Rind and Remembrance

The hospital cafeteria smelled of antiseptic and coffee burned three hours too long. Elena sat at the window table, peeling an orange with surgical precision. The rind came away in long, unbroken spirals, like the DNA samples she analyzed in the lab downstairs. She'd always loved how his hands looked when he peeled oranges—strong fingers stained with citrus oils, the way he'd offer her the first segment like it was something precious.

Now those hands lay bandaged in Room 412.

She took a bite. Bitter. She'd forgotten to remove the pith. "Vitamin C," she whispered, the phrase hanging between them like a curse. That's what she'd said when she convinced him to take the supplements. "It's just vitamins, David. Everyone takes them." She hadn't known about the interaction. Hadn't thought to check how the St. John's wort she suggested for his mood would react with the new medication.

The lunch lady deposited a plastic bowl in front of her. Spinach, wilted and gray, congealing under a layer of institutional cheese. David's favorite. He'd eat it by the handful when they were first dating, claiming it made him feel like Popeye, flexing his skinny arms in their cramped apartment kitchen. She'd laughed then, pressing a kiss to his forehead, running her fingers through his thick dark hair, promising him real meals once they both finished their residencies.

Now that hair was gone, shaved away for the EEG electrodes. His scalp was a topography of loss beneath the thin fabric of his hospital cap.

She pulled the knit hat from her bag—cranberry red, the one she'd made during her oncology rotation. A different patient had worn it then. Another David. Another set of hands that had grown cold while she learned to measure out compassion in milliliters. She fingered the loose stitch at the crown. Maybe she should have become a cardiologist instead. At least when you broke a heart, you could see the damage.

The admitting physician's words echoed in her head: "Doctor, you should have known."

She stood, abandoning the spinach and the half-eaten orange. Some things you couldn't fix. Some damage you couldn't unmake. She smoothed her hair, adjusted her white coat, and walked toward Room 412, the vitamin bottle still burning in her pocket like accusation.