Brain Damage, page 5
part #2 of Prescription: Murder Series
Marriage? Gee, what’s that? Is that a drink? A new Internet start-up company?
“What’s the square footage?” he asks.
I look at Clark sideways. I swear, if I didn’t know he was a lawyer, I’d guess he was a real estate agent who was only going out with me to convince me to sell my apartment.
Oh God, is he a real estate agent who’s only going out with me to get me to sell my apartment?
“I can’t remember,” I say as I squeeze my fists together. I’m not used to feeling this nervous on a date. I hate the way that Clark is making me feel. Hate it and love it.
Clark walks over to the window, and gets so close to the glass, I’m worried he might leave smudges. “You have an incredible view of the park.”
I try to smile as I join Clark at the window. The view was what sold me on this apartment—I love looking at the expanse of green right outside my window. No matter what kind of lousy day I’m having, it always cheers me up. “Yeah, I love it.”
He’s close enough to nudge my shoulder with his. “Sort of romantic.”
I feel a flush rise in my pale cheeks. I know I must be blushing, and I’m sure he can tell. “Yeah, sort of.”
A loud meow from behind us interrupts the moment and whatever was about to happen. We turn around and see Kitty, perched on the floor behind us, as if waiting to be introduced. Clark cocks his head at her.
“This is your cat?” he asks.
No, she’s a stray that wandered in through the back door.
I nod. “Her name is Kitty.”
Clark grins. “Black cats are bad luck, you know.”
“So they say…”
I actually hate that superstition. Down at the shelter, they told me that black cats have the hardest time getting adopted because nobody wants the bad luck.
“She’s cute,” Clark says. He bends down and attempts to pet her, but she backs away and hisses at him. So much for wanting to be introduced. “What breed is she?”
I shrug. “She’s a cat.”
“The breeder didn’t tell you?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
“I didn’t get her from a breeder,” I explain. “I rescued her from a shelter.”
Clark stares at me, aghast. “Are you serious, Charlotte? You got her off the street? She could have fleas! Or be pregnant!”
“She doesn’t have fleas,” I say defensively, as Kitty nuzzles against my bare calf. “They checked her out at the shelter. And she’s been fixed.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say,” Clark snorts.
“Are you suggesting they lied to me?”
He shrugs. “You get what you pay for.”
“Well, I’m not returning her,” I say. Clark is seeming less and less attractive by the minute. As if some snooty cat from a breeder would be better than my Kitty. What an ass. No wonder he’s still single. “I’ve had her two years and she’s been checked out by the vet. She’s fine.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Clark concedes. He crouches down again to make another attempt to pet Kitty. This time he nearly gets his hand on her black fur before she hisses again and scratches at his hand.
Clark lets loose with a string of profanity. He jumps up, clutching his hand. I am totally shocked. In the two years I’ve had Kitty, she’s never once scratched anyone. Even when one of my coworkers brought her two-year-old son over, who tried to ride Kitty like a horse.
“You didn’t have her declawed?” Clark asks accusingly.
“It’s inhumane to declaw a cat,” I say.
Clark shoves his hand in my face, which is actually bleeding not insignificantly. “Look what she did! You think that’s humane?”
Well, this date isn’t exactly getting off on the right foot.
I offer to disinfect and bandage Clark’s hand, but he waves me away angrily, cleaning it off in my bathroom with soap and water. I would just as soon call off the date entirely, but when Clark emerges from the bathroom and says, “Let’s go,” I follow him out the door.
Chapter 10
One Year, Nine Months Before
I stare at the name on the first chart of the day, trying to remember why the name sounds familiar. Leroy… Leroy…
I flip it open and it suddenly all rushes back to me. Of course—Stanley Leroy. Groin Fungus Guy. I look at the reason for the visit and it simply says “follow-up.” I guess groin fungus has reared its ugly head once again, as it is apt to do.
I knock once then open the door to the small examining room. The dark-haired man sitting on the examining table in the blue gown we provided looks vaguely familiar, but I honestly don’t recall Groin Fungus Guy being quite so attractive. He’s thinner than I remember, but he still has the same sorrowful brown eyes. I can’t help but notice the way his face lights up when he sees me. I guess it’s not surprising though, considering I am the keeper of groin fungus medication.
“Hello,” I say with a smile. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Leroy?”
I’m assuming the answer involves looking at groin fungus.
“Please call me Stan,” he says. “And I’m just here for a follow-up.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Are you still having symptoms?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. It’s all cleared up. Thanks to you, Doc.”
“All in a day’s work.” I shrug modestly. “You didn’t have to come back to tell me it was better though.”
