Third Degree by Julie Cross Page B

gossip.
    “My dad. Have you seen him?” I repeat with more urgency.
    Justin leans against the nurses’ station counter and grins. “How’s the University of Wherever the Hell You’re at Now? Are you making friends? Meeting any cute boys?”
    “Screw you,” I say before stomping away from him and heading for the surgical board. I scan the list and search for Dr. Jenkins. He’s in OR four doing an aortic valve repair. I pace outside the operating room door for thirty minutes. I’m still in my clothes from this morning’s boot camp class, my hair a mess from getting all sweaty and then drying up with no shower. The second Dad exits the OR, he takes one look at me and knows something is wrong.
    “I went home,” I tell him before he can ask.
    Dad draws in a breath, his eyes already pained. He pulls the mask off his face and tosses it into a nearby garbage can. Two third-year residents I recognize exit the OR, and Dad quickly turns to them, saying, “Can you speak with the family and take them into recovery when the patient wakes up?”
    Both nod, and Dad leads me to an empty stairwell, sitting down on the steps. I can’t sit, but I attempt to lean against the railing and push off seconds later, resuming my pacing.
    “I was going to tell you soon,” he says, lifting his eyes from his lap and meeting my gaze. “Everything got all messed up when you didn’t get the residency at Johns Hopkins.”
    “What does Johns Hopkins have to do with the FOR SALE sign in our yard?” Had they been planning on following me to Baltimore and then gotten in a bind because they’d already secretly committed to selling the house? I bet that’s it. It has to be.
    Dad rakes a hand through his hair. “You mom and I … we’re …” He stops and swallows, his Adam’s apple popping out, and my heart speeds up, sweat forming in my palms. “We’re getting a divorce.”
    “What?” My mouth is literally hanging open. My eyes dart around the stairwell. It’s like the walls are caving in slowly and soon I’ll be buried alive in this hospital. The place where allmy failures are laid out in front of me. I rub at the front of my shirt, my chest tightening again. “You can’t get divorced.… I don’t—why?”
    I don’t even know if hearing why will help the crushing, world-flipping feeling I’m experiencing right now. I lean back against the wall, closing my eyes and attempting to force out the claustrophobic vibe this confined windowless space is now giving off.
    “We thought you’d be in Baltimore living in your own place, creating a new life for yourself, so your mother suggested we wait,” Dad explains. “You didn’t get into the program, but then you were off to school, and we thought it was time …”
    I lift my head, narrowing my eyes at him. “You were gonna let me move across the country and then what? Call me up to tell me my parents now have two addresses for holiday cards to be sent? Or were you planning to simply change your Facebook status from married to single and consider me informed?”
    “Isabel,” Dad says, the rare warning tone emerging, “this isn’t about you. We all have our lives to live. You’re an adult now. It’s not like we’re putting you in the middle of a custody dispute.”
    My hands are shaking. My legs, too.
    He’s right. I’m an adult. I shouldn’t be freaking out like this. But it’s different for me. My parents didn’t become my parents until I was five years old. And while I know that logically it’s false, it feels like if they’re not together, then I don’t belong to them. And that means I don’t belong to anyone, considering my birth mother died when I was three months old.
    This is not something I want to relive today.
    There’s a huge lump in my throat, making it difficult to swallow or speak. Crying would make the lump go away, but I’m too shocked to cry. Maybe tomorrow they’ll change their minds. Maybe tomorrow Johns Hopkins will change its decision,