By Mistake Read online

  Later,

  “Life’s too short for fake cheese, butter, and people.”

  She reports, he was charming and handsome, his arm in an arm sling. He asked her to help him carry the case to his car. He was, of course, the murderer, rapist, psychopath Ted Bundy.

  Absorbed in the podcast chatting in my ears, I roam through the aisles, getting stuff for tonight. The girls are coming over to chill later and watch an episode of The Handmaid Tale. I get the cheddar cheese spray for my sister, eyeing it with disgust like the poison in a canister that it is. My basket already contains nuts and cheese, the butter and bread for Kayla, the other variations of toxins for my sister. I grab a few bags of kale chips and move on to get hummus and veggies. I laugh out loud to the gems spilling out of the hilarious duo chatting in my ears about brutal crimes. I’m not twisted. Okay, maybe just a little. True crime fascinates me, and the way it’s delivered in this podcast is pure brilliance.

  An older lady who passes by me frowns at my vocal amusement. I’m not sure if she notices the earbuds stuck in my ears. She probably thinks that I’m a bit unhinged laughing to myself in the otherwise boring dairy section. My phone buzzes with an incoming message. I pull it out of my pocket and check the screen.

  Pandora to CHICKENS: Reporting balls prowess. I just called Jonathan the Ranger Hottie and asked him out. Monthly challenge is my bitch.

  Anna to CHICKENS: Panda bear, I bow to you. I want to hear everything tonight.

  Kayla to CHICKENS: Respect.

  Victoria to CHICKENS: PANDA! You go girl!

  A smile is stretching my lips as I reach for the ice cream Pandora requested for tonight. I’m in my own little bubble when something makes me steer my attention to a profile. I squint at it, searching my mind for the familiar, yet unfamiliar handsome face. It’s like I know it from somewhere but I’m not entirely sure how or from where. I stare at him till he shifts his face to look at something, and that’s when I see the whole face. That’s when I feel like the air is sucked out of me.

  Slowly, my eyes drag down his body and the feeling, the tension in my stomach, intensifies at the view of blue scrubs. Not sure what possess me to hide. Maybe the element of surprise. But I hurriedly move on to the produce section where he is in full view, yet I’m hidden. I grab something to hold in my hand, not even sure what, just to look as if I’m doing something and not just staring like a weirdo. My heart is pounding in my chest as I run my hands aimlessly over the object I’m holding. And it hits me, hard. The guy, he looks just like one of the Liam options from the photo. It’s the one that looks a little like a QB with the square jaw, tall and athletic, mischievous, boyish glee in his eyes. But it can’t be. It just can’t be. I mean, what are the chances!

  The alleged Liam moves on to a different aisle, disappearing from my line of vision. That’s when I finally get back to my current situation of fondling an anonymous object. I pinch my brows to the disgusted look I’m getting from the older lady who gave me that why-are-you-laughing-to-yourself-weirdo frown earlier. Her unpleased eyes bounce from my face to my busy hands and back. I drop my eyes to where she just zoomed her attention and flinch. To my horror, I find my hands running up and down a sizable banana like I’m in the middle of giving it a memorable sexual experience. I toss it away like a hot yam.

  The lady shakes her head in contempt. I can literally see how she just mentally cataloged me as the freak/perv she met today, the one she’ll tell her husband all about over dinner while holding her pearl-necklace and sipping on a chilled glass of imported chardonnay. “You should have seen her, Richard. Young people today, no shame,” she’ll say with a haughty twist of her mouth.

  I smile awkwardly, hoping to transmit, “Hey, no need to bother Dick with this, I don’t usually molest innocent fruits.”

  I know that this is completely bananas territory but I tilt a little, trying to catch another glance of my object of stalkery. All I get is a wide back and a wide, manly neck. It’s lightly sun-kissed, bordered by closely cropped, light-brown hair. It’s a nice neck. And yeah, I’ve officially lost it. Now I daydream Liam is in retail food stores. No way he lives in the same state, let alone the same town as me. Seriously, what are the chances!

