A Blissful Nothing (The Blissful Series Book 1) Read online

  Soon after surgery, Dex is moved from recovery to the surgical intensive care unit where I will resume care over him until he’s ready to be moved out of ICU or discharged altogether.

  As I round the corner to the private waiting room reserved for families with patients who are in surgery, my back aches and my muscles scream to relax as the intensity of the last three hours starts to wind down. I take a deep breath, not knowing who will be here representing his family.

  I know a little about his family, or I did, anyway. The only person he’s mentioned to me is his twin sister. At the time, he seemed uncomfortable when I asked if he had any family. I don’t know what their dynamic is now. Other than that, anyone else, like a wife, I wouldn’t know about.

  I roll my shoulders back and stretch my neck from side to side. I need to get my game face on. I need to tell the awaiting people about their loved one.

  When I push open the door, the room is practically empty. Only one small woman sits, looking haggard. Not really from the ordeal of what Dex went through; it seems to be her natural look. Her skin is pale and gaunt, and she is incredibly skinny, too skinny for a woman her size. Being a doctor, I know the suspicion is there, and in my gut, I know this woman either has an eating disorder or has fallen victim to the opioid crisis. However, when she raises her head, and I connect to her blue, sunken eyes, I know this is Dex’s sister.

  For a moment, my heart aches, wondering if he’s been alone all this time.

  “Hi, are you with Dex Taylor?” I ask as I pull a chair out and take a much-needed seat.

  “Yes, I’m his sister, Diana Leary.” She extends her hand, and I shake it, noting how weakly she returns the gesture.

  “I’m Dr. Mezelle,” I introduce while releasing her cold grasp. “I am the attending surgeon who originally treated Mr. Taylor when he came to the hospital.

  “As you might know, Mr. Taylor is very injured. He suffered a tear to his large intestine and ruptured his spleen. In addition, when he went through the windshield, he hit his head hard enough to induce some minor swelling in his brain.”

  “Is he going to die?” she squeaks out through her fallen tears.

  “Currently, he is stable. But, with the large amount of lacerations on his body and the surgery, there is a potential for him to get an infection. We have him on strong antibiotics to help combat that, but I do need to tell you everything as I see it. Additionally, we need to leave him in a coma until his brain has a chance to heal—this is the best way to give his body time to relax and heal itself. However, there is the possibility the swelling will not recede on its own, and we will then need to explore other options. Right now, we will just keep a close eye on it as we monitor it with medications and time.”

  “Oh God!” Diana interrupts and sputters out more sobs.

  My heart breaks for her, especially if Dex is her only family.

  I lift my hand and gently rest it on her shoulder. She covers her face and sobs, her shoulders bobbing up and down with every sound.

  I grab a couple of tissues from a nearby box and hold them up to her. She gladly accepts them, dabbing the tissues under her eyes and nose.

  “The neurologist looked at the x-ray of his brain. He didn’t seem terribly concerned. Then again, there aren’t any promises with these types of injuries. It could heal just fine and he could regain total consciousness, or it could continue to swell, requiring him to have surgery. I’m afraid it’s too early to tell.”

  ***

  Three hours after telling Diana about her brother, it’s finally time for me to do my rounds in the ICU before heading home for the next seventy-two hours.

  After stepping off the elevator, I walk down the long corridor, winding around the hallway and passing the other patients’ rooms before coming upon room nineteen. I walk past the glass partition and into the small room then freeze as I stand at the foot of his bed and simply look at Dex.

  He has a ventilator affixed to his mouth, assisting with his breathing; the central venous catheter inserted on his chest, giving him the necessary medications; and the urinary catheter, among other things. Even though he’s covered in bandages, with tubes coming out of his body, Dex looks the same as he did twenty years ago. The only difference is the sprinkled strands of gray in his rich, brown hair and the new tattoos on his chest and abdomen. He’s kept his body in excellent shape. I wonder if he kept up with his dream to be an ultimate fighter.

