Chapter Four

Saturday;

The week sped by in a blur of classes and studying, and before I knew it, I was back at the hospital, volunteering in my usual spot. I was trying to squeeze in as many hours as I could before my university workload became overwhelming—a reality I knew was fast approaching.

After the talk with Aunt Grace, I'd finally decided to sign up for the TA position, despite my initial hesitation. She had a way of putting things into perspective, pointing out that if I ever got stuck on something from a lecture, I'd have direct access to Prof. Montgomery for help. I wouldn't have to suffer the anxiety of raising my hand in a crowded classroom; instead, I could quietly ask her questions while sitting next to her in the office, marking papers. Plus, the extra credit was a safety net—if I bombed a major test, those bonus points could make all the difference in keeping my grades up. Aunt Grace had rattled off a dozen more reasons why it was a good idea, but I won't drag you through the details. It was enough to convince me, though; her logic always seemed to cut through my doubts like a knife.

That night, after Aunt Grace's pep talk, I sat at my desk with the TA application spread out before me. I filled in every line carefully, making sure each word sounded just right, even though Prof. Montgomery had made it clear she didn't care about what we wrote. Still, a part of me couldn't help but put in the effort—just in case.

The next day, I wandered around campus, trying to find her office. I was lost, aimlessly walking up and down hallways until frustration started to bubble up. I finally swallowed my pride and asked another professor for directions, managing to find the mailbox just as I was about to give up entirely. I slid my neatly filled-out form into the slot, feeling a mix of nerves and relief.

I hoped I'd get the position, but I knew better than to let my hopes climb too high. I'd been burned before—too many times, really. I'd always get excited about something, only for reality to come crashing down, shattering any trace of optimism I'd built up. So now, I'm just trying to take things one day at a time, letting life unfold however it's meant to.

"Excuse me?" a sharp, irritable voice snapped me out of my thoughts. "I asked for a bottle of water like ten minutes ago."

I turned my head, seeing an older man sprawled on the hospital bed, glaring at me with a look of disdain. His thinning gray hair was sticking up in odd angles, and his skin was pale, almost translucent under the fluorescent lights. I glanced around, hoping he was talking to someone else, but the hallway behind me was empty.

"I'm talking to you, you imbecile," he barked, pointing a crooked, trembling finger in my direction. His eyes were watery and framed by deep wrinkles, but they were sharp and accusing, narrowing at me like I was the sole cause of his inconvenience.

"I apologize," I said, forcing a polite smile as I stepped into his room. "But you didn't ask me for water or anything."

The old man rolled his eyes dramatically, sighing as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "I did, now bring me some," he demanded, his voice rising with impatience. I nodded quickly, my cheeks burning with embarrassment as I hurried out of the room, his grumbling fading behind me.

Maybe he did ask and I was too lost in my thoughts to hear, or maybe he's just confused—could be dementia, or something. I can't help but wonder, though: do rich people end up like this from sniffing their money too much? I imagine them waking up in their silk sheets, spending the first few minutes of their day inhaling the scent of crisp $100 bills before rolling out of bed.

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, I grabbed a bottle of ice-cold water from the fridge and rushed back to his room. The last thing I wanted was another scolding about being too slow.

I placed the bottle on the bedside table with a forced smile, eager to be done with this interaction. Just as I turned to leave, his voice, sharp and impatient, stopped me in my tracks. "Are you forgetting something?" he snapped, sounding thoroughly exasperated.

I paused, glancing around the room and patting my pockets as if I had misplaced something. Everything was where it should be—nothing missing. "No," I said, confused.

The old man rolled his eyes dramatically, as if he couldn't believe my sheer incompetence, and gestured to the bottle. "You didn't open it," he said in a condescending tone, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. I stared at the bottle and back at him, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Great. Not only was I delivering the water, but now I had to be his personal bottle opener too.

As I twisted the cap off the bottle, I silently repeated a mantra: stay calm, stay kind. Life's too short to waste energy on snapping back. I handed him the open bottle, watching as he took it without so much as a thank you. I quickly asked if he needed anything else, trying to keep my tone light, and when he shook his head, I gratefully slipped out of his room.

I wondered if Elizabeth was still around. With no immediate tasks on my plate, I decided to go check on her. I made my way down the hall, the sound of my footsteps echoing faintly off the sterile, white walls.

Peeking into Elizabeth's room, I saw her perched on her bed, engrossed in the same worn paperback she'd been reading when we first met. She looked up at the sound of the door and her face brightened instantly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with delight.

"Valentina!" she exclaimed, her voice warm and welcoming. "Come in, come in!" She gestured eagerly for me to join her, patting the space beside her bed. Smiling, I stepped inside and plopped down onto the couch next to her, feeling immediately at ease in her bright presence.

Elizabeth gently closed her book, placing it neatly on the bedside table as she adjusted herself on the bed, her focus entirely on me. She clasped her hands together, her smile warm and inviting. "So," she began, her voice full of interest, "how are you doing today?"