  I deliberately stay back, avoiding a closer encounter, not even sure why. But the gut feeling that I’m not altogether insane doesn’t leave me. What-are-the-odds-logic fights back. And then, on an impulse, I pull out my phone and reply to his email from earlier this morning. Opting for casual, I go with,

  Good evening, or good tomorrow, or good undefined space of time, not sure when you’re going to see this,

  I hope that the acute cholecystitis workshop was as fascinating as it sounded.

  So, I know we haven’t done this till now, but . . . and you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to . . . and I promise it’s not out of any psycho stalker tendencies that I might poses . . . which I don’t, by the way. Just out of curiosity, where do you live?

  Bye,

  A

  “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.”

  I’m more than a little blown away by what I’m feeling. I don’t really know the guy yet, just the thought of accidentally meeting him colonizes my stomach with a breed of Amazonian butterflies. Insanity.

  “So what did Ranger Danny say?” I ask Pandora the moment she steps into my apartment. Victoria, Kayla, and I eye her expectantly.

  “Oh hi, Chickens. Nice to see you too. All good?” She throws her purse on the sofa. “Where’s my ice cream?” she says with a wicked smile while snatching a kale chip from my hand. Her face crumbles as she grabs a napkin and spits the contents of her mouth ever so elegantly into the napkin. “Yuck! What was that?”

  “Why do you shove stuff into your mouth before asking what it is?” comes from Victoria.

  “At least get their name before you let them in your mouth,” I say and everyone around snickers.

  “Well?” Victoria raises her brow in question.

  Pandora shakes her head. “Ice cream first, dishing next,” she says over her shoulder, walking determinedly toward my kitchen. Followed by our expectant stares, Pandora finally settles on the huge, grey furry beanbag. Her legs stretch before her as she digs a spoon into the ice cream tube. “Umm . . . ” She moans with the spoon still in her mouth.

  Victoria, Kayla, and I keep watching her, now a little less patient.

  “For goodness sake spill it already, gurl,” my sister grunts.

  “Oh,” Pandora turns to us in feigned surprise. “Are you waiting or something?” She brings one hand to rest on her chest then loads another spoon with a little mountain of ice cream, a sinful smile tugging at her lips. “So I decided to just call him. No text. No heads up on social media. Straight up early 90’s communication, you know, phone the other human.”

  “I like that,” I say while loading hummus on a carrot stick.

  Pandora laughs as an afterthought. “He sounded genuinely happy when he realized it was me,” she laughs again. “After poking some well-deserved fun at me.” She smirks. “Well, he said I gave good tipsy.”

  “Tipsy . . . ” Victoria rolls her eyes. “More like drunk off your ass.”

  My voice comes out deliberately singsongy as I ask, “Oooh, who sprinkled the bitchy dust?”

  Kayla snorts a chuckle, leaning back on the sofa with a thin side smile, watching us.

  “It went so well. He was charming and funny and we talked for like an hour, no awkward silent pauses,” Pandora resumes.

  I love the smile she has. It’s of the genuine, hopeful variety and it looks perfect on her. I extend my bowl of kale chips, wordlessly offering it to my friends. When they reject it with mocking horror I roll my eyes.

  “So you had a good chat, and?” Kayla asks, always practical.

  “We’re meeting for dinner on Saturday.” That earns Pandora three approving smiles.

  The conversation flows with random boosts of laughter, munching, and passing around of plates an
d glasses, with the occasional profound and intellectual declaration such as:

  “God, I swear, I want to burn all my bras and just let them run free all the time.” Kayla, adjusting her bra somewhat frustrated.

  “Can you believe the guy asked me if I gave naked yoga classes too? God, and that creepy smile. Blargh.” Me, pretending to throw up.

  “I can’t believe I’m going to have a property in my name.” Victoria somewhat baffled.

  “We’re such victims of consumerism! Revolting. Fuck this, I’m getting the shoes!” Pandora clicking on my laptop somewhat vehemently.

  “So,” and then I decide that it’s high time I told my friends about my recent online object of attraction. It’s been over three weeks! Thinking about it, I’m surprised I haven’t mentioned anything about it to them so far. It gives me a pause – it’s a first for me. Had I not had three sets of eyes waiting for me to speak, I’d dig a bit further down this one.

  Then, I tell them.

  For a brief moment, I contemplate taking shelter, what with the many questions I’m bombarded with for what feels like forever.

