Working With Lucy
by Charles C. Cole
Lucy worked the hospital switchboard weekend evenings while I worked the registration desk for the emergency department. We’d started the same week, only a month before. Our offices were adjacent and the door between us always open.
While my office was brightly lit, Lucy sat in the dark, the room illuminated by her computer monitor and the many safety panels on the wall. “Central Maine Hospital, how can I help you?” Her voice was soft but authoritative, attentive, responsive. She also calmly announced all the emergencies over the loudspeaker (code blue: patient elopement; code gray: behavioral health patient being destructive; code stroke).
I was having a busy Sunday night. My teammate had called out. Injured and sick patients arrived constantly, many new to the hospital with lots of information for me to collect. And there were inpatient admissions to process, lab orders to be entered and newborn babies to be charted.
A young male security guard, from one office over, stopped to talk at her, bouncing his motorcycle helmet in his hands, sharing a very long and involved story about his recent hunting success. His words pelted me like sleet. I had a coughing patient sitting across from my desk, sharing insurance cards. I lost focus. I closed the door to Lucy’s office, hoping nobody would be offended. I needed to concentrate.
After the guard and patient left, I re-opened the door quickly. “Lucy, I like you,” I began, preparing an apology I never finished.
“I like you, too,” she replied.
Wait! Did she just say she liked me? As in liked me? Or was she just reciprocating, being polite, letting me off the hook before I embarrassed myself further?
That’s the way it began, my non-relationship with Lucy. At the time, I didn’t even know her last name, but I knew we were going to be good friends, because we had the same work ethic, mutual professional respect, with no goofing around on the job.
She was twenty-three and still lived at home. She had recently finished her ultrasound technician program and was making ends meet until she got her first real job. She lived with her father, step-mother, and two pre-school half-siblings. I was sixty and married. I had never flirted in my life and was, therefore, not very good at it.
“I Googled you,” I blurted one day.
“That’s creepy.”
“How am I supposed to learn your life story when we never have time to talk?”
“There’s nothing to learn.”
“I love working with you,” I offered.
“I love working with you, too.”
“So, we should get to know each other.”
She shook her head. “Not necessarily.”
I gave her my email address on a slip of paper. “Look, if you ever want to connect, from the safety of your home, at a distance, surrounded by a huge cushion of personal space, I’d love to hear more about your world.”
“I’m a classic introvert. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Me, too. Let’s be introverts together.”
“I don’t make friends. That’s not who I am.”
I gave up for a couple of days, then I stumbled upon a four-leaf clover between where I’d parked and the office.
“Here,” I said. “For luck.”
“Is it real?”
“No, I glued it together to impress you,” I joked.
“I’ve never seen one before.”
“I find them all the time. It’s no big deal. I know you’re applying for jobs, and I thought you could do with a little something extra.”
“I have nothing for you.”
“I don’t want anything. Your friendship is enough.”
Her job search was brief. There was a market for people with her talents. She’d mentioned that during her “clinicals” (like an internship), someone on staff had said they’d never seen a new student so skilled. I was not surprised.
She was not my project. Her slow dance to adulthood was none of my business. But she intrigued me. I wanted to be closer, but I recognized I was obsessing, that this nascent friendship wouldn’t matter a whit if she’d been a man.
I gave her more clovers. She seemed to like them, though I was surprised (and encouraged) she didn’t give them back. “To be used down the line, in your new job. You can never have too much good luck.”
“Do you think I need luck?” she asked, squinting up at me. I felt like I’d tried too hard.
“Share them with your mom. Or your new co-workers. Maybe it’ll impress them.”
“I gave notice,” she said. “I felt bad, but I want to focus on one thing at a time.”
“Makes sense.”
The team, from all our shifts, had signed a “congratulations” card for her for finishing her clinicals. It was taped to her monitor. Though Lucy had no idea, I had emailed her boss with the suggestion.
“Cool card. Nice to see people care.”
“You didn’t sign it.” She’d noticed! I’d chickened out.
“I was afraid I’d blubber all over it. You’re the calm in the storm. They’ll be lucky to find someone to replace you who’s as responsible and committed.”
“Thanks.”
Her eyes pierced through me. She wasn’t going to make this easy.
“I’ll miss you,” I said.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“In another world, at another time, I’ll bet we made a helluva team. I just know it.”
“Maybe,” she said.
I briefly considered kissing her, a quick celebratory good-bye peck, but opted to pat the back of her hand instead. “Go forward. Break hearts and save the day.”
“You’re a strange one,” she said, “but I know you mean well.”
The first shift without her, it was like the first day after a high school breakup. But each day got easier. And now I only think of her on the crazier nights when I’m again somehow working by myself and looking for her calm in the storm. We introverts have to stick together. I wonder if she thinks of me. Somehow, I doubt it.
Copyright © 2021 by Charles C. Cole
