agreeably.
Ten minutes later, I’m showered, changed and on my way out again. Buttercup gives one mournful howl, sounding very much like a werewolf or the hound of the Baskervilles, then doubtlessly flops down for a snooze.
Tonight is my first EMT class, and though I’m quite unsure that I want to attend, I’m also pretty sick of making an idiot of myself every time someone has a boo-boo. My whole life, I’ve been queasy (putting it gently) around blood. It’s time to take charge. I’d really like to be more like…well, like Aragorn. Now there’s a guy you can count on in times of trouble. After the toy store debacle, after making a fool of myself in front of Kim and Dad and Trevor, I’ve decided that knowledge is power. Desensitization time.
I obediently report to Eaton Falls Hospital, where class will be held once a week. Once again, the notion that I’ll meet a friendly guy here pops into my brain. So far, Tara and Sarah, good sisters-in-law though they may be, have turned up squat on the date front. Every man they know seems to be married or related to me. Maybe I should take out my high school yearbook and take a flip through. Give a few guys a ring. I sigh. Hi, it’s Chastity O’Neill! How are you? I’m back in town, thought we could meet for a drink, shoot some hoops…and by the way, are you married?
I walk in the hospital’s main doors, lost in thought, and slam into someone coming the opposite way. “Sorry!” I exclaim.
“My fault,” he says, and holy crap, it’s him! It’s the guy from Emo’s! Mr. New York Times! Mr. Cheekbones! The one who didn’t send me a drink!
“Hi!” I sound like a breathless teenager upon glimpsing Justin Timberlake. He smiles distantly and continues on his way, as I, open-mouthed, watch him go. Beautiful. He’s beautiful, even from behind. Make that especially from behind. His hair blows in the evening breeze, his suit jacket ruffling. A suit, but no briefcase. Does he work here? Visiting? Probably visiting his supermodel wife, who just gave birth to perfect twin girls.
“Do you happen to know who that man was?” I ask the elderly woman at the reception desk.
“Which man, dear?” she asks.
“The one who just left?”
“Sorry, I didn’t see him.”
Damn. Can’t catch a break these days. I head to the meeting room where our class will be held once a week for the next eight weeks. Maybe I’ll meet someone here, I remind myself.
I don’t. Well, not that kind of someone. There are six of us, three men, three women, and I try not to be disappointed that none of the men is going to be my husband, being that two are in their fifties and all are married. Perhaps the teacher is some hunky paramedic or E.R. doctor…but no. In strides a brisk-looking middle-aged woman with wiry gray hair and sturdy shoes. She whips out a clipboard and peruses it intently. “O’Neill?” she barks, looking at the list.
“Here,” I answer.
“I meant, are you one of the O’Neills?” She cocks her head, birdlike.
“Um, if you mean one of Mike and Betty’s kids, then yes.”
She bursts into a smile. “I’m Bev Ludevoorsk. I know your dad,” she says. “And your brothers, let’s see…Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, right?”
I nod, simultaneously proud and irritated. Proud of my brothers, irritated at being pigeonholed.
“What great guys!” Bev barks.
“I can see you don’t know them well,” I joke.
“Hahahaha! You should certainly sail through this class, with the family history you’ve got!” she booms approvingly. “And look at you! Just as big and strong as your brothers. Patient lifting won’t be a problem for you, now, will it?”
“I guess not,” I mutter, trying to feel flattered.
“What’s your first name?” she asks. “Charity?”
“Chastity,” I correct. One of my classmates smiles. “My father thought it was funny,” I explain. “My middle name’s Virginia.”
“Ouch,” the woman says.
“Tell me about it.”
“Chastity’s whole family works in emergency services,” Bev barks. “Right, Chastity?”
“Three firefighters, a bomb detonator and a chopper paramedic,” I confirm.
“And isn’t Trevor Meade somehow related to you?” she asks.
“No, actually. An honorary O’Neill, but no relation.” I feel my face warm at the thrill of discussing Trevor, loser that I am. For Pete’s sake, I’ve known Trev my whole life. We were together romantically for roughly seventy-two hours. You’d think I’d be over that.
“Right, so anyway, why don’t we introduce ourselves and say why we’re here. I’m Bev, as I already told you, hahahaha, and I love doing this job because we help people. Simple as that. Got to think on your feet, move fast, keep a cool head. It’s a great job. Who’s next? O’Neill? How about you?”
I hesitate, unsure of how much truth to parcel out. “Well, as you just heard, my family is in emergency services, and I thought it was time I joined the herd. Oh, and by the way, I’m, um, kind of surprising them with this class, Bev, so if you see one of them, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this.”
“No prob, O’Neill. Next?”
The other people in class—Henry, Ernesto, Ursula, Pam and Todd—say basically the same thing as Bev: it seems like a good way to serve the community, maybe work in the field professionally, yadda yadda.
“Okay, people, so this first class is an overview of the kinds of things we’re likely to see in the field,” she begins. My toes curl in my shoes. Relax, Chastity. You can do this. Knowledge is power. “Get the lights in back, O’Neill, okay? We’re having a little slide show.”
I obey, dreading what’s about to come. My stomach feels cold. Bad sign.
“Great. Slide number one—compound fracture, tib/fib. Anyone know what that means?”
My mouth dries up in instant horror. There on the screen is a close-up of bone jutting out of flesh, the white, jagged end bloodstained, the fibrous cartilage torn. Look away. Look away! My neck seems to be made of limp spaghetti, my head wobbles, my eyes flutter closed. Happy thoughts, happy bleeping thoughts…uh…let’s see…rowing, that’s good…Buttercup when I took her home the first time…Twinkies…um…Aragorn…Jeter… There. It’s working. I swallow against the bile and pull my head back into position, but I stare down at the desk, averting my eyes from the nasty picture on the screen. My skin crawls in revulsion.
“And next, okay, this is what we call a chronic wound or an ulcerating wound. Old folks, diabetics, bed-bound people are prone to these. Pesky little suckers that take months to heal, if they ever do.”
Don’t look, Chastity. But I can’t help it. My eyes flash to the screen in time to see an open sore on the leg of a very hairy man. Immediately, I slap my gaze back to the desk, but it’s too
