Dead med, p.8
Dead Med, page 8
As we’re studying the female pelvis side by side in the library, Heather crinkles her nose like she always does when she doesn’t understand something (which I’m sad to say is a lot). She leans forward over our anatomy atlas, and I get a whiff of her shampoo. Peaches, like usual. I’m starting to love the smell of peaches. I bought a bunch of them for our refrigerator, just so I can sniff them.
Okay, as I’m saying it, I realize how weird that sounds.
“Why is the female pelvis so confusing?” Heather moans.
She flips the anatomy atlas upside down as if that might clarify things.
“I know, it’s confusing,” I agree. Although truthfully, I’m not that confused. I’ve always learned things quickly. But it seems to comfort Heather when I agree with her about the difficulty of the material.
She yawns. “Oh God, I am so tired right now.”
I expect her to reach for her coffee and take another sip (she’s an addict like I am), but instead, she does something unexpected. She drops her head onto my shoulder and shuts her eyes.
I freeze, scared to move because I don’t want her to pull away, and I really don’t want her to realize how much this is turning me on. Don’t look down, for crap’s sake! She’s got to hear my heart pounding in my chest. The people at the next table can probably hear it.
Then Heather lifts her head and yawns again. “Maybe I need to take a break. I’m going to walk around a little.”
“Sure,” I reply, too quickly. “Do you want to grab some more coffee?”
She shakes her head.
“Actually,” she says. “I was thinking I’d give Landon a call. Is that okay?”
Landon. The asshole boyfriend. I hate that guy.
“Go for it,” I say, forcing a smile. “Tell Landon hi,” I add, then I hate myself.
My hands clench into fists as I watch Heather fiddling with her phone as she leaves the library. I need to stop thinking about Heather. For one, she’s got a boyfriend. Also, I’ve got enough on my plate.
“Quit staring at Heather, you perv.”
The voice above my head nearly makes me jump out of my skin until Mason slides into the seat next to mine, a knowing grin spreading across his face. Mason can be annoying, but it’s hard not to like the guy. He’s entertaining, and he’s incredibly funny, especially if you’re not someone who’s easily offended. Before classes revved up and I got my job, we shot pool together a few times at a local bar and had a great time, but now, we’re both far too busy. I’ve got to admire all the hours he puts into his schoolwork—he sleeps as little as I do, even though he’s not working a job on the side.
“Hey, Hulk,” Mason says, that grin still plastered on his face. He’s been calling me Hulk, after the Incredible Hulk from the comic books. I admit it’s not an entirely unfair comparison. “So what’s going on with you two?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“Bullshit,” Mason says.
I shrug innocently.
“Yeah, okay.” His grin twists into a smirk. “I can see why you don’t like her. I mean, she’s only a five. Maybe a six at best.”
Asshole.
“Just ’fess up,” he says. “Maybe I can help you.”
I look at Mason with some interest. I’ve noticed the way the pretty girls in our class drool over him. Maybe he actually could give me some decent advice.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I’m interested in her.”
“No kidding.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “So what do I do? How do I get her?”
“First off,” Mason says, “you need to grow a pair, Abe. Seriously, man. Have some confidence—Heather isn’t that great. She’s just Heather. She’s not out of your league or anything.”
That’s debatable.
“What about the boyfriend, though?” I say.
Mason laughs. “Boyfriend? Come on—that won’t last. Give it two more weeks.”
And as it turns out, he’s right.
Two weeks later, on the dot, Heather knocks on the door to my dorm apartment. I hadn’t been expecting her, and strangely enough, when she sees me, her face falls.
“Oh,” she says. “Is, um, Mason here?”
Why is she looking for Mason? She hardly talks to him, even in the lab. She seems to hate him, based on the comments she’s made.
“No,” I say. “He’s probably at the library.”
“Oh,” she says again. And then her face crumples.
“Heather…” I follow her to our futon, where she collapses into deep, wracking sobs. She buries her face in her small hands, and I rub her shoulders to comfort her. Comforting Heather is not a chore. I feel sleazy, though, about using the fact that she’s sad as an excuse to touch her. Then I feel like a tool for feeling sleazy.
“Landon broke up with me,” she blurts out between tears.
Landon broke up with her? The asshole boyfriend is out of the picture? Holy shit, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year. Except…
Why the hell did she come here looking for Mason?
Oh. Oh.
I get it now. She’s looking for a little rebound hook-up. And the first person she thought of was Mason. Mason. Not me. I’m not even on her short list.
Shit, if Mason were here instead of me, they’d be in our bedroom hooking up right now. Well, maybe not. Mason wouldn’t do that to me. But just the fact that it was even a remote possibility makes me furious.
Mason’s the biggest asshole in the class, and Heather wanted to hook up with him. There’s probably a lesson in that. If I want Heather, I should be a jerk to her. Being a nice guy is getting me nowhere.
But I’m not a jerk. I’m a nice guy who’s never done a bad thing in my whole life.
Still, Mason’s right about one thing. It’s time to grow a pair. So I lean forward, and before I have a chance to chicken out or overthink things, I kiss her.