  “Anna Heidi Nielsen, you show us the photo right now!” Victoria says just before giving me a threatening look that does nothing but amuse me. What with the neon-orange fake cheese smear at the corner of her mouth, her messy bun, and my burrowed, oversized sweatshirt that boasts “Adult-ish” in dark blue. Yeah, a true portrayal of authority.

  I grab my phone and pull up the photo.

  “Oooh, they’re both cute!” It’s Pandora.

  “Which one do you think is him?” Kayla asks, and adds, “Also, a great show of restraint not looking him up!”

  And then I tell them about the grocery store incident today. Leaving out the part about the poor banana I left with a bad case of blue balls. “I know it sounds like I lost my mind, but he really resembled the guy in the photo. And the scrubs and everything. Not to mention the store is right next to Virginia Mason.”

  “Which actually makes it less reasonable. Every Joe Smo in scrubs can pop by easily,” says Victoria. She shugs her shoulders at the blank stare I give her. “Just saying.” Victoria, the eternal voice of logic, pokes doubt in my already uncertain assumption.

  When the show starts, we each snuggle with a throw blanket and a glass of wine. My beverage of preference tonight is kombucha. I try to minimize my alcohol intake to weekends and special occasions.

  In the middle of a dramatic scene, my phone lights up with a new email alert. I hold it in my hand, watching the scene on the TV screen with my breath held, an ordeal that lasts ten minutes. Then I finally check my inbox. I’m not sure what I’m transmitting, but whatever it is prompts my friends’ attention to leave the screen and focus on me.

  Something is happening inside of me. It’s a mixture of excitement and incredulity. Utter shock. Liam is from my neck of the wood. I look back at my friends with an astonished frown. “Guys, I’m pretty positive it was him today, the guy from the store.”

  Black Clouds & Silver Linings

  We exchange a solemn stare. He nods, wordlessly telling everyone in the room that we’re done. Nothing more to do but declare the time of death.

  I step away, walk to the door that leads to the sterile core, even though I want to run. I push the door open with a flat palm. Once it swings shut behind me, I find the nearest concealed alcove behind a packed case cart. I lean my back to the wall and close my eyes. I yank down the surgical mask, momentarily gasping for air. I take a few deep breaths, pushing down the frustration and heavy load weighing on my chest. I’m frozen, needing time to collect myself and carry on as we’re trained to do. When I finally compose myself, as much as I can, I quickly go back to join Dr. Wong where we’re headed to deliver the news to the family.

  It’s not the first time, and unfortunately won’t be the last time, but I’ll probably never get used to it. We dealt with severe trauma. I assisted the attending surgeon in this surgery that went from a one-hour estimated ordeal to a five-and-a-half-hour procedure. One that ended tragically. Dr. Wong is one of the best surgeons around yet even he couldn’t save the kid.

  My shift was over a couple of hours ago, but since the operation took much longer than anticipated I had to stay. Now that I can finally go home, for a few good minutes I walk aimlessly, haunting the busy halls, physically present but mentally I’m in a different troubling space. Ultimately, I head to the locker room, the heaviness gripping my stomach weighing heavy on each breath. Everything from changing into jeans and a sweatshirt to walking home I’m doing on autopilot.

  “Freddie,” I call a few times. “Fred?” He’s probably out, the apartment is sullenly quiet. Way too silent for my unyielding depressed mood. I keep the lights off, put on loud music, and drop onto the living room sofa. Planning on spending the evening in the same position, I stretch my hand for the phone, just in case. I set up the alarm for tomorrow morning. There’s a message from Anna waiting for me. A response to the one I sent her just before going into the operating theatre. She asked where I live and I answered. It was a brief message due to my haste to get back to work; glaringly lacking our usual easy-going, flirtatious vibe. She sent me another message an hour ago asking how my day was. I answer with another brief message, not in the mood for one of our long email conversations that has become a new favorite practice.

  Not a good day. Not in the best of moods.

  She answers immediately.

  I’m sorry to hear that. If you need me, I’m here.

  Goodnight, Liam.

  “I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light.”