Stan Leroy hesitates. “I know. I just…”
I frown, my fingers getting ready for another Stan Leroy revelation. The tissue box is in the back of the room.
“I actually wanted to thank you, Dr. McKenna,” he says, looking straight into my eyes. “You inspired me. Because of you, I lost twenty pounds, I got in shape, and… I feel a lot better about myself.”
“Wow,” I say. I get that nice, warm feeling in my chest that I always get when I feel like I’ve genuinely helped someone in the course of my job. Sometimes I love being a doctor. “That’s great. Really. You look great.”
Mr. Leroy takes a deep breath. “And I was just wondering…”
Uh oh.
“Do you think I might be able to take you to dinner sometime?” he asks. His brown eyes are hopeful, like a little puppy dog.
Dating patients is a big no-no. It’s the kind of thing that can lose you your license. I already made an exception for Clark Douglas, and all that got me was a miserable evening that I wished desperately could be over for the entire hour that it lasted. So there’s only one answer to Stan Leroy’s question.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not allowed to date patients. I could get in a lot of trouble.”
“Oh.” Mr. Leroy’s face falls. But unlike Clark, I know he’s not going to pressure me further. He’s not that kind of guy. “I understand.”
I wish Mr. Leroy the best of luck and send him on his way. I don’t put in a bill for his visit. I figure I very well can’t charge the insurance for a failed date request, no matter how much it will irritate Roger.
It isn’t until I’m pulling a second chart out of a patient’s door that I feel a twinge of regret. I wonder if I made a mistake turning down his request. I’m still smarting from my date with Clark last week—I was so excited for my first date in over a year with this incredibly attractive man, and all we did was stare at each other across the candlelit table in an Italian bistro, saying practically nothing. It was bona fide disaster.
But it wouldn’t necessarily be that way with Stan Leroy. I could see in his eyes that he’s a genuinely nice man. He wouldn’t spend the night pissed off because my bad luck cat scratched him. Kitty wouldn’t scratch him in the first place, most likely. And having seen him for a skin infection months ago doesn’t really make him my patient, per se. I mean, it’s a grey area.
Maybe it’s not too late to change my mind.
Before I can second guess myself, I drop the chart I’d been holding back in the rack and rush out into the waiting room. I push past the heavy door that leads into our waiting area, a small, brightly lit room with about a dozen wooden chairs, littered with every magazine known to man. But before I have a chance to scan the room for Mr. Leroy, another unfamiliar man quickly steps in front of me.
“Dr. McKenna!” the man booms.
I’ve never seen this man in my life. I’ve seen more patients in my day than you can imagine, but I know I’d remember this one. He’s at least a head taller than me, even in my heels, with a shiny bald palate and the burly frame of a football player. I instinctively take a step back.
“Yes…” I say. I glance over at our front receptionist Margo, who is shaking her head.
“Mr. Barry,” Margo says. She’s really good at dealing with troublemakers, probably because she has three sons at home. “I told you that Dr. McKenna has a very busy schedule this morning…”
Barry. Oh great. I know exactly who this is.
“Dr. McKenna,” Mr. Barry growls under his breath. “I want to talk to you about my wife Gina.”
Regina Barry visited my clinic over a year ago. She was suffering from severe psoriasis, a skin condition that caused her to have shiny scales over large portions of her skin. Most people don’t know it, but psoriasis causes more depression than most other medical conditions, including cancer. Having scales on your skin, especially for a young woman like Regina Barry, results in a tremendous loss of self-esteem.
On one visit, Mrs. Barry sobbed to me how horrible her husband was to her, how he was an asshole who tried to control her, but she didn’t have the self-esteem to leave him. My box of tissues was working overtime that day.
“Your wife is much better,” I say defensively. Mrs. Barry responded well to a combination of medication and light therapy. At her last visit, she was actually doing great.
“She sure is,” he growls again. “She’s so much better that she told me she doesn’t want me anymore. She thinks she’s too good for me now.”
Well, good for her.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say stiffly.
“I’ll bet,” Mr. Barry snaps. “Whatever witch medicines you gave her messed with her brain.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh at how ridiculous he’s being. “That’s impossible.”
“I know it’s all your fault, Dr. McKenna,” Mr. Barry says, sticking his face in mine. “And believe me, I’m going to make you pay.”
I’m going to make you pay.
The words make my mouth go dry. Believe it or not, I’ve never been threatened before by a patient. I’ve had patients who were psychopaths, jailbirds, or just plain jerks. But this is my first threat. And when he says it, standing over my with his biceps as thick as tree trunks, a thrill of fear runs down my spine.
