Matched by Design, page 3
Isaac’s mother’s cancer had already been quite advanced when discovered mere weeks before med school graduation—stage four. After four years of battling the disease, Isaac had known the end was coming in a way only a doctor could. That hadn’t stopped her death six months ago from laying him flat.
He hadn’t expected to lose his best friend only a few short months later.
If his mother had never developed cancer, Isaac might have been able to save his friend in the fall. Been able to perform some battlefield surgery taught by the Air Force that would have bought Quincy enough time to get to a hospital.
But Isaac had spent little time focusing on the basics, instead muscling his way onto every plastic surgery case that came through the hospital. Plastic surgery had a high income potential—one he’d hoped would give him the funds necessary to save his mom’s life. In the end, his rudimentary efforts that day to save Quincy’s life, with only minimal supplies at his disposal, hadn’t been enough.
Isaac had been putting in the hours these last two months, though, ignoring plastics and soaking up every bit of knowledge that Dr. Conrad had to offer. This time, things would be different.
Isaac tried to focus on the sound of his footfalls as he pushed open the OR doors. He locked the bed into place so they could transfer the patient to the table. Dr. Conrad arrived moments later, his freshly scrubbed arms held out as a nurse slipped on the sterile surgical gloves.
“He’s bleeding internally,” Isaac told Dr. Conrad. “Mountain climbing accident. Friend said it was a thirty-foot fall.”
“Can you scrub in?” Dr. Conrad asked.
Isaac nodded, racing back to the scrub room. Hot water scalded his skin as he rubbed his arms and hands vigorously, but all he could think of was Quincy’s dead eyes. The paramedics had done chest compressions for the entire hour-long ride to North Grace Hospital, but Isaac had known it was too late while praying he was wrong.
He couldn’t lose this patient to such a similar injury. It would feel like failing Quincy all over again.
There had to be a way to convince Dr. Braithe to reconsider Isaac’s application for the general surgery fellowship in Texas—the one that Quincy had been so excited about. His friend had talked about nothing else for months before the accident. Dr. Braithe was a world-renowned surgeon and only accepted three doctors a year into the program. The applicants had to be a fourth-year resident to apply.
Quincy had missed that milestone by three weeks. And Isaac … well, apparently Dr. Braithe had thought his resumé was too light on general surgery cases.
Maybe a positive outcome on this case would help change his mind. Isaac wasn’t giving up. Not yet.
He couldn’t face Jasmine again until he’d done something to right this awful wrong.
When Isaac re-entered the OR, Dr. Conrad had already made the first cut. Isaac quickly moved to the surgeon’s side. The patient lay open on the table, a first-year resident holding the suction while Dr. Conrad worked to find the source of the bleeding in the abdominal cavity.
Isaac jumped right in, his hands running a section of bowel and finding nothing. There was so much blood. At this rate, the patient would need a transfusion soon. The tibia remained unset and ignored as they worked to mitigate the more immediate danger internal bleeding presented.
Had Dr. Conrad faced a similar situation with Quincy? When the ambulance finally arrived at the hospital, they hadn’t let Isaac into the OR. He’d been forced to sit in the waiting room, knowing that the efforts of his fellow doctors—the friends and mentors he’d come to regard as family—wouldn’t be enough.
He should’ve told Quincy that the climb was too dangerous. Insisted they pick an easier one. They should have tested the anchor more thoroughly before deeming it safe.
The patient’s heart monitor flat-lined, filling the OR with a loud beep. Isaac’s own heart rate spiked as the patient’s stopped. They were losing this man, who had family and friends who loved him and would miss him. Just like Isaac had lost Quincy.
“Charge to two hundred,” Isaac called as he grabbed the paddles. “Clear!”
The patient’s entire body jerked. Isaac watched the monitor, but no rhythm appeared. Dr. Conrad resumed trying to stop the bleeding, gauze shoved into the open wound as a resident continued to suction.
“Push one of epi and charge to three hundred.” Isaac heard the desperation in his own voice. “Clear.”