I leaned back in the chair, sinking into the worn cushions. "Been good," I replied. "Quiet mostly."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. "Quiet is good sometimes, no?" she said with a knowing smile. I agreed wholeheartedly—sometimes a quiet hospital was exactly what the patients needed to rest and heal.

Elizabeth continued asking questions, her curiosity sincere and unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world to listen. Eventually, my conversation turned into a full-blown rant. "...And I just signed up to be the TA for the rudest professor I've ever had," I said, exasperated.

Elizabeth chuckled softly, her head tilting back as she let out a light laugh that filled the room. "I'm sure they're not that bad," she said, amused.

I shook my head, my expression weary. "Oh, she's as bad as I say. Trust me." I extended my hand, counting off on my fingers as I listed my grievances. "She never smiles, she's impatient, she yells at us constantly..." I trailed off as Elizabeth listened, her eyes fixed on me with a blend of empathy and amusement.

"Hmm," Elizabeth murmured thoughtfully. "Maybe she'll cool down later on." She shrugged, brushing off the severity of it with a hopeful smile. "What's her name?"

I thought back to what the Dean had called her. "Johanna Montgomery," I replied, the name leaving my lips with a touch of lingering frustration.

Elizabeth nodded, but before she could say anything, a doctor in a white coat walked into the room, his presence calm yet purposeful. He carried a clipboard in one hand, flipping through the pages as he approached. "Ms. Jones, how're you doing today?" he asked, his voice gentle yet clinical, eyes scanning her chart.

Elizabeth offered him a warm, practiced smile, her posture straightening slightly on the bed. "I'm doing alright," she said, her tone upbeat despite the circumstances. The doctor nodded thoughtfully, setting the chart aside for a moment. "And how's your heart feeling?" he asked, his expression attentive.

Elizabeth was in the hospital waiting for a heart transplant, but before the doctors could move forward, they needed to ensure her valves were functioning properly—a critical step before any surgery could be considered.

I watched quietly, absorbing every word exchanged between Elizabeth and the doctor. He checked her vitals on the monitor and then turned his attention back to her. "Have you had anything to eat yet, Ms. Jones?" he asked, his brow lifting slightly in concern.

Elizabeth shook her head gently, brushing a strand of gray hair behind her ear. "Not yet," she replied with a soft chuckle. "But my daughter is on her way, and she's bringing me something to eat." Her voice carried a blend of anticipation and affection, hinting at the comfort of family amidst the sterile hospital setting.

Aunt Grace poked her head into Elizabeth's room, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Val, I'm heading into surgery right now. Wanna join?" she asked, playfully wiggling her eyebrows. I blinked in surprise, her words slowly sinking in. Join? As in, inside the operating room? I'd never done that before!

I glanced over at Elizabeth, hesitant to leave our conversation unfinished. She gave me a gentle nod and an encouraging smile, silently telling me to go ahead. I leapt off the couch, practically buzzing with excitement, and trailed after my aunt as she led the way down the bustling hospital corridor.

"What kind of surgery is it? How did you even get permission for me to join?" I bombarded her with questions, barely able to contain my enthusiasm. Aunt Grace chuckled, clearly amused by my eagerness.

"It's an appendectomy, with Dr. Bryson," she explained as we navigated through the maze of hallways. "I just asked him if you could be in the OR with us today, and he agreed."

I could hardly believe it—usually, I was confined to the viewing gallery, peering down at the surgeries from afar. But now, I'd be right there in the heart of the action, so close to the surgeons I could hear every instruction and see every precise movement. The thought sent a thrill through me; this was going to be incredible.

✿

Monday;

The weekend had flown by in a blink, leaving me wishing for a magical day squeezed between Saturday and Sunday. Now, I was tucked away in a quiet corner of the library, hunched over my notes, doing some last-minute revision on last week's General Physics material. I'd spent most of yesterday buried in my books, but I couldn't shake the need for one final review—just to be absolutely sure I had everything down.

I glanced at the time, and a resigned sigh escaped me. It was time to head to Prof. Montgomery's class. Reluctantly, I gathered my things, neatly packing my books and notes into my bag, and slipped out of my chair as quietly as I'd settled into it forty minutes earlier.

When I entered the lecture room, I took my usual seat, the cold, hard chair feeling oddly familiar beneath me. I pulled a pen from my bag and looked around. The room was unnervingly silent, every student sitting stiffly in their seats, eyes downcast, and not a whisper to be heard. It was surreal how the atmosphere shifted in this class; students who would normally chat and joke around were now subdued, waiting anxiously for Prof. Montgomery to arrive. Her presence commanded a silence unlike any other class—a silence filled with equal parts respect and apprehension.

