Excerpt of “Stranded”
by Sunny Singh
“Red Alert: Level 1 Incoming” screams one of the nurses on the intercom. I sigh and rub the bags under my eyes, hoping that this incoming code is the hysteria that normally happens at the end of a fourteen-hour shift in the emergency room. I cling to the counter of the breakroom and press my fingertips into the quartz countertops while waiting for the instant coffee to slosh with the boiling water I dispensed. To cure my exhaustion, I add three packets of Splenda, mix it with a straw, letting the hot droplets sear my pen stained palms. There lies no mood to criticize myself for my coffee tastes after the amount of work I've done. The hot brew jolts my mouth awake while I discard the styrofoam cup, and I pace back to my place as assistant to the physician.
The team of nurses and doctors assemble in one of the large rooms as if they were an audience waiting for the next act. There are some mumbles about what the situation will look like.
Car crash. Drunk driver. Young man, mid-20s.
I stare outside the room, the medical-grade curtain exposing all of us waiting for a potential funeral. The fluorescent lights create no shadow, as if we’re in purgatory. My eyes darted to my Doctor conversing with my boss. My boss is a year younger than me, but still tells me I’m immature because I ask too many confusing questions. Boss side-eyes my glance. Her lips curl downward and she grips her scrub pants, strangling them. I scratch my neck.
The Doctor approaches me and instructs me to try to document all of her actions as best as I can. I struggle to smile and nod. She takes off her white coat, hangs it, and begins to unfold a blue, plastic gown. She wraps it around her waist and chest, carefully tying two knots in the back to relieve any probability of it unraveling during action. She carefully places three sutures in the pockets of the gown and too many pairs of gloves. Her foot taps rhythmically to the ticking of the clock over her head. The clock stares at me, waving its hands, gesturing to my thoughts--I want to go home.
The outline of the plastic casing around my phone in my pocket slides around my hands, tracing itself on my palms. I wonder if the vibrations coming in are from my quick responding Korean pen-pal, my boyfriend who just resettled in New York, or a parent asking why I’m so late in coming back from work.
The paramedics arrive with the body.
The nurses and other doctors scramble like ants in fire, shearing off the body’s clothing, attaching IVS, and administering CPR. The various beeps of machines intermingle with loud voices, climbing in between each other like braids of a rope. The body gets stripped of his clothing, and someone covers him with a gown.
My fingers time-stamp the various actions on my laptop: Epinephrine in. Administer CPR. Who is he? Any ID? No ID, no wallet on him. More Epinephrine. Stop CPR. Head Trauma. Broken extremities. More Epinephrine.
The body’s color fades and feathers into a cool gradient. There is a voice. The body whimpers in his shallow breaths.
Start CPR. Electric Shock, now, please. More Epinephrine. More Epinephrine. STOP CPR. Look at the heart. More Epinephrine. Another shock, please. No more epinephrine. STOP. LOOK. MORE. STOP.
TIME OF DEATH--7:03AM.
White sheets get drawn over the corpse. Nurses and doctors trickle out of the room, unclogging the heaviness in the air. The expressions of the staff morph as they exit, blossoming from solemn to eager for breakfast. The Doctor is alone with me. She disrobes, fiddling with the sutures for a small amount of time, wishing she could have used them. We both look at the covered body apologetically. She unfurls the body’s head covering and closes his glossed, milky white eyes. A voice crack reveals itself through her heavy sigh. She covers him and exits the room.
The last sound in the room is the clock’s ticking. I turn to leave for home with my back facing his death.
I arrive back home to sluggishly change into loose clothes and enact my morning ritual of drinking honey tea. The air in the house still reeks of fresh, frozen pine in the center of late winter. I hear bells jingle and jump in the coolness, so I scurry towards the staircase and find my young cat, Dio, stretching in the sunlight.
I sit next to him and feel the oozing warmth pulse into my skin. Dio blinked and looked at me, announcing purrs that resembled the engine of a train giving off smoke from its core. His constricted pupils blink and his eye disks flicker in size in the sunlight. He gives me a look.
“Where the hell have you been, I was waiting for you” is something he would probably say to me. The sun pops amber feathers in Dio’s black fur, resembling a burnt chocolate cake. I rub his tummy and he licks my finger. I remember how, despite belonging to my older brother on paper, he chose me to follow around. This realization ignites me with pride and responsibility. Near Dio’s ribs, my fingertips bounce at the motion of his heartbeat, creating waves of electrical love travelling between us.
“Sorry. You were waiting for me,” I say. He stretches and curls near me and swipes at my pant drawstrings. What a child.