*
“You did great,” Dr. Reed said when it was all over.
I nodded, still buzzing with nerves. After I finished my proposal, I’d been drilled with questions about our research design, and though I answered them as best I could, every time one of the Beenhouwer representatives lifted a hand to ask me another, my heart took off at a gallop. Still, I’d made it through with most of my dignity intact.
Dr. Wallace tapped Dr. Reed on the shoulder, and he quickly stepped aside to let her join our conversation.
“That was very well done, Angela,” she said. “These guys hardly ever see medical students doing the presentations themselves. If you can show that you can secure internal funding so early in your career, it’ll look very attractive on your CV.” Then her expression softened. “But never mind about that. Even if you don’t get funded, you’ve done an excellent job, and during a busy year, no less.”
“I’m not sure how you’re doing it, honestly. This was an ambitious undertaking,” Dr. Reed added. Then, to Dr. Wallace: “Angie’s very reliable, you know. Keeps me on my toes.”
“I’m aware.” Then, she squeezed my arm. “I’m heading over to clinic. Email me the final verdict, Angela?”
“Of course,” I said, stunned. It still felt strange to see her here in the faraway conference room and not behind her messy antique desk. For a woman of such presence, she was shockingly small, barely five foot two. As I watched her leave the room, I thought about how lucky I was. Despite her packed schedule, Dr. Wallace saw me as her protégé. She believed in me. I hadn’t been angry with her in some time, but the last vestiges of my bitterness fizzled away once she’d crossed the threshold of the room.
Dr. Reed gave me an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
“We should be hearing back soon,” he said, pleased. “Do you have to get back to the wards?”
“Yes,” I said. No rest for the wicked, and especially not for third-year medical students.
“Well,” Dr. Reed said, “take it easy tonight. Don’t study. I know you don’t like to take breaks, but you should.”
“I’ll try,” I said, touched.
But the truth was that I couldn’t “take it easy.” Nia needed to be home with Shae, and Michelle was switching to Neuro ICU in the morning and would have to be up early. I would have to spend the night alone, and now, with one less task on my checklist, I had a lot more vacant brain space for me to fill with nonsense about a boy.
I walked back and found the workroom empty; James and his intern had headed down to the hospital to restock on caffeine. I sat down at my computer, leaning back in my stiff office chair until it creaked in protest. My phone felt heavy in my white coat pocket. My vision of this moment had involved calling Ricky right about now. He would have fretted over whether the theme he’d given me had worked on the outdated hospital computers,* asked how the judges had received my ideas. I could imagine his praise—“I knew you could do it, Angie, you’re a badass”—and the beaming pride I’d feel afterward. We’d made loose plans to celebrate, decided on where we would pick up takeout. We were going to watch a terrible movie that we both knew would end up serving as a cover for us to hook up on the couch, and it was going to be a wonderful night.
Or at least it would have been, for a woman he could call his girlfriend. For me, who existed somewhere in between, it would only be another confusing memory to fuel an imminent, calamitous heartbreak.
Not a single text, I reminded myself, then ground my teeth and got to work finishing my notes and updating my sign-outs. Not a call. Not a messenger pigeon, or a bat signal, or anything showing that he ever actually gave a shit about you.
I finished off my notes and updated my sign-outs, then sent James a text asking if he had any other tasks I had to complete. Then I opened up a browser, googling Chicago Museum Hours. There was no reason for me to wallow, not when I still had myself. This is me becoming an adult, I thought. Learning to enjoy my own company. Taking myself out for my own damn dates.
That was how I ended up at the Art Institute.
In the three years since I’d moved to Chicago, I had made plan after plan to go, only for them to fall through at the last minute. It had never occurred to me before today that I didn’t have to wait for anyone to make the trip, because someone had always been there. But today, there was only me. And that was okay, because I was excellent company.
I walked up the stairs to the museum, past the looming, oxidized lion statues, through the throng of ambling, slack-jawed tourists. It was a weekday and just past three in the afternoon, and so the crowds in the downtown streets didn’t translate into the museum itself. I flashed my student ID for my discounted entrance fee, then added on an audio tour just for fun. Normally, when I went to museums, I had to move faster than I liked to not bore my companions, but today I took my time, stopping at every piece, reading every caption. A rich, deep voice sounded through my rented headphones, informing me about the artist’s life, their influences, the historical context of their work. I stood in awe in front of A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, imagining a young Seurat poised in front of the enormous canvas, dipping only the very tip of his brush in his oils. I snickered at the thought of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec hanging out in brothels for “professional purposes,” pausing my tour to look up more about his escapades. I ogled Van Goghs that I had seen only in textbooks and leaned in as close as I was allowed to examine the textures of the brush strokes in Monet’s haystacks. I took selfies mimicking the expressions of the subjects in classical paintings and sent them to the Sanity Circle group chat.