Page 91 of Office Hours
His eyes go soft, and for a second, he’s not a professor or a lover or anything but himself. He covers my hand with his.
“Because I adore you, Simone McCall,” he says, simply. “Regardless of what happens with the surgery. That’s it.”
The words cut me to the bone. There’s no artifice in his voice—just a broken, raw truth.
I want to say something back, something equally true, but the nurse interrupts with a gentle cough.
Andie hugs me, her chin digging into my shoulder. “You got this, Sim,” she whispers, fierce as ever.
I let go. The nurse leads me inside. The door swings shut behind me with a soft, final click.
The pre-op room is cold,the air conditioner set to polar. A nurse hooks up my IV. Another slaps little electrodes on my chest, the sticky pads cool and a little slimy. Everything is blue: the gown, the sheets, even the stupid hairnet they put on my head.
The doctor comes in, a woman with square glasses and a voice like crushed velvet. She explains the procedure in calm, clinical language. She tells me it’ll take two hours, maybe three if the fibroids are as big as the scan suggests. She says it like it’s no big deal.
I nod, barely hearing her.
When she leaves, I stare at the ceiling and count the tiny holes in the acoustic tiles. I wish I’d memorized a poem for this moment. I wish I had something to hold onto besides fear.
A nurse asks if I’m ready. I say yes.
They wheel me into the OR. The lights are impossibly bright, the air sharp and chemical. The anesthesiologist—young, with nervous hands—fiddles with the IV and tells me to count backwards from one hundred.
I get to ninety-six.
Then the world slips away.
When I come back,the pain is distant. The room is still cold, but the light is softer, filtered through beige curtains. My head aches, but my body feels strangely light.
I open my eyes.
Liam is there, slumped in a plastic chair, his face slack with exhaustion. Andie sits next to him, knees tucked to her chest, her head nodding in sleep.
I try to move, but a nurse appears instantly, checking my vitals, adjusting the IV.
“You did great,” she says. “It’s over.”
I look at my belly, swaddled in white bandages. I want to ask if I’m fixed, but the words won’t come.
The nurse brings me ice chips. I chew them slowly, the cold waking up my brain.
Andie stirs first. She looks at me, then at the nurse, and then back. “Sim?” Her voice is wobbly.
I try to smile. “Hi.”
She leaps up, careful not to tug my tubes. “You made it,” she whispers, then wipes at her eyes.
Liam wakes next, and when he sees me, something in his face cracks open. He doesn’t try to say anything. He just takes my hand, thumb tracing circles on my wrist, grounding me in the here and now.
The doctor comes in. “All done,” she says. “We got everything we needed to. You’ll be sore, but with a little luck and some rest, you should be good as new.”
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
For the next hour, Andie and Liam keep vigil. They don’t argue, don’t snipe at each other, just sit side by side, hands folded, waiting.
Finally, Andie excuses herself to get something from the vending machine, and Liam and I are alone.
“Hi,” I say, voice shredded and small.