The surgeons raised their hands, and the patient’s back arched once more with the surge of electricity, but the heart monitor detected no pulse. Isaac blinked quickly, the patient’s fair skin blurring into a memory of Quincy’s much blacker skin.
“We’re losing him,” Dr. Conrad said, muttering a curse. “I can’t find the source of this bleeding.”
“Charge again,” Isaac ordered the nurse.
He shocked the patient’s heart a third time, and then a fourth. The memory of his own panicked voice begging dispatch to hurry echoed in his mind.
“He’s maxed out on epi,” one of the nurses said.
Dr. Conrad dropped the instruments onto a steel tray, shaking his head. “He’s gone, Dr. Sloan. Call it.”
Isaac shook his head, refusing to believe that he’d failed again.
“No. Charge the paddles again.” Isaac held them over the patient’s chest, waiting for the hum of electricity that signaled the nurse had followed his commands.
The surgical mask was strangling Isaac. Making it hard to breathe. The patient’s face swam, morphing into Quincy’s and then back into the patient’s.
Isaac needed this case to end with a positive outcome. He hadn’t voluntarily taken a plastics case in two months, instead learning everything he could from Dr. Conrad. That had to make a difference this time.
A hand rested on his shoulder, grounding him back in the present. Dr. Conrad’s voice was firm, and his eyes lined with compassion. “There’s nothing more we can do. He’s your patient, Dr. Sloan. Call it.”
Isaac closed his eyes, grief welling up inside him. A groan of frustration hissed through his clenched jaw as he took a step away from the patient.
This man looked nothing like Quincy. The patient’s long blond dreadlocks were carefully concealed by a hairnet, whereas Quincy’s head had been shaved. This patient was shorter and stockier, too, with a neck tattoo snaking toward his hairline. His skin was tanned, clearly showing a love of the sun, while Quincy’s had been black.
But all Isaac could see was his best friend, lying broken and bleeding on the forest floor.
Despite two months spent avoiding plastics and focusing on other specialties, he’d failed. Again.
“Time of death, eleven twenty-four p.m.” Each syllable burned Isaac’s throat.
Suddenly the OR was a prison—one he was desperate to escape. He pushed his way into the scrub room, yanking off his mask and dropping it into a bin. His gloves and gown were next, both dotted with the blood of yet another patient he couldn’t save.
The walls were closing in on him. Had been for months, but he no longer knew how to avoid suffocation. Quincy’s death, so close on the heels of his mother’s, felt like an impossible burden to bear.
His mind sank again into the past. Jasmine had arrived at the hospital first. Isaac and Jasmine had grown close while Quincy was stationed overseas. The accusation in her face had gutted Isaac even as she reached out with a hand and begged him to promise her that Quincy would be okay.
But he couldn’t lie to her. Couldn’t even find a way to comfort her as she collapsed in his arms, sobbing that Isaac was supposed to have protected her brother. Begging to know why he hadn’t saved him.
Isaac flinched as someone was paged on the intercom. He flexed his icy cold fingers, struggling to pull out of the past.
Quincy was gone. Nothing he could do would change that. But he could keep focusing on general surgery. He could be a better doctor and not lose the next patient.
He could figure out how to convince Dr. Braithe to let him into the fellowship. After that, maybe—just maybe—Isaac could face Jasmine again.
An intern offered a greeting as Isaac hurried past, and he gave a tight smile in response. Everyone at the hospital had been kind in the weeks after the accident, but Isaac had refused all offers for time off. He didn’t need long hours with no purpose. He needed to work. To forget. To improve as a doctor.
In the on-call room, Isaac looked around just long enough to verify it was empty before sliding to the floor. He dropped his head into his hands, unable to erase the empty look in Quincy’s eyes as he’d held his friend and howled at the sky.
Isaac’s breath came in quick gasps he struggled to control. Now was not the time to lose it. He was on call for another twelve hours, and evening rounds would start soon. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, pressing back tears as guilt continued to slam him.
