Shattered
By
sHaYcH
She
kissed me.
And you liked it, a terrible, truthful voice
shouts loudly in my head.
It
hurt when her lips grazed
mine.
Hurt like tearing off a
bandage, the kind that reveals a healed wound.
That’s not pain, it’s relief. The
same voice sarcastically says.
My
world shattered in one,
terrible strike.
Melodramatic, aren’t we,
Dr. Weaver?
The
ruins of a life lived lie
around me. I stare
at them, helplessly
searching for some shred of comfort, some piece of evidence that all is
not
gone. I look for a
clue that I am still
Dr. Kerry Weaver, ER Attending at Chicago County Memorial Hospital. Not some nameless teenager
stuck in a torrid
dime-store romance.
Unbidden,
my fingers rise to
survey the damage, to check for outward signs of the flames that I
swear
ravaged my skin, but they only find lips.
My lips. They
still tingle-hurt-burn
and my heart is fluttering, fluttering and my breath comes slowly,
slower and
my hiccups are … gone.
That’s pretty miraculous,
considering you’ve been fighting them all shift, eh, Doc? The
voice is back and still telling uncomfortable truths.
My
head sinks back and I
stare at the speckled, white ceiling.
The room falls around me, and noise rushes back into the
hollow echo
that always is the ER, and I realize that Kim is gone.
I wanted to see her face when she opened the
gift. I needed to
see the joy in her
eyes, to see that she knew that I cared… I cared enough to look for
just the
right perfect gift. Why
did I do
that? I have to ask
myself that now,
because she kissed me.
Yes, yes, she kissed
you. Get over it. She didn’t give you
cooties, Doc, just
peeled the blinders away from your eyes.
Before,
we were friends. She
made me feel… I felt so… I
cover my face with my hands and sigh
dramatically. Feelings,
that’s what got
me here, staring at the ceiling like a lovesick teenager. Like a lovesick
teenager, that’s the
problem. The
lovesick part, that
is. Dr. Kerry
Weaver doesn’t do
lovesick. Dr. Kerry
Weaver meets nice
men in nice places and has nice, short, clinical and proper
relationships.
She
kissed me and my life
changed.
And that’s a bad thing? The voice asks sarcastically. You’re not a nun,
Doc. It’s okay to
live a little.
I
feel it before it
hits. A brief,
sharp flash of pain,
then, “Hic!”
“Damnit,”
I growl, thrusting
myself away from my chair, pushing aside the nonsense in my head. I grab my crutch and
stride from the break
room and into the main ER. The
phones
are ringing, children are yelling and the smell of vomit, blood and
cleanser
fill the air. Normalcy. This is what I need, a
nice, even keel of
normalcy.
Malucci
leans against a
doorway, his eyes drooping down on his over-tired face and I almost
feel sorry
for him. I can’t,
because Carter needed
a break today more than he did. I
pride
myself on knowing how far I can push my interns, and today, Carter had
reached
his limits. So
Malucci will pick up the
slack, and some other day, I’ll see that Carter does the same for Dave.
The
clock on the wall ticks
over to the half hour. I
glance into
chairs and see that we’re nearly empty.
This is a good thing, because we’re full in beds. Murphy has given us some
time. I need to
talk to Kim, but I can’t right
now. Right now, I
have to be Dr. Kerry
Weaver, for myself and for the ER.
My
shift is almost over. Only
one hour to go. I
dive in with a vengeance, hoping that I
won’t have to pick up the phone to psych, I won’t need that consult,
and I
almost make it, almost, but not quite.
In life, as in medicine, there are no almosts. Time to see if Dr. Kerry
Weaver can keep control of the teenager
who seems to have taken up residence.
“Psych,
this is Dr. Legaspi,
how can I help you?” she asks, and I lose my voice.
I cannot answer her. I
cannot say the words. My
mouth hangs
open, ready to shape the sounds, but they’re not there.
“Hello? Hello?
Look, I know this is the ER, so, please, tell me what you
need?” she asks
softly, gently, almost as if she knows it’s me.
“Kerry?” she adds, her voice even softer and I think,
filled with
the slightest taste of hope.
“K-Kim,
Dr. Legaspi?” I
wheeze out, glancing around quickly to see that no one else heard my
slip-up.