“Abe?” She gasps for a second before she melts against me.
And here’s the shocking part… She doesn’t slap me. She doesn’t pull away either. Against all odds, she’s kissing me back. She’s surprised, but it turns out she wants me too. Not as much as I want her, but no pressure there.
Just like that, she’s mine.
18
Nobody at school likes Patrice much, but we all have to see her. It’s required.
Patrice is in her early forties with brown hair in a pixie cut and long legs. She’s not bad looking, but I don’t find her remotely attractive. Her office consists of several shelves of alternating books and dolls. (Why dolls? We’re not children. I swear to God, if we do any role-playing with Raggedy Ann, I am out of here.) She has a small desk in the corner of the room, but she sits in a chair that faces a sky-blue sofa. When I sit down on the sofa, I feel myself sinking into the cushions to the point where it might take me a good minute or two to get back on my feet. Maybe that’s the point.
“I want you to put yourself at ease,” Patrice says. “I want this to be a safe environment for you.”
I wish I were anywhere but here.
“Tell me, Abe,” Patrice says. “How has school been going so far?”
“Uh, fine.”
“Just fine? Not stressing you out?”
“I’m not on drugs, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Patrice raises an eyebrow, but who are we kidding? That's why I'm here. I'm here because there is a rampant drug problem at the school, and they don't want anyone else overdosing this year.
But I don't do drugs. I would never. I don't even drink, for Christ’s sake. Coffee is my worst vice.
Patrice crosses her long legs. “I just know how stressful medical school can be. I want you to know this is a safe space.”
“Okay, got it.”
“And if there’s anything you need to talk about”—she leans forward, as if she’s about to share a secret—“you can come to me. Anything you say will be confidential.”
“Great,” I say. “So… can I go now?”
Patrice frowns and scribbles something down on the little pad of paper on her lap. Then she looks like she’s underlining whatever she wrote. I can only imagine what it says. I don’t want to be labeled as uncooperative, but I don’t have time to get my head shrunk. I don’t need it either.
“Yes, Abe,” she finally says, “we can conclude our session. But please keep me in mind if you have any concerns in the future.”
I will never come here again.
19
There’s something sketchy about Kovak’s clinic.
No kidding, right? I knew it from the start, before I signed up to work here. But now I have started to wonder if it’s even worse than what I thought.
For starters, why do so many of his patients pay in cash? I get that insurance is a pain in the ass, but medical care is expensive. And yet at least half of all his patients slip me a pile of bills on their way out.
And then there’s the large number of students who come by the clinic. There’s nothing specifically suspicious about that, given that we are so close to both a large college and the medical school, but a lot of them also pay in cash. Which seems pretty strange for a 20-year-old college student.
Plus, every single one of them says the same thing when they make an appointment. I’ve got a cough that won’t go away. Those exact words. It’s not even cold and flu season yet!
Today, I’m sitting at the tiny desk in the waiting area when a student from my class named Victor comes in through the heavy wooden door that protects the clinic from the questionable neighborhood that surrounds us. Victor is nearly as tall as I am but skinny as a string bean and always struck me as the kind of guy who never stops moving. When he sees me, he stops short, but then a knowing smile lights his face.
“Abe,” he says. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I look down at the intake form in front of me. “You’re here for… a cough that won’t go away?”
He winks at me. “You know it.”
Okay…
After I send Victor into the examining room, he is in there for roughly five seconds, which I guess is long enough for Kovak to examine his throat and do whatever is apparently worth the stack of cash he hands me on the way out. Also, I didn't hear him cough once.
When Victor is gone, I lock the cash in the desk drawer, like Kovak instructed me to do. The desk has two locked drawers—one contains the cash, and the other has only been opened once. I don’t have the key, but I know that there’s a gun in that drawer—loaded.
There’s nobody here at the moment, so I leave my desk and head to the examining room that Victor just vacated. Kovak is inside the room, washing his hands. He has good hygiene, at least. Although I know for a fact that the sheets on the stretcher haven’t been washed since I’ve been working here.
“Dr. Kovak?” I say tentatively.
He wipes his hands on the pants of his scrubs and turns to me with a smile. “Yes, Abe?”
I don't know what to say next. There’s a question running through my head, but I'm not sure how to say it. Are you dealing drugs to students? How can I ask that of my boss?
“Are you…” I clench my hands into fists and then release them. It would be almost ridiculously easy to pick Kovak up by his shirt collar and shake the answers out of him, but I’m not that kind of person. “What was Victor here for?”
“Just a cough,” he says. And then he winks at me.
What the hell is up with all the winking?
“Right.” I look behind me at the waiting room to make sure it’s empty. “But he wasn’t actually coughing.”
Kovak keeps the smile plastered on his face as he looks up at me. “Abe,” he says, “you’re happy at this job, aren’t you?”
“Uh, yeah…”
“And I pay you very well, right?”
That’s an understatement. In addition to my salary, he will often slip me a cut of the cash that comes in every day. “Yes, sir.”