The sharp, rhythmic clacking of heels against the tile floor snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned my head toward the door just in time to see Prof. Montgomery stride in, her presence immediately commanding the room's attention. Without a word, she tossed her sleek handbag onto her chair and swiftly began distributing the quizzes, her expression all business as she moved between the rows of students.

As soon as the last quiz hit the desk, the sound of scribbling pens filled the air. We all knew the drill—fifteen minutes on the clock to prove how well we'd grasped last week's lessons. I breezed through the questions, feeling a rush of confidence with each answer I jotted down. As I worked, a stray thought crossed my mind: did Prof. Montgomery actually take the time to mark all these quizzes, or was this just a clever tactic to keep us on our toes? Either way, it was working—everyone was hunched over, absorbed in their own battle with the questions, determined to outsmart the woman who had us all under her thumb.

As soon as the fifteen minutes were up, Prof. Montgomery strode down the aisles, collecting the quizzes with swift, precise movements. She dropped the stack unceremoniously into her desk drawer and slammed it shut, the loud thud echoing through the room.

"Excuse me, Professor Montgomery?" a soft, hesitant voice called from the front row, barely above a whisper. The professor turned her head sharply, fixing a cold, irritated glare on the girl who had dared to interrupt her. "What?" she snapped, her tone dripping with impatience as she flipped through the pages of her textbook, clearly uninterested in whatever was about to be asked.

The girl, visibly nervous, fidgeted with the edge of her notebook before speaking up. "When are you going to announce your TA?" she squeaked, her voice small and unsure. The moment the words left her mouth, the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. I watched as Prof. Montgomery's jaw tightened, her fingers pausing mid-turn on the page. I could practically see the frustration boiling beneath her calm facade, the stiffness in her movements giving her away.

Everyone knew how this worked—the form clearly stated that if you were chosen, you'd receive an email. If you didn't get one, you weren't picked. Simple. Yet here we were, with the professor's icy stare cutting through the poor girl, whose face turned a shade paler. Without bothering to respond, Prof. Montgomery turned back to her textbook, her silence a clear dismissal of the question and a reminder of why no one wanted to be on her bad side.

For the rest of the lecture, I focused on scribbling down notes, highlighting key points as Prof. Montgomery explained complex theories in her usual curt manner. My mind occasionally drifted to my plans for the afternoon—two hours free before my last class, just enough time to stroll down to Midnight Mocha. The thought of a warm coffee and one of their delicious pastries had my mouth watering. They had a display filled with treats that looked like something out of a glossy food magazine. If I didn't watch myself, I'd probably end up spending a small fortune there.

As I started packing up my things, I heard Prof. Montgomery's voice cut through the low murmur of students gathering their belongings. "Don't forget about next week's assignment," she said, her tone making it clear she wasn't in the mood to repeat herself. I froze, feeling a cold dread settle in. Assignment? What assignment? I racked my brain, trying to recall any mention of it, but came up blank. Had I really zoned out that badly?

I turned to the student in front of me, a guy with messy hair and a hoodie, hoping for a quick explanation. "Hey, what assignment?" I whispered, but he didn't even spare me a glance, disappearing down the steps without a word. Great. Now I had no choice but to ask Prof. Montgomery herself, something I was really not looking forward to.

I took a hesitant step closer to her desk, where Prof. Montgomery sat, surrounded by a mess of papers scattered haphazardly across the surface. She was hunched over, her sharp eyes scanning through the documents with an air of impatience. My heart pounded as I fidgeted with my fingers, shifting my weight nervously from one foot to the other. For some reason, the words just wouldn't come out.

After what felt like an eternity, she let out an exasperated sigh and finally looked up, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "I can hear you breathing all the way over there, and it's annoying," she snapped, her voice dripping with irritation. I froze, instinctively holding my breath as if that could somehow make me invisible. She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Speak up or get the hell out," she barked, jabbing a finger toward the door.

I forced myself to exhale and managed to squeak out, "I think I zoned out when you were explaining the assignment." My voice wavered, and I rubbed my elbow anxiously, feeling like a scolded child.

Prof. Montgomery sighed again, this time rubbing her temples as if my presence alone was giving her a headache. "Everything you need to know is in the email I sent you all," she said dismissively, her tone flat and uninterested. Without another word, she returned to her papers, effectively ending the conversation as though I wasn't even there.

That's it? I braved the lion's den just for her to tell me it's in the email? If I'd known that, I would've spared myself the heart attack and bolted out of this tension-filled room minutes ago.

I forced a tight-lipped smile and mustered up some politeness. "Great, thank you," I said, my voice strained but civil. "I'll see you later, Professor." I turned on my heel, making a swift exit before she could fire another scathing comment in my direction. As I walked out, I glanced back, half-expecting some acknowledgment, but as usual, she was already engrossed in her papers, not even sparing me a second glance. Classic Prof. Montgomery—no thank-yous, no goodbyes, just the cold, dismissive silence she was known for.