“Yes,
Kerry, I’m here. What
do you need?” she asks again, quietly.
“I’ve
got a nursing home
patient… she’s confused and,” I stumble over the words, wanting to say
more,
yet not daring to.
“I’ll
be right there,” she
assures.
“Kim…
I mean, Dr. Legaspi,
you left …” I start to say, but she interrupts.
“I
know.” I can feel
the pain in her words.
“Please
take it,” I say, my
voice disappearing.
“Give
it back to me over
dinner, at your place,” she counters, challengingly.
Her voice is hard, edged with steel and something else –
desire.
“Yes,”
I agree, knowing,
knowing that whatever we eat will never matter, because we will never
taste
it. My stomach
suddenly becomes a
habitat for butterflies. Oh
my God, what
am I getting myself into?
An
hour in eternity’s hell
passes. I race home. I clean like a madwoman
bent on scrubbing
out every fault and foible, cleaning away my straight, arrogant,
closeted,
secretive past so that the flood of this woman can burst in and sweep
me away.
It
takes me fifteen minutes
to decide not to decide what we will eat.
Four different all-night carry out places are assurance
enough that
there will be something besides the leftover spaghetti in the fridge. Ten minutes in the shower.
I scrub myself
clean, and allow the water to
strip away the grime of the day, the week and the year.
I stand under the needle-like spray until
it goes cold, praying that I’m not crazy.
An entire lifetime drains away, soon to be replaced by a
new one.
Makeup. God, what a disaster. Nervous hands dapple
color, rouge and
lipstick, and I still look trampish to my eyes.
Yet zero makeup leaves me feeling more vulnerable than I
already
am, so carefully, slowly, I dust the thin armor on, giving myself
painted calm.
The
hour of doom is at
hand. A bottle of
some nameless wine
chills in a bucket on the counter, a fire crackles loudly in the
hearth, the
Christmas tree is lit, and what few presents I have not delivered lie
around
the bright red skirting, forlorn, yet festive.
Her
gift has a place of
honor, framed by two brightly wrapped packages and tree branches.
The
book, its cover clean of
marks, lays waiting. I
sit. I stand. I pace.
Will she
come? My mind
flashes on the break
room, her words, her hand upon my face, her lips, and her tongue as it
ghosted
over my lips. I
sink to the couch as my
heart hammers a steady, driving beat.
I
want. God, I want,
something… something
I cannot name.
Beat.
Tick. Beat.
Tick. The
clock over the mantle
keeps time with my heart as I wait.
Beat. Knock. I jump from my seat and
race to the door,
nearly tripping on the rug. I
think I
have superhuman strength, tearing the oak nearly from its frame and am
almost
blown over by the wind and snow that explode into the foyer.
She
is there, wet and
glistening. Snow
dapples her cheeks and
ages her hair. She
is beauty itself.
“Kim,”
I say, disbelieving
the tone of confidence in my voice.
“Come in. Can
I get you
something to drink?” The
pleasantries
roll easily from my tongue. She
comes
in gratefully.
This
night is not fit for
anyone.
“Thanks,
some cocoa or coffee
would be great,” she says, smiling tentatively.
I
hurry into the kitchen and
turn on the pot I keep on the stove.
I
decide that I will have some tea.
Cocoa…cocoa, I know Carter bought some and left it… I dig
around in my
cupboards, single-minded in my quest to please.
“Can
I help you with that?”
she says from behind me, startling me into standing.
Bang! My
head hits the
top of the cabinet. I
sit down rather
unexpectedly as stars dance before my eyes.
“Oh
my God, Kerry!” Kim
is beside me, offering a steadying hand
as I attempt to stand.
I
gravitate toward her warmth
and her voice. “This
is not how I
pictured it,” I mumble as she leads me to the table, examining the bump
on my
skull all the while.
“Really,
Kerry, tea would
have been just fine. You
didn’t need to
go crawling around… imagine what?” she asks, her face coming into my
field of
vision.
I
pull my hand away from my
head. No blood. The stars are dissipating. It is not a fatal blow. I will not, in my
professional opinion, even
have a mild concussion. My
eyes meet
hers. “I…” I
stammer, not able to say
anything. “You’re
so beautiful,” I echo
myself belatedly.