He’d gotten dressed for Quincy’s funeral, but when push came to shove, Isaac had headed to the hospital instead of the cemetery. Hours later Jasmine had come looking for him, but Isaac had seen her around the corner and told a nurse to say he was in surgery. A cowardly move, but the only one he’d felt capable of making.
He couldn’t face her grief while still battling his guilt.
Isaac ran a hand over his head, yanking off the scrub cap and fighting to keep his breaths slow and even. He would not hyperventilate. Would not think about Quincy. About Jasmine.
She’d turned twenty-one today. He’d thought about texting her, but once again the guilt had won and proved him a coward. She was better off without him, anyway.
Isaac leaned his head back against the wall, focusing on his breaths. He couldn’t bring Quincy back. Maybe he couldn’t even bring himself to text Jasmine. But Isaac could pick himself off this floor and go find another case. He could keep applying to Dr. Braithe’s fellowship until he was accepted.
Texas was as good a place as any for a fresh start. And Quincy would be glad Isaac was doing it.
“Are you okay, Dr. Sloan?”
Isaac jumped to his feet, heat making his cheeks burn. Dr. Conrad leaned against the door frame, arms folded and his Star Wars scrub cap still covering his thick salt-and-pepper hair.
Isaac cleared his throat, humiliation washing over him. Would Dr. Conrad think his moment of weakness meant Isaac wasn’t cut out for general surgery? “I’m fine. Sorry. I just … needed a minute. I’m okay now.”
Dr. Conrad remained leaning against the door, his eyes never leaving Isaac’s. “That was a hard loss for you.”
Isaac looked away, not sure how to respond. “Aren’t all losses hard?”
“Some more than others. You haven’t been yourself the last few months, Sloan.”
Isaac opened his mouth to argue, but Dr. Conrad held up a hand. “It’s understandable. You lost someone who’s like family, and that’s never easy. But I think you should take that time off you refused in the beginning. Get your head on straight, so to speak.”
Isaac blanched at the idea. Time off? To what—wallow in his apartment, letting the guilt swallow him whole?
He’d been a doctor, and yet Quincy had still died. Isaac had cut Jasmine from his life, which she hadn’t deserved. He hadn’t been enough for any of them. The only way to make amends was to try his best to be better. To do better. He couldn’t accomplish that away from the hospital.
“I’m fine, Chief.” Isaac looked down, not meeting Dr. Conrad’s piercing gaze. “The similarities in that patient’s case took me off guard, but I just needed a few moments to process it.”
Dr. Conrad sighed, the sound echoing around the dimly lit room. “You need more than a few moments, Sloan. Some of the other residents have come to me with concerns. You’re too tired at work. Seem to be taking setbacks with patients more personally.”
Isaac flinched. “It’s fourth year—we’re all tired. True, I haven’t been sleeping well, but I—”
Dr. Conrad held up a hand, his face growing stern. “This isn’t a request, Dr. Sloan. It’s an order. I want you to take the next two weeks to get your head on straight. Read a book, go for a walk, sleep in—whatever it takes. Maybe talking to someone would help. I can set you up with one of the psychologists here at the hospital.”
Isaac’s spine stiffened, and it took a concerted effort not to snap back at his mentor and boss. “I don’t need a shrink.”
Dr. Conrad raised an eyebrow. “Fine then. Take a vacation. I know that sand and surf always helps me feel better.”
“The beach is only an hour away.” The words sounded hollow. Empty.
“It should be easy to visit then.”
Two weeks without the OR. Without holding a scalpel or cutting.
“Please.” Isaac swallowed hard, hating that the word came out like a plea. “This isn’t something that… Two weeks isn’t going to make a difference. I’m fine, Dr. Conrad. Really.”
But Dr. Conrad’s expression didn’t change. Instead, he clapped Isaac on the shoulder in a fatherly way. “Two weeks of rest and relaxation—doctor’s orders. Get out of the hospital. Make some peace with your demons. And let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I’ll see you in two weeks, and not a day sooner. You’re on Dr. Smith’s service today, right? I’ll let her know you’ve left early and won’t be finishing out your shift.”
