The Clean Line

The lavender silk dress is still against my skin 

It is bunched up under my medical pants now. It feels thick and uncomfortable around my waist. I didn't have time to go back to my condo to change, so I drove straight from the gates of Forbes Park to the hospital's basement parking.  My white coat is buttoned all the way up to hide the fancy purple collar—and to hide the fact that I spent my evening at a dinner where rich people eat expensive food and pretend everything is fine. 

It is midnight.

The emergency room smells like wet umbrellas and floors washed too many times with pine cleaner. Outside, the Manila rain is drumming loudly on the metal roof. 

I am standing by the nurse's station. Looking at the monitor for Bed 3.

It's a six-year-old girl with Severe Dengue. Her blood is turning dangerously thick because fluid is leaking into her stomach. 

"Doktora," Nurse Elena says. She hands me a small cup of hospital coffee. It is lukewarm. It tastes like burnt beans and plastic. "The children's surgeon is on the sixth floor. He said to keep the IV at the same rate until he finishes his rounds."

"We cannot wait," I say. I do not touch the coffee. I keep my eyes on the little girl’s numbers. "Her pulse pressure is narrowing. If we wait another hour her kidneys will start to complain. Call him again."

"Yes, Doktora."

My phone starts vibrating hard on the counter. 

The screen shows a picture of Scarlet from three years ago, smiling on a beach in Batanes before she got sick. I pick it up.

"Scarlet," I say. I move away from the main desk. Toward the quiet corner where they keep the spare wheelchairs. "Are you home? The driver said you left before ten."

A loud wall of club music hits my ear. The bass is so deep it shakes my phone. In the background, a girl is screaming and laughing in the dark. 

"Snow," Scarlet gasps.

Her words are slurred and thick from drinking.  They stick together like wet sugar. I can hear her teeth clicking against the glass of a cup.

"Where are you?" I ask. My body tensing up. "Scarlet, listen to me. You’re still in Poblacion. "

"We’re on the roof, Snow! " she laughs, sounding drunk.  "We’re on the roof, Snow. The rain feels so good. It feels like... like tiny needles. Everyone is here. JV is here. Bea is here. They’re buying the blue shots."

"You can't drink, Scarlet," I say, my voice rising before I quickly lower it so the nurses won't hear.  "Your liver can't handle alcohol with your heart medication. You’re going to cause a heart attack. Where is Danilo?"

"I told him to leave," she whispers.

The music gets louder for a second. As if someone opened a door next to her.

"Why did you tell him to leave?"

"Because he looks at me like you do," she screams over the music, suddenly angry. "Like I'm a ghost. Like I'm already in a box. I don't want him here, Snow. I want to dance. I want to feel alive"

"Scarlet, you are drunk. You cannot stay there."

"Then come get me," she says.

Her voice suddenly sounds tiny, like a scared child. 

"Sunduin mo ako, Snow. Please. My chest is doing that thing again. My heart is flapping too hard. "

I look at the clock on the wall. Twelve-twelve.

"Okay," I say. I am already reaching for my keys in my pocket. The metal is cold against my thumb. "Stay in the lobby. Do not go out to the street. I will take the flyover. I will be there in fifteen minutes."

"Dr. Ford!"

Nurse Elena’s voice screams down the hallway, sharp and panicked. 

"Bed 3," she shouts. She is already running toward the glass doors of the trauma room. "She's vomiting blood, Doktora. Her pressure is forty over twenty."

The phone is still warm against my ear.

"Snow?" Scarlet says through the line. "Snow, where are you going?"

I look over at Bed 3. The curtains are open and the little girl is sitting up, throwing up blood. Her mother is screaming in terror. 

"Scarlet," I say. My chest tightening. "I can't come." 

"What?"

"I have a patient," I say. The words feel heavy. "She’s bleeding. We have to go to surgery right now. I can't leave the hospital." 

"You promised," Scarlet cries, her voice fading into the loud club music. "You always do this. The sick babies are always more important than me."

"She is dying, Scarlet!" I shout.

The line goes quiet for half a second. Only the music remains.

"Call an Uber," I tell her. My hand is shaking so hard I have to press the phone against my jaw to keep it still. "Or call Papa. Tell him to send the backup driver from the office. Do not touch your keys, Scarlet. Do not go near the car."

"Bahala ka," she whispers, and hangs up. 

"Doktora, tara na!" Nurse Elena is holding the door open.

I drop the phone into my pocket. I don't look to see if the message went through. I don't have time to think about my sister or the fancy dress under my pants. 

I run into the trauma room.

The little girl's eyes are rolling back. The white part is showing. A pale grey skin against the red of her mouth.

"Get the intubation tray," I say. My voice is steady. The doctor is back. The girl who has no sister. The girl who has only the clean line of the monitor. "Call the OR. Tell them we are coming up now. Do not wait for the elevator. We take the ramp."

We push the bed out. The wheels scream against the linoleum. 

I am on the bed now. My knees are on the mattress. My hands are on her chest. Pushing down. Feeling the ribs bend under my palms.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Outside the window the rain is a solid wall over BGC. Black and heavy and cold.

I force myself not to think about the car keys in my sister's hand. I don't think about how mad she was. I just keep pumping. 

One. Two. Three. Four.

And down in Poblacion, a sports car door opens. The key goes into the ignition, and the dashboard lights turn on. The wipers start scraping loudly against the dry glass, right before the engine roars to life.