  A small smile lifts the corner of my mouth. When you’re a kid, your dreams seem attainable, but to the average person were ridiculous. He was determined to be a professional fighter and trained rigorously for it. I wouldn’t doubt if he did.

  After his departure from my life, I refused to learn anything more about him, therefore abandoning any idea of knowing whether his dreams came true.

  I pan my eyes across his body and notice the scars of his past are still there. They are faint, but I still see every mark. Now they will be joined by new ones from this accident.

  As I stand in the room, my mind drifts back to the day my life changed. It was the day I left everything I knew behind and started my journey to where I am today. I can’t keep the smile from my face, knowing how happy I was to finally be on my own. To finally experience life outside of what I’d known it to be.

  I look over at the monitor and beyond the wall, behind Dex’s hospital bed, and see my youth as if it was happening to me in that very moment. I can almost feel the warmth of the hot, Louisiana sun as my mind drifts back to the start of that life-changing summer.

  ***

  Past

  The summer of 1998 is almost underway, starting with biggest heat wave our tiny town of Collins, Louisiana has seen in years. The temperatures are capping out at one hundred and five degrees as the month of May comes to a close; several degrees higher than normal for this time of year, but it’s the humidity that has sweat dripping down your back the moment you roll out of bed. Yet, that doesn’t stop me from having a skip in my step when I stretch then prance over to my closet.

  Today is a big day. The day I’ve been waiting for my entire high school career. It’s moving day! I am finally off to start my life, and only a week after I graduated high school.

  I don’t think I’ve been more excited than I was when I walked across the stage at graduation, valedictorian of my class, and recently added student to New York University, who accepted a full academic scholarship to their premed program. Yet, today, I feel as if I might explode with happiness. Me, Eva Mezelle, the daughter of the town preacher, the renowned good girl, is moving to New York City! And in a few short months, I will be walking the halls of the prestigious NYU. This girl, the apple of her father’s eye and the spitting image of her mother, is about to begin a new chapter in her life. A chapter that’s starting where I won’t be known to anyone. I can discover who me is for the first time in my life.

  The smile I was sure couldn’t get any bigger stretches even larger across my cheeks. The feeling is incredible. I won’t be living in the shadow of my father’s big persona or my mother’s graceful elegance. I will just be Eva, the girl who’s from Louisiana and getting underway with a new life, in a big city, hundreds of miles away from this quintessential small town.

  I stare at the empty hangers dangling in the closet, my empty closet, and it hits home with me again that I am out of here. This is it.

  I am surprised there isn’t a pang of sadness, only unrelenting anticipation.

  I pull a fitted T-shirt from my remaining clothing then snag a clean pair of shorts, panties, and bra from my dresser before hopping off to the shower.

  I can’t believe today is here, and I can’t believe it’s happening to me.

  After I step from the shower, I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror. My dark, brown hair is clipped up on top of my head, small, fuzzy strands puffing out from my scalp, reacting to the humidity of the hot shower.

  I pan down and look over my face. People say I was blessed in the looks department, taki
ng after my mother and her strong, Creole heritage. I never thought of myself as ugly but never thought I was a stunner either. Believe me; I am no Naomi Campbell. However, today, I strongly disagree. Radiance shines from my skin, and I have a twinkling gleam in my eye. It’s my happiness, shining through every ounce of me.

  My skin is a rich, caramel brown and smooth as silk. My smile is dazzling and white behind my full lips. If anything is like my mother’s, it’s my smile. However, when I look into my own eyes, I see my father’s. They are large and the color of a Hershey chocolate bar. Normally, there’s a certain degree of focus and intensity residing in them, but today, they are radiating like a new car. My black lashes are thick and annoying but fan perfectly across my cheeks. My grandmother always says I am a blessed woman to have lashes as full and thick as mine.

  I let out a giggle as I start to brush my teeth. The toothpaste splatters across the mirror when I laugh with the pure delight of the day. I can’t control it, and I don’t want to. I simply giggle through my brushing and flossing.

