Chapter I

Oh, hey there, remember me? It's been just about forever since I've last posted. I apologize profusely, and hope you will accept my deepest sorrow. To make up for it, I spent today in Philly walking along Chestnut Hill to settle myself in a coffee house up at the top to write for an hour or two. My loitering of the place, nursing my latte, allowed me to complete two, count them two chapters of Wing Girl. Remember that crazy insane concept from earlier? If you don't (lame,) here you go: http://summersaltproject.blogspot.com/2011/06/wing-women-wing-men.html
No excuses now. So the idea is that the book will change perspectives each chapter, so this first one is from the viewpoint of the character Doug Collins. I'll post a couple more chapters, unless you guys hate this first one so much that you're positively on your knees begging me to stop. So, yes? No? Maybe so? If you can, let me know.

Doug

“Alright Autumn, I need you to count down from 10 for me.”

The girl, looking even more small and fragile once swept away by the anesthesia barely makes it past seven.

I watch as her small chest undulates slowly. Kris hands me the scalpel from across the table, the blade flashing brilliantly in the fluorescent-lit room. She smiles my favorite Kris smile, the one full of hope and encouragement. She knows I hate to be the one to make the first incision.

Here’s what I don’t like about the whole idea of making that entry mark: that is the single cut that will stay with the individual forever. One day, as your browsing the galas in the supermarket, looking for the one that’s just ripe, but not too ripe, you look up and WHAM, there’s that patient you worked on 3 years ago. There, still visible despite the many years that have come to pass, lingers that one white line. That one white line that you yourself made. And then what’s the proper protocol? Is there some form of etiquette when you see a past patient who would barely remember you, groggy as they were when he or she glimpsed your mask-obscured face? Do you just keep going on your merry way to snag some milk, but what if they do recognize you? And then you look so rude totally blowing that person off?

Kris tells me that I think too much.

I grip the glimmering metal in my left hand, and with the slightest pressure I can manage, I make the stroke down the small trail of purple dots marking the point of insertion. Warm scarlet trickles up, but Kris is ready.

A biopsy is a rather simple procedure once you get past the initial entrance. I’m fine from that point on. It’s all too easy to fall back into the same pattern as in medical school, when this was merely a cadaver lying stony on the table. And really, how much damage can you do to a cadaver anyway?

Snip. Cut. Swish. Pluck. Whistle whistle.

In only three quarters of an hour, the girl is being rolled back to join her family, and the infected lymph node rolled back to the lab for testing.

I snap off my gloves and go to shake the anxious hand of the girl’s mother. I assure her everything will be perfectly fine, and I see that she believes me, but I understand how it would feel to see that person you love more than anyone in the world lying so helpless before you.

Not like I’ve ever had that feeling before.

It’s growing dark out, although you’d ever be able to tell in these pristine white hallways, but I know because my gastric juices slosh in an uncomforting way. I think ahead to the leftover calzone from Friday night, and the anguished noises calm themselves just a bit.

I shed my coat and toss it into the half-filled sterilizing bin with the other scrubs from the day.

The hall is more empty than usual, and I pass just a few doctors on my way out. It’s eerie, in that scary movie setting in a hospital kind of way.

I hope to stay here. I like the location, and though downtown may be just a tad far away from my home in Chestnut Hill, I enjoy my work. I’m fond of the coworkers I’ve grown so close to, like Patrick and Kris.

I was right; it is growing dark out. The always-present traffic jam is especially awful on a twilit Saturday. I wait at the crosswalk with a chorus of couples. When the signal to go is given, I remember a story I heard of once about a mockingbird. The bird had learned to mimic the sound of the crosswalk signal, the irritating chirp specifically intended for the visually impaired. I recall that the blind community was in an uproar over the bird. They wanted it captured, and I don’t remember what they planned to do with it afterwards. I never heard the end of the story, and I often think of what became of the bird. It’s amazing how some things become newsworthy, and stick in your mind, while others like the square root of pi slip quietly out the back window of your occipital lobe.

My car is across the street, parked in the lot reserved for hospital staff. I skip the elevator for exercise, and because it smells strongly of urine and other bodily fluids, and instead take the stairway. On the third floor I reach into my pocket, feeling the slight buzz of my phone against my fingers. Four cars down on the second row my Volvo S80 blinks its taillights in a welcoming way, like a small dog at the arrival of an owner it had waited longingly for all day.

My phone chirps once, signaling a voicemail. I'll answer later. I have seen too many effects of driving on the phone to desire to experience the tragedy firsthand.

It’s probably just Nina anyway. Usually she is the only one who calls to leave a voicemail. Oh, Nina, my lovable yet impulsive sister older than me by just 2 years. Most of the time it feels as if I am the more mature of us. Nina has lived everywhere, including a brief stint residing in a tent with a man much older than herself on a beach in Hawaii. She has never been able to stick to anything, anyone, or anywhere. Last I have heard; she lives in Doylestown at a café serving coffee. Living close allows me to see her sometimes, but it’s been awhile. Maybe she wants to get together now.

I turn the radio to WHYY and get lost in the calming voices of reporters relaying the disastrous events that had transpired in the world today.

I turn onto Chestnut Hill and drive slowly down the rugged cobblestone streets. Wonderful smells work their ways through the open windows from the restaurants lining the stones, and I think once more of my cold calzone, beckoning to be heated and devoured.

I used to be dreadful at parallel parking, but living in Philly has cured me of that. I back smoothly into a spot in one try and turn the key, cutting off the misleading peaceful tones of the radio host.

My cat, Liza Jane, stretches her long spine on the walk by my passenger door. I bend down, grateful for the small pop in my knees after being locked all day at work. She guides my hand across her muzzle and back behind her ear to stroke her striped back. Cats are funny in that way. Dogs will take whatever they can possibly get, and gladly roll onto their side to welcome more tender strokes. Cats are bossy, and quick to train you to obey their own agenda.

Liza’s collar jingles up the steps in the fast encroaching night, and she pauses at the top, attempting to trap a glowing firefly in vain.

The keys are still in my hand from getting out of the car, and I slowly sift through them to uncover the faded bronze of the house key. The lock matches the ancient metal of the key, and as usual, it sticks for just a moment until I jiggle violently and the door pops open unwillingly.

It’s dark inside, but a light is on in the kitchen. That’s unusual, seeing as typically it’s bright enough in the morning for me to get away without switching on any fixtures. Floorboards squeal behind me, and I hear feet too big to be Liza’s padding towards my turned back. I whirl around, but not before small cold hands cover my eyes.