“A date?” I ask somewhat incredulously. “Ricky doesn’t seem like a dating sort of guy to me,” I say, referring to the sizzling lead singer of Kayla’s band. We were introduced to her bandmates by Kayla. Victoria almost lost an eyeball when it nearly dropped out of the socket at the sight of Ricky.
I scoff and add. “Nor do you, really.”
My dear sister isn’t your usual dating type. She maneuvers the dating world in her very unique way, much, much to unpack there. My lips tip at the side.
“Hold up, Ricky and Vicky.” I let out a chuckle. “Awww, how cute!”
Well, cute isn’t the optimal term one should use to describe these two. Different worlds would be a better fit. Rock and roll bad boy meets corporate world executive is more like it. I couldn’t find a better example of opposites attract even if I tried.
“Oh, I mean Ricky and Vicky . . . and Stan, and Felipo, and Jordan, to be precise,” I add.
Like I mentioned, my sister doesn’t really do conventional dating. She does date guys as in a few of them . . . concurrently. Not my jam but I’ll never judge.
Vicky rolls her eyes with a sassy little side smile, disregarding my mentioning of her latest harem of male friends. “It was a coffee sort of thing, and a walk and – I’ll tell you later. I’m not too hyped on unpacking it next to—” Victoria grins when her eyes land on mom. “Hola Mamasita!”
Mom’s smile radiates our way when we enter the small space. “Tea?”
I nod, my eyes zooming in on the cake on the cooling rack. I give my mom a lingered hug/kiss on the cheek combo and move on to cut the cake. I place a piece on each of the plates set aside for us and add fruits and nuts on my plate a soft smile present on my lips. One of my favorite things to do is hang out with my family. And eat.
Mom leans in to hug my sister. Rewarding her with a sassy smile, she asks, “How are you, my dear? How many lovers do you currently have?”
Vicky answers with a smile that carries no less cheekiness but remains silent. See, my sister – well she doesn’t think love and career go hand in hand. Also, she loves to flirt and to be swooned, and so she found the ultimate formula that works for her. Her “relationships” are respectful, understanding, adult, and cordial. And it usually works . . . that is until they, the enthused suitors, either want more or give up. As for mom, I don’t think that she doesn’t approve of it, on the contrary. As long as her girls are happy she’s happy.
“So, guess who’s going to New York next week on business?” Victoria beams just before loading a generous piece of cake into her mouth. “Mom,” she says with her mouth full, ever the princess. “So good!”
I eye my sister with a pinch of suspicion. See, if there’s something my older sister loathes it’s traveling on business. I can probably write a whole book with the excuses she used thus far to get out of business trips. I swear the number of bogus family events she came up with would put the Kardashians to shame.
Mom rewards Victoria with a smile that carries no less doubt. “Oh really, Winnie? And you’re excited about it?”
The only downside to people knowing you well is they see through your bullshit.
Playing it as if she doesn’t sense our obvious doubt, Victoria shrugs and goes on about where she’ll be staying and how excited she is to get some free time there as well. I squint my eyes at her, trying to read between the cheery lines.
Another cup of tea later, the chime of mom’s phone has us pause our conversation that moved on to an easy talk about books we’ve read this week and shows we’ve binged on. I love swapping recommendations with these two. We have our little unofficial culture club. It was Victoria who recommended Sally Rooney’s books and the show Fleabag to us. I’ve been a huge fan of both ever since. You can say I have a newfound pull to culture from the British Isles.
Vic and I exchange a what’s-going-on-here? look when mom’s whole demeanor turns edgy. Mom coughs and moves on to take the call in the adjoining room, her office where she meets with clients.
“Is it just me or does she not want us eavesdropping?”
“I think you’re on to something, Sherlock,” Vic deadpans.
Waiting for mom to come back from her mysterious call, I suddenly have a eureka moment. I point at Victoria with my mouth slightly dropped and shake my head. “You’re meeting him in New York, you little wiener. Ricky! He mentioned he’d be gone the whole of next week last night.”
Victoria traps her lips with her teeth.
“Did you sleep with him last night?” I prod.
Victoria shakes her head. “Define sleeping.”
She has the decency to stop playing games with me when I glare at her.
“Just kidding. It was purely platonic. We didn’t even kiss,” she says. “Purely platonic with enough heat-energy to run a damn power station.”
“I’d never picture you with someone like him. He seems to be a cool person, definitely not your type though.” I shake my head. “Vic, what are you doing?” I ask.
She shrugs, “I have no clue, Beans.”
There’s an Appeal in Chaos
I pull my surgical mask below my chin. “I’m going to grab a nap,” I tell the nurses at the nurses’ station.
Both older ladies smile at me tenderly in unison. Kathy, the one with the big, kind eyes hands me one of those mini chocolate bars. The lady is on a mission to feed us all. “Get something to eat while you can.” See? “It’s stormy outside, and you know how first rains tend to send people our way,” she says with a conceding little smile.
I nod. Unfortunately, first rains and accidents go hand in hand. I wish tonight will prove us wrong, but in the back of my mind, I just know it won’t. Statistics.
Earlier this evening, I asked the universe for just minor incidents. Tonight, I don’t mind the scutwork; I’ll draw stat labs, round with social workers to discuss patient placement upon discharge, put in orders for nurses, and accompany patients to tests if it means no one will be critically injured. There’s a moral dichotomy in my line of work; on the one hand, I’m eager to get the special cases, the severe trauma, yet on the other, it means someone is suffering, or in critical condition.
Dan, our Chief Resident, and Olivia, a brilliant intern, head my way, looking no less tired in their blue scrubs as I must appear. They nod at me, wordlessly confirming they’re joining me in the staff room for food just before, they, like me, will probably try to steal a few minutes of shuteye.
My dad who’s also a surgeon, practicing what I call easy money medicine, aka plastic surgery, once asked me why I chose to become a trauma surgeon knowing how exhausting, ungrateful at times, and demanding the job is. Color me masochist, but there’s an appeal in the chaos that’s the Emergency Department. I know, I know, don’t come at me with pitchforks. Yes, stress is one of the riskiest health challenges of the twenty-first century right after obesity. There’s a whole resistance out there promoting special oils, chants, mantras, and eastern rituals and practices, fighting to make western civilization calm the fuck down. But you know what? Just like everything in life, it’s an individual thing. I thrive on the adrenaline it takes to manage unexpected trauma.