She
laughs gently. Her
cheeks color. “Kerry.” Her voice shakes
slightly and she pastes a nervous smile on her face.
“Your actions make lies of your words.”
Her hand slides across the table.
She has sat down and I never noticed because I was too
busy
staring in her eyes. “Is
friendship
really all you want from me?” The
words
are spoken softly, yet their timbre echoes loudly in my ears.
Kim
shakes her head. “Kerry,
I don’t know if I can …” she sighs
and shakes her head sadly. “I’ve
been
hurt before.” She
admits softly. Tears
rim her eyes. “I
can’t let myself fall into that trap
again.” She adds.
“You
won’t,” I reply
honestly. “I
couldn’t hurt you, even if
I tried.” I beg for
her to believe
me. I can’t, and I
know that for
truth. Even if it
means ripping up the
old Kerry and making myself over whole, I cannot hurt this beautiful
woman who
sits across from me, refusing to cry for a past love.
“You
don’t need to mean to,”
she says. “You can
hurt me just by
sitting there.”
I
know what she means. I
can feel the pull to her, magnetic and
inexorable. Sudden
strength allows my
legs to push me up. Our
hands are still
linked, so I pull her up as well.
Two
feet, a foot, an inch, a breath of space is all that is left between us.
“I
will not hurt you, Kim
Legaspi,” I say, tipping my head up just enough to look into her eyes.
“Kerry.”
Her voice is so
gentle, and her eyes so
warm. Her lips are
warmer, almost searingly
hot upon mine, but I do not care.
I
fracture into her, then shatter and reform.
Scattered images are memories of how she kisses me, how we
move through
the house from the kitchen to the living room.
Of how I nearly stumble, but her arms support me while her
lips speak in
a language I am eager to learn.
The
couch is soft and warm,
cradling us as we kiss. Kissing
Kim is
frightfully easy. I
pull away suddenly,
embarrassed and uneasy. My
glasses are somewhere
else. My sweater is
off, and my shirt is
untucked. Her
blouse is
unbuttoned. We are
in a real state of
dishabille. I
glance over at her shyly
and feel my face heat as I see the rapidly purpling mark on her throat,
just
above the sharp dip of her collarbone.
I
reach out and skim it with
my fingertip. “I’m
sorry,” I
mumble.
She
covers my hand with
hers. “Why? I’m not.”
Her voice is
deep, smoky and sexy. A
hard ache
settles in the pit of my stomach.
I want… but the thought falls away as I
struggle for the
words.
“Kim,”
I start to say, but
she’s already covering my mouth with hers.
“Shh,” she says, slipping her hand up under my shirt to
scratch over my
bare back. Gooseflesh
rises.
“God,”
I whimper, diving into
her once again.
Sometime
later, I come up for
air and realize that we are topless, tangled and heated, lying on the
floor in
front of a dying fire. Weak
sunlight
filters in through closed curtains.
The
city snowplow rattles down the street.
Two children discuss the merits of snowman construction.
“We
never had dinner,” I say,
wonderingly, stroking my fingers through her golden hair as she
snuggles
against me.
“Mm,
I’m not very
hungry.” She sits
up a bit to look down
at me. “But, if you
are, we can always
get breakfast.”
I’ll never be hungry again, I think, as I look at her lying
painted in sunlight
and gold. “No,” I
say, smiling and shaking
my head.
“Okay,”
she replies, dipping
her head down to kiss me tenderly.
“But
we should get some sleep soon. We
both
have shifts tonight.”
I
start to sit up. “You’re
right. I-I…would
you…” I babble, not knowing how to invite a woman to
stay. It’s easy
with men. They tend
to invite themselves, which isn’t
always as bad as that sounds, but how do you signal that you would
really like
it if this beautiful, sexy, sensuous woman would share your bed.
“I’d
love to,” she says, her
smile growing. “Sleep
over, that is, if
you’re offering.” She
adds in my ear,
briefly nipping the lobe with her sharp teeth.
“Yes,”
I say, to anything,
everything she might ask.
“Good. I’d hate to drive home in
that.” She nods
toward the window, where it has just
begun to snow. The
flakes dust the
window, shattering against the glass as I take Kim’s hand and lead her
to my
bed.
fin
Revised
09/25/02