The Second Stage

Awakening

"Whoa! Whoa!" Dr. Bloom shouted over Meredith's shrieking. He did so occasionally, as if shouting with a dysphoric patient would help the situation.

"Good morning, Ms. Haynes." Dr. Bloom rushed to Meredith's side, his gray lab coat so starched that it refused to ripple. The red stethoscope around his neck swung twice before coming to rest on his coat's pocket. "My apologies if I startled you, I was just surprised to see you wake."

Meredith scanned the room, finding she was the only patient there. White walls surrounded her, white sheets enshrouded her, white linoleum supported her, and white ceiling tiles stretched over her. No, nothing dark ever happened here. A clinking caught her ear and the beeping on the monitor jumped. She sighed upon realizing it was her own restless leg along the bed's handrail.

"You've been out three days...a medically induced coma. You banged your head hard, and there was a two-millimeter subdural hematoma. They were ready to operate but appears they didn't need to."

"That's good." Meredith exhaled, her chest still hollow from the adrenaline of that horrible dream. Dr. Bloom shifted; his polished jet-black shoes contrasted the flat white everywhere else. Brown hair rigidly followed his forehead, struggling in vain to hide two liver spots on his scalp—the styling gel was working overtime today. His gaze darted about, he wasn't making eye contact, and he was unopinionated. Why? Ceaseless and uncomfortable staring was his M.O., along with petty complaints, and tirades of managerial recommendations.

"You have an email that HR sent to you. No need to follow it through, just rest and return to work when you're ready."

"Oh." Meredith furrowed her brow and reached for her phone.

"It's for the best you delete it straight away."

Meredith's eyebrows jumped in the opposite direction and she shrugged. "I'll do that."

"Superb." He held a hand to his mouth and coughed. "I came to wish you well and I sincerely do. I have a few appointments and a big meeting—I've caved to the New England Journal of Medicine's begging for an interview—and of course, O.R. in the afternoon. The criticalists say it'll be a week or two for recovery, so, perhaps return in a month?"

"We'll see, I guess." Meredith nearly tore every facial muscle to avoid cracking a smile. What happened? How in the hell was she making him nervous?

He turned to exit and bumped into a drawer set by the door, rattling the tray of food atop it.

"John?" she asked, knowing full well that informalities curdled his blood like nails on a chalkboard.

From behind, she saw his jaw clench and neck muscles tense. "Yes, Meredith?" He turned to stare at her. His face was blank.

"Exactly..." Meredith exhaled. "I mean, exactly, what happened? In what state did you find me?"

"A better question for HR. I believe they will contact you to make sure everything is...."

"I'll speak with them for clarification. How about a summary, John?"

The corner of his jaws tensed. "I was not involved. And many details are still under review."

"What details aren't?"

"Fine," he grumbled. "From what I understand, they found you collapsed several feet from the operating table. They removed you and stabilized you. Likely everything related to equipment—"

"John—er, Dr. Bloom," Meredith decided not to offend when pushing her luck, "what's with those nurses going to the subbasement? Are they looking for something? Or did they find something perhaps?"