Isaac watched, frozen, as Dr. Conrad opened the door and left the on-call room. The door slowly swung shut behind him, not quite latching. But still, Isaac stared.
Two weeks alone with his thoughts. Where would he run to, now that escaping to the hospital was no longer an option?
Chapter Four
The warm air of the work room spilled over Jasmine. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, fighting back the dizziness from too many hours spent working with not enough food. The hum of sewing machines kept her focused as she adjusted the hem of the silver bridesmaid dress, making sure it hung on the mannequin just right. Her stomach growled loudly and her muscles ached from the long hours spent hunched over the project, but there wasn’t time for a break. Skye would arrive upstairs any moment now.
Jasmine hoped Skye would love the design on the mannequin as much as she had on paper, because if she didn’t, Genevieve would gleefully say I told you so. Which was exactly what couldn’t happen right now.
It had been two days since Jasmine’s birthday, and she’d spent every waking moment working on this dress. Biased though her opinion was, she thought the end result had definitely been worth the effort.
Was it impressive enough to make Skye forget that Jasmine was supposed to be engaged? She certainly hoped so, because she’d had exactly zero time to figure out a solution to that problem.
Jasmine’s phone buzzed in one pocket, interrupting her concentration.
For one traitorous moment, her heart leapt. Maybe Isaac was finally texting her. Maybe he’d apologize for ignoring her birthday. She could be at the hospital in an hour, sharing a coffee with him like old times.
But it wasn’t Isaac who’d texted. It was her brother, Mitch.
Still no word from Isaac?
This had to be like the tenth time Mitch had asked her that question since the funeral. Jasmine fought the urge to text back an emoji of a frowning devil with horns. Instead, she sent back one word: Nope.
Yeah, he’s still not talking to me, either.
Jasmine gripped the phone, a visceral pain making her entire body heat. The large fans overhead rustled the strands of hair that had escaped from a twist, but it did little to combat her hurt.
She never would have pegged Isaac as selfish. Losing Quincy had hurt more than Jasmine had thought possible. But the way Isaac had ghosted her hurt almost as badly.
Quincy hadn’t chosen to leave. Isaac had.
You know my feelings on the matter, Jasmine replied. She suspected Mitch had always felt parental toward Isaac, the latchkey kid with a mom who worked three jobs just to put food on the table. And Aliyah, Jasmine’s sister, was on the other side of the country, wrapped up in a loving husband and three busy kids. Aliyah and Isaac had never been close.
But Jasmine and Isaac had. Growing up, he’d never complained when she tagged along wherever he and Quincy went. When Quincy was deployed, they’d started getting together for the occasional coffee, just the two of them, to complain about the stresses of work.
She’d thought they’d become friends outside of Quincy. But apparently, with him gone, there was nothing left between them. Not even a pathetic happy birthday text.
He’s going through a hard time, Jas. Isaac needs us, even if he doesn’t know it. We have to keep trying.
Jasmine blinked quickly and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She had tried—done everything she could think of to get Isaac to talk. Jasmine had showed up at the hospital. Showed up at his apartment. Sent texts. Left voice mails.
He’d given nothing in return. And Jasmine was finally, finally done trying. She’d thought on her birthday of all days…
But clearly she cared for Isaac more than he cared for her. Message received.
Jasmine returned to the mannequin, her head pounding and stomach twisting from hunger. The soft chiffon draped beautifully on the mannequin, and the high-low skirt would be a beautiful complement to the trumpet silhouette of Skye’s dress.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was pretty darn close for two days’ work, and once she did a fitting on the maid of honor and got Skye’s approval, Jasmine could finish this dress and get to work on the others.
She blew a strand of hair out of her face, then rolled the mannequin toward the elevator. Time to get this up to the dressing rooms.
Genevieve met Jasmine in the dressing rooms, where Jasmine had already lifted the mannequin onto the pedestal and was picking stray threads off the fabric.
Her boss slowly circled the mannequin, one finger to her lips. Genevieve’s pinched face showed her struggle as she tried to find something to criticize about the dress.
