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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guy I'd dated in two years who gave me
some zing . I could stave off sleep for a
few more hours and delay my grudge long enough to hear him
out.
I cleared my throat. "I don't have anything
to bring." Except the econo spaghetti sauce.
"No, no, no! Don't bring anything! I will be
very angry if you bring something. I will give it back to you. You
should rest. We will take care of you."
Another of my secret weaknesses is that,
although medicine is very take-charge and kick butt, deep down,
when I go home, I like to be cosseted. "Well..."
"Seven o'clock. I am on Côte-des-Neiges,
near the corner of Queen Mary. Across from the cemetery. You know
the two apartment towers covered in black glass?"
I found myself agreeing to drive over. Have
stomach, will travel.
Chapter 6
Refreshed by a mini nap, I landed on
Mireille's doorstep and compared her building to mine.
My three-story apartment building was built
in the 1930's, and its security consists of a buzzer above each
mailbox, with everyone's box clearly labeled according to
apartment. The outer door was unlocked and the inner door has a
single key lock. Windows made of Art Deco glass rimmed the outer
door, and plain glass bordered the inner doors, so a thief could
easily smash a way in. But he or she wouldn't bother, because half
the time, both building doors were propped wide open. The easier
for people to move in and out, my dear. It hadn't bothered me,
except that I'd wished they'd left them open for me and my
groceries this afternoon. Alex's warnings about my neighborhood
seemed much more ludicrous in the daytime.
In contrast, Mireille's building was a
sleek, shiny, black skyscraper. She had a real, live security
guard, and a call-in buzzer system where the buzzer codes didn't
match the apartment numbers. High tech stuff. The lobby had a
lounge with a sofa, two loveseats, and a mirrored wall. I bet she
had a pool, too. At least my apartment had a mirrored lobby, I
consoled myself. And my rent was only $550 a month, whereas hers
might hit four digits.
Mireille buzzed me up, and
I rode a swift black elevator to the 23 rd floor. The hallways were
carpeted in maroon paisley. The wall sconces were dim, imitation
candlesticks. Even though the walls were painted white, it felt
very somber, like a funeral home. I took two wrong turns before I
rapped on apartment 2308.
Mireille threw open the door almost before
my knuckles had left the wood. "I'm so glad you came!" She bent
forward, pushing her face in mine, her burgundy lips pursed.
I froze. She was so close, I could see the
pores on her face. She pecked me on each cheek before she drew
away, her curls bouncing. Her perfume left a light citrus scent in
the air.
In Ontario, we hug. And I only hug my
friends. So I didn't clue in before she had already pulled back.
"This is for you," I said, covering my awkwardness with a bottle of
wine wrapped in a brown paper bag.
"No, no, no!" She flushed a dark red, like
her lipstick, very noticeable against her simple black T-shirt and
matching knee-length skirt. "I told you not to bring anything. And
Tucker brought beer, as I said he would."
I wondered if she'd been dipping into it.
She was so animated and bright, almost careless, compared to the
tightly-wound woman from orientation. I liked this version better.
"It's okay. The Metro was on the way."
The Metro is a grocery store chain with the
same name as the subway. The grocery and corner stores here sell
wine and beer, which makes it pretty convenient. I didn't want to
show up empty-handed. Bad enough that I'd donned a pair of jean
shorts and a white tank top while the hostess had picked funeral
black.
Mireille accepted the bottle, but said,
"I'll give it back to you when you leave!" She headed down the
narrow white hallway.
"Hi, Hope," said a guy's voice, as I kicked
my shoes into the pile by the door.
My heart thudded. I looked up, only to see
Tucker dressed in a white shirt with aquamarine pinstripes, sleeves
rolled
some zing . I could stave off sleep for a
few more hours and delay my grudge long enough to hear him
out.
I cleared my throat. "I don't have anything
to bring." Except the econo spaghetti sauce.
"No, no, no! Don't bring anything! I will be
very angry if you bring something. I will give it back to you. You
should rest. We will take care of you."
Another of my secret weaknesses is that,
although medicine is very take-charge and kick butt, deep down,
when I go home, I like to be cosseted. "Well..."
"Seven o'clock. I am on Côte-des-Neiges,
near the corner of Queen Mary. Across from the cemetery. You know
the two apartment towers covered in black glass?"
I found myself agreeing to drive over. Have
stomach, will travel.
Chapter 6
Refreshed by a mini nap, I landed on
Mireille's doorstep and compared her building to mine.
My three-story apartment building was built
in the 1930's, and its security consists of a buzzer above each
mailbox, with everyone's box clearly labeled according to
apartment. The outer door was unlocked and the inner door has a
single key lock. Windows made of Art Deco glass rimmed the outer
door, and plain glass bordered the inner doors, so a thief could
easily smash a way in. But he or she wouldn't bother, because half
the time, both building doors were propped wide open. The easier
for people to move in and out, my dear. It hadn't bothered me,
except that I'd wished they'd left them open for me and my
groceries this afternoon. Alex's warnings about my neighborhood
seemed much more ludicrous in the daytime.
In contrast, Mireille's building was a
sleek, shiny, black skyscraper. She had a real, live security
guard, and a call-in buzzer system where the buzzer codes didn't
match the apartment numbers. High tech stuff. The lobby had a
lounge with a sofa, two loveseats, and a mirrored wall. I bet she
had a pool, too. At least my apartment had a mirrored lobby, I
consoled myself. And my rent was only $550 a month, whereas hers
might hit four digits.
Mireille buzzed me up, and
I rode a swift black elevator to the 23 rd floor. The hallways were
carpeted in maroon paisley. The wall sconces were dim, imitation
candlesticks. Even though the walls were painted white, it felt
very somber, like a funeral home. I took two wrong turns before I
rapped on apartment 2308.
Mireille threw open the door almost before
my knuckles had left the wood. "I'm so glad you came!" She bent
forward, pushing her face in mine, her burgundy lips pursed.
I froze. She was so close, I could see the
pores on her face. She pecked me on each cheek before she drew
away, her curls bouncing. Her perfume left a light citrus scent in
the air.
In Ontario, we hug. And I only hug my
friends. So I didn't clue in before she had already pulled back.
"This is for you," I said, covering my awkwardness with a bottle of
wine wrapped in a brown paper bag.
"No, no, no!" She flushed a dark red, like
her lipstick, very noticeable against her simple black T-shirt and
matching knee-length skirt. "I told you not to bring anything. And
Tucker brought beer, as I said he would."
I wondered if she'd been dipping into it.
She was so animated and bright, almost careless, compared to the
tightly-wound woman from orientation. I liked this version better.
"It's okay. The Metro was on the way."
The Metro is a grocery store chain with the
same name as the subway. The grocery and corner stores here sell
wine and beer, which makes it pretty convenient. I didn't want to
show up empty-handed. Bad enough that I'd donned a pair of jean
shorts and a white tank top while the hostess had picked funeral
black.
Mireille accepted the bottle, but said,
"I'll give it back to you when you leave!" She headed down the
narrow white hallway.
"Hi, Hope," said a guy's voice, as I kicked
my shoes into the pile by the door.
My heart thudded. I looked up, only to see
Tucker dressed in a white shirt with aquamarine pinstripes, sleeves
rolled
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