The blood was everywhere.
A wet smear on the left handlebar of the FitFams machine. Reddish-brown droplets on the cement floor. A crimson bloom of blood, soaking through the towel the client had brought from home because the company no longer provided towels, a policy that Willa was now cursing.
The client, Rachel, was currently sitting on the reception bench, howling and clutching her left pointer finger to her chest after she’d somehow pinched it in the pedal mechanism after class had started, sending blood spurting like an Italian fountain in the front row.
Willa, pricing merch in the reception area, heard the scream and ran into the main studio, then gasped at the carnage. Strangely, the other clients seemed unmoved, like star medical students working on a cadaver in anatomy lab.
I guess you have to admire their determination to get the most out of their $35-workout, Willa thought. Then she shifted into Emergency Mommy Mode, helping the client unclip from her pedals, grabbing the towel to apply pressure, and escorting her to the reception area.
Willa peered back over her shoulder and mouthed, “keep going,” even though Jamie looked a little bit sick. She cranked up Britney Spears’ “Work Bitch” in an effort to drown out Rachel’s moans.
“Sit here,” Willa said to her. “Keep applying pressure, and I’ll find the First Aid Kit.”
Willa ran to the supply closet at the back of the studio, muttering under her breath about the stupidity of a person who would stick their fingers into a machine that could cut them off, and tossed aside sweatshirts, wristbands, and water bottles in search of the kit.
She found the small metal suitcase under a stack of drawstring bags, ran it out to the reception area, unclipped the latch, and popped it open.
It was empty.
“What the hell?” Willa said.
“What’s wrong?” It was Flora, sauntering into the building to prepare for the next class. She was staring at her phone.
Willa pictured her striding through a World War II battlefield, texting and posting to Instagram, oblivious to the soldiers scrambling up the embankments and the bullets whizzing by her beautiful head.
“The First Aid Kit is empty,” Willa said, staring dumbly into the box. “And that woman is bleeding profusely.”
Flora looked up from her phone. “Ew,” she said. “And, yeah, that kit has been empty for a long time.”
“Nobody thought to fill it up, or at least tell me about that?” Willa asked.
“I thought you knew,” Flora said. “Or maybe it was just for show?”
Willa supposed that wasn’t exactly a huge leap to make, given how focused FitFams was on superficiality.
“It’s incredibly important that we have First Aid supplies on hand at all times,” Willa said.
Rachel wailed.
“Rachel, I’m so sorry,” Willa said, taking a seat next to her. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“Noooooooooo,” she moaned. “Let me call my husband.”
Rachel used a healthy finger to swipe on the blood-streaked phone. “Honey, I’m hurt. I hurt my finger at FitFams. It hurts soooooooooo much.”
She snuffled and listened — “OK. OK.” — and then ended the call. “He’s coming to get me now. His office is just down the street.”
“OK, good,” Willa said. “Can I take a look at your finger?”
She wasn’t sure why she asked that. Willa was no longer First Aid or CPR certified. She just wanted to see how extensive the injury was before she told corporate about the bloodbath.
Rachel slowly lowered her towel-wrapped hand from her chest, which was now smeared with red, to her lap and unwrapped it as you might a homemade tamale.
The spurting had stopped, thank God. What remained was a fairly deep cut, maybe an inch wide, that Willa guessed — from her many visits to the Emergency Room with the boys after they fell out of trees, swung off monkey bars, and punched each other in the face — would require some stitches.
“It actually doesn’t look that bad,” Willa said, trying to sound comforting.
“It IS bad! Why would you say that?!” Rachel cried. “Don’t try to minimize or invalidate my pain!”
Oh, that’s right — Rachel was a couples therapist. At least she wasn’t a concert pianist?
“OK, OK, I’m sorry,” Willa said, patting her arm.
Rachel’s phone buzzed, and she hurried out of the studio. Willa watched through the window as the husband double-parked a black Porsche 718 Boxster and jumped out. He wrapped an arm around Rachel, guided her into the car, and then looked directly at Willa and mouthed something she guessed was obscene.
Willa did her best to scrub the blood off the floor and wheeled Rachel’s machine to the back hallway, taking it out of rotation, thankful Flora’s class wasn’t full and wondering whether she was supposed to shut down the studio so as not to violate the OSHA Bloodborne Pathogens Standard.
Honestly, she didn’t even know what that was; she hadn’t been trained in that sort of thing. But she had been trained to never cancel classes. So Willa proceeded as usual.
After Flora finished coaching and she and the clients left the building, Willa took a moment to look up “how to remove blood from concrete” and send a message to corporate about what had happened.
Willa left the laptop on the table as she scrubbed at the spots on the floor and disinfected the offending machine, then wheeled it back into place for the next morning’s class. She was about to close her laptop and head home when she saw the response from corporate. This time it was from Cora:
“Hi Willa! Thanks for the info about the client today. Please keep us posted on how that resolves itself. In terms of your questions about First Aid and CPR training and placing one of those defibrillator thingies in the studio, we’ll take that all under advisement. In the meantime, feel free to go buy some Band-Aids from Duane Reade — or whatever you guys have in Atlanta — and expense it to the company. Thanks!”
Willa sat back down at the reception desk and slumped in the chair.
You shouldn't have 🤣😉
You shouldn't have 😍🤣