  I toss the phone to the table and drop back on the sofa, covering my face with my folded arm. A thought crosses my mind, an odd one that both makes sense and doesn’t at all. I wish I could talk to Anna, really talk to her, voice, cadence of emotions, the whole thing. My phone beeps with an incoming email alert. For a few beats I consider ignoring it, but then reluctantly check it. For a whole moment, I stare at the screen incredulous, my mouth slightly gaped.

  There’s a phone number followed by, if you want to talk.

  Now, that’s an unexpected turn. Not even blinking, I turn down the music and dial the number. Whatever I’m feeling, this rush, thrill, is inexplicable because even though it’s a feeling it’s nearly damn tangible.

  “Hey,” she says, and I close my eyes, letting the sound sink in. Her voice is low and feminine and a little hoarse.

  “You have a beautiful voice, Anna.” Words come out of my mouth unfiltered.

  There’s silence on the other end.

  “Cheesy? Did I just make it weird?”

  She laughs briefly and it sounds a bit like relief. “No, you didn’t. I like your voice too, Liam. And yeah, pretty cheesy!”

  My turn to chuckle. And that’s when I mellow onto the sofa, with my eyes still closed, slightly less depressed.

  “Are you okay?” she asks next.

  “Much better . . . now.” Something about the notion that it’s her, something about her voice, makes the weight pressing on my chest ease a little. It’s still there, burning, but at least my attention has shifted elsewhere.

  She makes a pleased sounding confirmation then chuckles as an afterthought. “This is both strange yet, I don’t know, natural, expected?”

  I smile to myself. “It’s been a long time coming, Anna.” I take pleasure in saying her name out loud. Till now we had countless written conversations and endless ones in my head. This is so much better.

  “I guess.” I can hear the smile in her voice, and it makes mine soften. “Rough day?”

  I exhale. “You can say that.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We lost someone today in the OR. Just a few hours ago. A kid . . . a teen.”

  “Oh,” comes out as a gasp. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  The candor in her voice encourages me to go on. “It wasn’t the first time, but it’s something that – it’s just so hard. Fortunately, there aren’t many cases t
hat end up this way, but when it happens you feel like a piece of you dies with the person. I can’t detach myself from it. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “I think that’s what makes you human,” she says in a tender voice and adds in a softer tone, “the good kind.”

  “Sorry, that’s some heavy-duty load to drop on a stranger,” I say.

  “I don’t think that we’re strangers.”

  How I enjoy her voice. “You can’t see it, but the smile on my face is your doing,” I say. We’re quiet for a few beats, but it’s not an awkward kind of silence. It feels like she’s giving me the space to decide where I want to take this conversation next.

  The pause lingers until Anna decides to navigate the conversation to different waters. “So, you called Little Shit a wanker. Where’s that coming from? Are you British royalty or something?”

  And for the first time today, I laugh. And then the conversation just flows. I tell her how Benjamin and I picked up the glorious appellation on a trip to England years back and it sort of stuck. We talk a bit about Benjamin and how we met, and Heather, aka the Flamingo.

  “Why Flamingo though?” Anna says in a humored tone.

  “She has the longest, skinny legs and gets so flushed when she’s embarrassed, ergo, Flamingo.” I ask her about her friends next.

  “There’s Panda, short for Pandora who’s the sweetest kindergarten teacher by day and a hilarious, filthy-mouthed adult by night. Then there’s my sister, Victoria, and Kayla.” She pauses. “Vic is what you call an ambitious, clever career woman yet a complete moron when with friends. The best kind of moron and sister, of course. And Kayla . . . um, my nonsexual girl crush who’s a drummer.” She lets out a humored huff. “But Panda, you need to meet her to understand the phenomenon. You know how we first met?”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “It was about ten years ago. I was in a toilet room in some restaurant bawling my eyes out, because you know, late teens – every little drama was a full-blown existential crisis. So I’m sitting in the stall crying in my own bubble of drama when this voice comes from over the divider telling me that everything will be alright. Obviously, I halted my crying to find out if I heard right, and then she started reciting a poem to me. I kid you not, a poem! Something about sisterhood and that if you need support find your girlfriends and everything will be better. Borderline wacko.” She laughs a little and I mirror with a brief chuckle. “Next thing I know, she knocks on the flimsy divider and tells me she can be my friend tonight.”