Code Blues by Melissa Yi Page B
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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hadn't explained why he'd
abandoned me in a café. I turned up my nose and marched to the food
table.
Tori followed me as I loaded up on pasta
bows and splatted pesto on them. The pasta glistened like it'd been
fried in butter, but I was past caring. I tore off a piece of
garlic bread and hesitated at a dish of shredded orange bits.
"It's some sort of Middle Eastern carrot
dish," Tori said. "It's good, actually. I think Robin made it."
"Does it have raisins in it?" I asked,
poking it suspiciously.
"I think so."
I wrinkled my nose and grabbed some Greek
salad and curried potatoes. At least the food was better than
Cheerios, and definitely more interesting than at potlucks in
London, Ontario.
"Hope!" a guy's voice yelled from the living
room, and everyone laughed.
My hands tightened on my dish. I had no idea
how my name had come up, but I didn't relish heading in there as
the guest of horror. I took a deep breath and squared my
shoulders.
Tori's quiet voice stopped me. "They're all
right. They're mostly harmless."
I wasn't expecting a Douglas Adams quote
from her. My esteem for her rose a notch. "Good to know."
I entered the living room, clutching my
plate, glass, and a fake smile. Instead of looking people in the
eye, I checked out the décor. Mireille was obviously a big believer
in black and white. Her black leather furniture, stereo, and coffee
table contrasted against the high gloss, all-white walls. The only
accents were a red Persian carpet beside the chesterfield, red
dinner plates, and the blue chip bowl. She looked ready for a
Canadian House & Home magazine shoot, and I didn't even have a
bed to sleep on yet.
Tucker yelled, "Hope!" in the same falling
cadence as they used to yell "Norm!" on Cheers. He patted the
loveseat. I ignored him, heading for a wooden chair near the
kitchen.
Anu passed me with a grease-stained
cardboard box. "I didn't have time to cook. I hope you like
samosas."
"Do I!" The only other time I'd eaten Indian
food, I'd devoured those spicy, deep-fried treats.
Alex rose from the sofa. He smiled at Anu,
but muttered at me, "I have to talk to you."
My temper flared. "Too bad."
He scowled. He turned and punched a button
on the stereo behind the chesterfield. Classical music halted
mid-riff.
Techno started to beat out from the speaker
behind my chair. I glowered at him while Anu fled into the
kitchen.
"All right!" someone called.
Alex stomped away with his beer bottle.
What a loser. Forget
his musculation .
Robin winced and turned down the volume.
Then he caught my eye and, to my surprise, he crossed over to talk
to me. He wasn't wearing a tie today, but more preppy
casual-does-blah, i.e. a beige golf shirt and Dockers. "Hello,
Hope. Did you have a rough day?"
"Yeah." I speared a forkful of pasta bows so
that I wouldn't have to talk. The pesto was pretty good, but not
great. My friend Ginger, from med school, did a much better one. A
wave of homesickness hit me. I had to close my eyes.
Robin Huxley regarded me steadily. His blue
eyes were slightly protuberant. I wondered if he'd ever been
checked for hyperthyroidism, but more likely, he was just naturally
pop-eyed. "Dr. Radshaw was a good teacher."
"Mmm." For some reason, it depressed me to
hear about the goodness of Dr. Radshaw. Like I should have done
something to save him. I tried the garlic bread, which had little
flecks of green, presumably parsley.
Robin seemed to blink half as much as a
normal human being. "He won teacher of the year, a few years back.
He was always willing to stay and review cases, no matter how late
it got. He wanted us to be evidence-based. He was always bringing
articles for us to read." Evidence-based practice meant that you
practiced medicine based on solid, current research, instead of
tradition and phases of the moon.
Robin sighed and shook his head. "They were
good articles. He was the best teacher at St. Joseph's Family
Medicine Center. I don't know if you've heard—"
I shook my head. He
abandoned me in a café. I turned up my nose and marched to the food
table.
Tori followed me as I loaded up on pasta
bows and splatted pesto on them. The pasta glistened like it'd been
fried in butter, but I was past caring. I tore off a piece of
garlic bread and hesitated at a dish of shredded orange bits.
"It's some sort of Middle Eastern carrot
dish," Tori said. "It's good, actually. I think Robin made it."
"Does it have raisins in it?" I asked,
poking it suspiciously.
"I think so."
I wrinkled my nose and grabbed some Greek
salad and curried potatoes. At least the food was better than
Cheerios, and definitely more interesting than at potlucks in
London, Ontario.
"Hope!" a guy's voice yelled from the living
room, and everyone laughed.
My hands tightened on my dish. I had no idea
how my name had come up, but I didn't relish heading in there as
the guest of horror. I took a deep breath and squared my
shoulders.
Tori's quiet voice stopped me. "They're all
right. They're mostly harmless."
I wasn't expecting a Douglas Adams quote
from her. My esteem for her rose a notch. "Good to know."
I entered the living room, clutching my
plate, glass, and a fake smile. Instead of looking people in the
eye, I checked out the décor. Mireille was obviously a big believer
in black and white. Her black leather furniture, stereo, and coffee
table contrasted against the high gloss, all-white walls. The only
accents were a red Persian carpet beside the chesterfield, red
dinner plates, and the blue chip bowl. She looked ready for a
Canadian House & Home magazine shoot, and I didn't even have a
bed to sleep on yet.
Tucker yelled, "Hope!" in the same falling
cadence as they used to yell "Norm!" on Cheers. He patted the
loveseat. I ignored him, heading for a wooden chair near the
kitchen.
Anu passed me with a grease-stained
cardboard box. "I didn't have time to cook. I hope you like
samosas."
"Do I!" The only other time I'd eaten Indian
food, I'd devoured those spicy, deep-fried treats.
Alex rose from the sofa. He smiled at Anu,
but muttered at me, "I have to talk to you."
My temper flared. "Too bad."
He scowled. He turned and punched a button
on the stereo behind the chesterfield. Classical music halted
mid-riff.
Techno started to beat out from the speaker
behind my chair. I glowered at him while Anu fled into the
kitchen.
"All right!" someone called.
Alex stomped away with his beer bottle.
What a loser. Forget
his musculation .
Robin winced and turned down the volume.
Then he caught my eye and, to my surprise, he crossed over to talk
to me. He wasn't wearing a tie today, but more preppy
casual-does-blah, i.e. a beige golf shirt and Dockers. "Hello,
Hope. Did you have a rough day?"
"Yeah." I speared a forkful of pasta bows so
that I wouldn't have to talk. The pesto was pretty good, but not
great. My friend Ginger, from med school, did a much better one. A
wave of homesickness hit me. I had to close my eyes.
Robin Huxley regarded me steadily. His blue
eyes were slightly protuberant. I wondered if he'd ever been
checked for hyperthyroidism, but more likely, he was just naturally
pop-eyed. "Dr. Radshaw was a good teacher."
"Mmm." For some reason, it depressed me to
hear about the goodness of Dr. Radshaw. Like I should have done
something to save him. I tried the garlic bread, which had little
flecks of green, presumably parsley.
Robin seemed to blink half as much as a
normal human being. "He won teacher of the year, a few years back.
He was always willing to stay and review cases, no matter how late
it got. He wanted us to be evidence-based. He was always bringing
articles for us to read." Evidence-based practice meant that you
practiced medicine based on solid, current research, instead of
tradition and phases of the moon.
Robin sighed and shook his head. "They were
good articles. He was the best teacher at St. Joseph's Family
Medicine Center. I don't know if you've heard—"
I shook my head. He
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