  I pull the bottle of Pink lotion from the drawer in my vanity and lather it in my hair. The small, fuzzy hairs tame down, and the springy curls ping to life as they fall down my back. I pin the side with a bobby pin to keep it out of my face then apply a coat of mascara to my lashes. There, I am done. It’s my simple and easy morning routine, and now I am ready to start my long trek north.

  I pack the last of my toiletries in my suitcase then zip it shut. As I yank it off the chair in my room, I thank the heavens that I am able to wheel it across the airport, as it probably weighs eighty pounds. Aside from my carry-on, it’s all I’m taking to New York. My mother will be shipping me small, essential items that I will need for my apartment once I’ve purchased some furniture. And, by furniture, I mean a bed and maybe a TV. I can’t get much considering the size of my place. It will be like I am living in my bedroom, only located in New York.

  We visited the place three weeks ago, securing a tiny, studio apartment, which is about a forty-minute train ride to the university. I opted out of the dorm experience, knowing I’m not much for living with strangers, and I want to be focused solely on my school. My parents were okay with the decision and offered to pay half my rent if I found an affordable place to live.

  I managed to find a four-hundred-square-foot studio in the Elmhurst area of Queens that is within walking distance to the subway and bus stops. It’s nine hundred dollars a month, which the landlord said is cheap for that area, but I was a little shocked at the small space and big rental fee.

  I skip down the stairs and into the kitchen where my father is sitting in his normal spot, sipping his coffee, a finished plate of grits and eggs set in front of him as he reads the newspaper.

  My dad is wonderful. He’s smart, passionate, and intense all rolled into one. He’s not a tall man, maybe a couple of inches taller than me, but he is full of love for his family and his church. He is a well-known man in the community, educated, and had participated in several major civil rights events including, at the age of seventeen, being beaten down in the streets of Birmingham in 1964 and, a year later, getting an up-close and personal view of hate on Bloody Sunday in Selma, Alabama. That time in my father’s life sculpted him into a man and left him a searing witness to the hate that lived in the South during that time. But he used that hate to prevail.

  He moved to Shreveport and attended Louisiana Baptist University, got his Master’s of Ministry, met my mother and, years later, I was born. He has been living a comfortable life in our tiny town of Collins ever since.

  “Good morning, Daddy,” I singsong as I pull open the refrigerator door, getting the milk out for my cereal.

  He peers around the side of his newspaper, a bright smile shining from his face, and replies, “Well, don’t you look chipper this morning. Are you ready for your big day?”

  “Yes, sir.” I fill my bowl of Lucky Charms with milk then join him at the table.

  My dad is a handsome man, standing about five-foot-seven, with a lean build and big, intense brown eyes. He is charming and, when he speaks, you can’t help being captivated with every word. Becoming a pastor wasn’t just a career choice, it was a calling, and he answered that call willingly.

  He folds his newspaper then takes another cautious sip of coffee. “Sweetie, I want to talk to you about something.” His face grows more serious and the shine in his smile soon melts away. This is his life speech; I’ve been getting different variations of it my entire life.

  My mother walks through the door, breaking up our almost conversation. She looks lovely as usual in her black slacks and white floral blouse.

  My mother was born and raised in the Deep South—New Orleans to be exact—and is a full-fledged Louisianan Creole. Her mother and father are descendants of the colonial French and African settlers. My father has a Creole last name, but my mother says it’s all he has that’s Creole in him. It’s a running joke between the two of them.

  “Annette, will you join us please,” my father says, and she pulls a chair out then sits with the two of us at the breakfast table.

  “Now, Eva, you’re taking a really big step today and, as wonderful as your future looks, it still worries your mother and me, because you will be so far away. You’re an intelligent girl, one with all the potential in the world, but you haven’t been exposed to life much outside of Collins.”

  I hold back the urge to roll my eyes, knowing he is going to give this speech again.

