendar, notorious doc, st josephs hospital, medical resident
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tucked at the end of
the wall lined with drink machines. I ran my card through the
reader. It flashed green, permitting me entry to another world.
Four TV's blared CNN, A Makeover
Story , Much
Music , and Musique Plus , the latter two being
the English and French Canadian version of MTV. Two women walked on
whirring treadmills. A man rowed in one corner, his jaw set and
arms flexing. A well-padded woman stretched her legs in the
mirrored corner diagonally across from me. The water cooler beside
the door glooped as a man filled his water bottle. No one was using
the weight machines. The room smelled like rubber and
sweat.
I hadn't brought my running shoes, but no
one was paying attention to me, so I did some cursory stretches,
pulled off my cardigan, and stepped on the elliptical trainer
between the treadmills and the rowing machine. A few strides, and I
was up to speed. I like the elliptical machine because it's fun. It
feels like I'm bouncing on air. Bikes remind me of biking to work.
Running on a treadmill just seems like work, period.
The two women huffing on the treadmills
yelled so they could hear each other above the TV's. The one
closest to me, a middle-aged lady who was wearing a lot of makeup,
called, "Did you hear about Dr. Radshaw?"
"Yeah, I know! Isn't it terrible!" said her
hefty friend.
Lipstick Lady shuddered. "I was terrified! I
almost didn't come to work today!"
Her friend slowed down her machine.
"Why?"
"Well, it was very suspicious how he died. I
heard that he may have been strangled, but it was all hushed up.
You never know who might have done it!"
Strangled. Where did that come from? I
stepped faster.
"Really?" said her friend. "I heard it was
drugs. Heroin, actually."
I made a mental note not to die at St.
Joe's. Post-mortem gossip was vicious.
The made-up woman widened her eyes.
"Honestly, Kathy, that's just ridiculous. I knew Kurt. He was as
straight as they come. There is no way he would ever do drugs."
Her friend twitched her shoulders. "I'm just
saying what I heard."
"Well, hear this." Ms. Max Factor on the
treadmill was a decade or two older than me, wider, and more sure
of herself. She smiled at her own image in the full-length mirror,
despite the sweat beading her face and dampening her cleavage.
"Kurt would never do drugs. There were other things he'd rather
do."
Her friend almost stopped walking, but her
treadmill forced her to start marching again. "Glenda! I never knew
that!"
Glenda shook herself and
laughed, running a hand through her spiky hair. "It was a long time
ago. When he first came to St. Joseph's. But let me tell you, my
dear. He was as straight as they come." She gave her friend a large,
mascaraed wink.
The other woman pursed her lips.
Glenda laughed again. "Remind me to tell you
about it sometime. In private." I felt, more than saw, her glance
at me in the mirror. I pretended not to notice.
They fell silent, lifting
their heads to watch the VJ on Musique
Plus .
I checked my watch. It was 11:20. I popped
over to the water fountain, gulped some plasticized water, and
stretched half-heartedly. My scalp was slightly damp, but I
couldn't see any sweat stains. Asian women don't sweat much. It's a
genetic thing that's useful in the summer.
I draped the cardigan over my shoulders and
ambled down to the residents' lounge. It was just around the corner
from the cafeteria and gym, in a hallway full of offices. It was
the only door with a combination lock under the doorknob. I pressed
the digits for the secret code and twisted the knob open.
The first thing that struck me was the
sweet, rotting odor of discarded orange peels and spaghetti in the
overflowing blue garbage pail immediately to the left of the door.
What a romantic place to meet Alex.
Some other geniuses had left dirty cafeteria
plates and plastic glasses on the round table in the corner, near
the phone and the computer. Rumpled blankets lay on the two sofas
by the TV. Shoes huddled under the mailboxes by the
the wall lined with drink machines. I ran my card through the
reader. It flashed green, permitting me entry to another world.
Four TV's blared CNN, A Makeover
Story , Much
Music , and Musique Plus , the latter two being
the English and French Canadian version of MTV. Two women walked on
whirring treadmills. A man rowed in one corner, his jaw set and
arms flexing. A well-padded woman stretched her legs in the
mirrored corner diagonally across from me. The water cooler beside
the door glooped as a man filled his water bottle. No one was using
the weight machines. The room smelled like rubber and
sweat.
I hadn't brought my running shoes, but no
one was paying attention to me, so I did some cursory stretches,
pulled off my cardigan, and stepped on the elliptical trainer
between the treadmills and the rowing machine. A few strides, and I
was up to speed. I like the elliptical machine because it's fun. It
feels like I'm bouncing on air. Bikes remind me of biking to work.
Running on a treadmill just seems like work, period.
The two women huffing on the treadmills
yelled so they could hear each other above the TV's. The one
closest to me, a middle-aged lady who was wearing a lot of makeup,
called, "Did you hear about Dr. Radshaw?"
"Yeah, I know! Isn't it terrible!" said her
hefty friend.
Lipstick Lady shuddered. "I was terrified! I
almost didn't come to work today!"
Her friend slowed down her machine.
"Why?"
"Well, it was very suspicious how he died. I
heard that he may have been strangled, but it was all hushed up.
You never know who might have done it!"
Strangled. Where did that come from? I
stepped faster.
"Really?" said her friend. "I heard it was
drugs. Heroin, actually."
I made a mental note not to die at St.
Joe's. Post-mortem gossip was vicious.
The made-up woman widened her eyes.
"Honestly, Kathy, that's just ridiculous. I knew Kurt. He was as
straight as they come. There is no way he would ever do drugs."
Her friend twitched her shoulders. "I'm just
saying what I heard."
"Well, hear this." Ms. Max Factor on the
treadmill was a decade or two older than me, wider, and more sure
of herself. She smiled at her own image in the full-length mirror,
despite the sweat beading her face and dampening her cleavage.
"Kurt would never do drugs. There were other things he'd rather
do."
Her friend almost stopped walking, but her
treadmill forced her to start marching again. "Glenda! I never knew
that!"
Glenda shook herself and
laughed, running a hand through her spiky hair. "It was a long time
ago. When he first came to St. Joseph's. But let me tell you, my
dear. He was as straight as they come." She gave her friend a large,
mascaraed wink.
The other woman pursed her lips.
Glenda laughed again. "Remind me to tell you
about it sometime. In private." I felt, more than saw, her glance
at me in the mirror. I pretended not to notice.
They fell silent, lifting
their heads to watch the VJ on Musique
Plus .
I checked my watch. It was 11:20. I popped
over to the water fountain, gulped some plasticized water, and
stretched half-heartedly. My scalp was slightly damp, but I
couldn't see any sweat stains. Asian women don't sweat much. It's a
genetic thing that's useful in the summer.
I draped the cardigan over my shoulders and
ambled down to the residents' lounge. It was just around the corner
from the cafeteria and gym, in a hallway full of offices. It was
the only door with a combination lock under the doorknob. I pressed
the digits for the secret code and twisted the knob open.
The first thing that struck me was the
sweet, rotting odor of discarded orange peels and spaghetti in the
overflowing blue garbage pail immediately to the left of the door.
What a romantic place to meet Alex.
Some other geniuses had left dirty cafeteria
plates and plastic glasses on the round table in the corner, near
the phone and the computer. Rumpled blankets lay on the two sofas
by the TV. Shoes huddled under the mailboxes by the
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