He has to reach up to put a hand on my shoulder. “I want you to know how much I value your help here. I hope you’ll continue to work with me. Honestly, I’m not sure what I’d do if you ever left.”
His dark-brown eyes are trained on my face. Despite the fact that he’s nearly a head shorter than me, a shiver of fear goes down my spine as I think about the gun in that desk drawer.
“I’ll stay,” I say softly.
He claps my shoulder. “That’s m’boy.”
DeWitt medical school has a drug problem. Everybody knows it. So many students have died that people refer to the school as Dead Med. But I never knew where the drugs came from until now.
And not just that, but somebody is feeding the students to this clinic. They are being sent here in droves. And if the rumors are true, that person is one of our professors—not just that, but a professor with access to the newest class of students.
There’s only one name that comes to mind. Only one professor who works extensively with first-year medical students. Who knows which ones are struggling. Who does one-on-one tutoring because he is just so nice.
And that’s Dr. Conlon, our anatomy professor.
20
The popcorn is popped, and I’m waiting for Heather to come over with a movie. We’re watching some chick flick about a girl who hates this guy but then I guess they fall in love. No, I don’t want to see it, and no, I haven’t grown a vagina. But Heather seemed excited about this movie, so we’re watching it, end of story.
The only problem is I can’t stop thinking about that clinic.
Dr. Kovak is selling drugs to students. I’m certain of it now. And if that’s the case, I can’t keep working there. I can’t be part of that.
Except I’m not sure he’ll let me leave.
Because it’s not just students he treats at the clinic. There have been some really unsavory men who have shown up to be treated—one guy had what looked like a knife wound on his face. Kovak isn’t just going to let me leave with a smile and wave. I know way too much for that.
Plus, the man has a gun.
I don’t know what to do. I’m scared to quit or blow the whistle, but I can’t just let this keep going on. I’ve got to do something. I have nowhere to turn.
I try to push thoughts of Stanley Kovak out of my head as I make an effort to clean up the coffee table. I toss the half-eaten pizza slice from last night in the trash and brush crumbs off the futon. Our place is a mess—I know it. I’m a slob, and Mason’s spent his whole life having maids pick up after him, so between the two of us, we’re not in great shape.
Heather arrives at my door right on time. She’s wearing a tank top and jeans and just looks so cute that I want to forget the dopey movie and hook up on the futon instead.
She can never know what goes on at the clinic where I work. I would die if she found out.
She grins at me. “Got the popcorn?”
I nod. “Yep.”
Heather catches the look on my face. “Abe, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to see this movie?”
I force a smile. “Yeah, definitely.”
She puts her hands on her hips.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I don’t want to see it. But I’m willing to watch it.”
Heather blinks at me. “Why?”
“Because,” I say. “I want to hang out with you. Who cares what we’re watching?”
Her eyes soften. “Tell you what,” she says. “Let me go grab my purse, and we’ll go out and see that zombie apocalypse movie that’s playing in the theater.”
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You really want to see that?” It’s hard for me to believe any woman would want to see that movie.
“I just want to hang out with you,” Heather says, and she winks. “Besides, zombies are awesome. No?”
I’m going to marry her someday. I’ve never wanted anything this badly in my life, even getting into med school.
“Heather,” I say. “I love…” Crap. I can’t say it. “I love seeing movies with you. A lot.”
Her brown eyes twinkle. “I love seeing movies with you too. A lot.”
I can’t screw this up. I wish I had never taken that stupid job.
21
Patrice said that if I had a problem, I could come to her and that it would be confidential. Now I've got a problem, and it better be confidential, because if she tells anyone, I might end up in handcuffs.
I make an appointment with her for immediately after anatomy lab is over—I’m not going to smell great, but she’ll have to deal with it. Except just as I am leaving the lab, Dr. Conlon approaches me, gripping his cane in his left hand. Despite the fact that he walks with a cane, he is the youngest of all our professors by at least a decade, and yet there is a weariness in his eyes that makes him look older.
“Dr. Kaufman,” he says.
“Uh, hi.” I shift between my dirty sneakers, which I only wear for anatomy lab. The second I get out of here, I change into another pair. “What's up?”
Like the rest of us, Dr. Conlon wears scrubs to the lab. And also like the rest of us, he always manages to glove up and get dirty over the course of the four to five hours. I'm sure he is just as eager to change into clean clothes as I am, but here we are. He looks me over, staring at me like he is sizing me up. “Did you spray down the body before you covered it?”
“Uh…” I tug at the collar of my scrubs, wanting desperately to change into something that doesn’t have formaldehyde and flecks of preserved intestines on it. “Yes?”
He doesn’t move away from the entrance to the door—he’s still blocking me. “It looked desiccated today. You need to do a better job.”
“Okay. I will.” When he doesn’t move aside, I add, “You mean now?”
“Yes, Dr. Kaufman. Now.”
This sharp tone is not what I have come to expect from Dr. Conlon. He’s generally really nice in the lab. Easygoing. Everyone in the class seems to like him, even students who aren't doing as well in anatomy. Why is he suddenly being an asshole?