  “It was hard for your mother and me to allow you to go to college in New York, but we know this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Yet, there are so many dangers out there. Dangers you have yet to know about but worryingly could encounter. Criminals know when you’re naïve and new to an area, and they won’t hold back from preying on you. This isn’t the small-town south, and you can’t just mingle with anybody. You have to aware at all times where you are and who you’re with.”

  My mother leans over and squeezes my shoulder. There is a proud sadness in her eyes, knowing her only child is off to the big city and fleeing the nest for the first time.

  “Dad,” I quickly respond before he has a chance to talk more, “I will be fine. My apartment is on the top floor of the building, pepper spray hooked on my keys, and whistle if needed. I know not to let strangers in my house and to ride the subway or bus closest to the driver if possible. I am tougher than I look.” I give my father a big smile, and the intensity in his eyes lightens slightly.

  “I know you are, Eva, but I wouldn’t be a good parent if I didn’t have these types of conversations with you.”

  “Frank, I think we need to talk about boys, too,” my mother chimes in, and my father’s look returns to his strong intensity. “She won’t have you to chase them away.”

  “Oh, I think Eva is well aware of my opinion on boys.” He turns toward me, waiting for me to recite the same conversation that I have over and over.

  “Yes, Dad, I am fully aware. Before they’re men, they are boys, and boys look for only one thing from good girls like me. Keep my distance, focus on my future, and by the time I am where I need to be, the boy will have turned into man.”

  My father smiles and lets out a bellowing laugh. He has said this same speech to me since I was old enough to notice boys. No one was allowed to be with the pastor’s daughter unless they had earned it. Needless to say, I have only dated one guy, and he was Frank Mezelle approved, but he was last person I’d ever want to settle with.

  As I swallow down my last bite of Lucky Charms, I look around our comfy, cozy kitchen and think, This is it, Eva. This is your last breakfast in this kitchen as a permanent resident in your parents’ home. The notion makes me smile, and I keep smiling until I unlock the door to my new apartment in Queens.

  3

  Present

  I’m tired, maybe more tired than I’ve ever been. This last shift had me running from one end of the hospital to the other.

  I don’t know what possesses people to drive the
way they do during a Michigan blizzard, but the results always end with the trauma wing being overrun with critical patients. Not to mention the non-emergency patients who come to the ER with flu symptoms, sprained ankles, and any other easy, treatable issues.

  The elevator alerts me to the third floor, and my exhausted body wakes when I step into the hallway. I roll my shoulders back and snap my head to the side, cracking my neck, trying to shake off the tiredness to be prepare to see my patients.

  When I walk behind the nurse’s station, I see three nurses huddled around the computer, a video playing on the screen. They are laughing loudly, and it’s apparent the movie they’re watching is hilarious. However, having a good time like this in the ICU is hardly the place.

  “There’s a time and place for that, ladies,” I snap in a quiet, demanding tone.

  The younger nurse, Kayla I think her name is, quickly closes the video, and they all turn around.

  “Make sure this isn’t an issue in the future. If it happens again, I will speak to your supervisor. And God help you if an upset family member were to see you all laughing and carrying on as their loved one is dying. Show some damn respect.”

  Exiting the area, I shake off my anger. I can’t believe the nerve of some people. They are young and have little to no life experience at all, but this should be common freaking sense! People are dying daily, family members crying in every waiting room on this floor, yet they think laughing at some stupid video in the middle of it all is appropriate?

  The smell of coffee from the refreshment room fills this part of the hallway, making me want to stop and grab a cup. Perhaps it will help calm my raged nerves and give me a little pick-me-up after being in surgery most of the day. But, before I can go to sleep, I need to make my rounds on the ICU patients. One patient, in particular, I am eager not to speak with—Dex Taylor.

  He once was a distant memory, a person from my past locked away with the only few secrets I hold. He was the source of my heartbreak and a reminder of my independence. He told me who he was, and like the naïve eighteen-year-old I had been, I thought he was different.