“Excuse me,” a voice speaks up, “but you can’t talk to Dr. McKenna that way.”
The trance is broken. I look over to identify my savior, and see none other than Clark Douglas, standing behind Mr. Barry. Looking, by the way, achingly handsome in a crisp white dress shirt and tie. I’ve never been so grateful to see a person in my life.
Mr. Barry snaps his bald head around. “Mind your own business, asshole.”
Clark swiftly steps between Mr. Barry and me. Despite the fact that he isn’t as tall or burly as Mr. Barry, he’s easily as physically fit. “Dr. McKenna healed your wife,” he says. “So you have absolutely no grounds for a lawsuit against her. Making these public accusations against her is outright slander, for which she could sue you.”
Mr. Barry’s eyes widen, and then Clark lowers his voice a notch, “Of course, if what you’re threatening is not a lawsuit and rather some other sort of payment, then we’d have to get the police involved in the matter.” He raises his eyebrows. “Should we call the police?”
I have to hand it to Clark. Mr. Barry looks pretty freaked out.
“No,” he mumbles. “Don’t call the police.”
Mr. Barry allows Margo to quietly escort him out of the waiting room without leveling any further threats at me. And now I’m alone with Clark (and the handful of patients who got to witness the show).
“Are you okay?” Clark asks me. An adorable crease forms between his eyebrows.
“Fine,” I lie.
Clark takes me by the arm, and somehow he locates the one examining room that doesn’t already have a patient stuffed into it. He instructs me to sit down, and so we sit together until I stop shaking. Clark doesn’t say anything, just sits there, holding my hand. We’re as silent as we were on our date, but it’s a different kind of silence. The nice kind.
“What are you doing here?” I finally ask him.
Clark smiles crookedly. “I came to apologize, actually. I was a jerk last week and I wanted to say sorry.”
“Oh,” I mumble. “Um, well, that’s okay.”
I reach for his hand and I notice that he winces. That’s when I look down and see that the scratch marks from Kitty have turned an angry red color that’s spread all over the back of his hand.
“Clark!” I gasp. “Have you been to a doctor about this?”
He shrugs. “Nah. It’s just a scratch.”
“It’s not just a scratch!” I say. “It’s clearly infected. You need antibiotics.” Clark shrugs again and I shake my head. “If I write you a prescription, will you take it?”
Clark thinks for a minute. “If you write me a prescription, does that mean you’re my doctor again?” He gazes at me with those blue, blue eyes. “Because I’d really like another chance at a date with you.”
I hesitate for only a second. “I’d like that too.”
Chapter 11
Two and a Half Months After
Every day, I go to a group where we play games to help us remember things. Sometimes, for example, we play Jeopardy. Except that instead of questions about famous novels or figures in history, the questions are about where we live or when our birthday is.
Unfortunately, it’s still very challenging.
There are four of us in the group. It’s me, a girl who is about twenty, and then two older people, a man and a woman. We get pushed into a small room in our wheelchairs, and then sit in the circle around a small wooden square table.
The two other women in the group don’t talk much. Amy, who runs the group, usually has to ask them questions several times before they answer. The younger woman often falls asleep during the group. The man, on the other hand, talks way too much. Amy has to tell him to be quiet a lot.
I secretly think of myself as the only normal person in the group. But I’m concerned that Amy doesn’t see things that way. She’s always telling me I need to talk more.
Today we are playing a game that I really hate. It involves a beach ball on which Amy had written about a dozen questions. We toss the beach ball around between us, and when it’s our turn, we have to answer one of the questions on the ball.
I don’t like this game for many reasons. First of all, I’m not very good at catching the ball. I can’t seem to use my left hand very well, so I have to catch it one-handed. It is not easy to catch a beach ball with one hand. The other reason I don’t like the game is that I can’t read very well right now. I’m not sure exactly why, but when I look at a page of words and read them out loud, they don’t make sense to me. Amy says it’s because I’m not reading all the words. When she asked me if I know why I’m not reading all the words, I quickly tell her it’s because I’m not looking to the left. I’m totally on top of my issues with the left side. If only I could fix them.
When it’s my turn to catch the beach ball, Amy helps me. Otherwise, it would almost definitely end up on the floor. She helps me steady the ball in my right hand, and points to one of the questions she’s written.
“Read the question, Charly,” she says.
I look at the question she’s pointing to. I read, “What does the president ate?”
What? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“How are we supposed to know what the president eats?” the old man speaks up. “Probably lobster. Or steak.”
Amy smiles patiently. “Charly, you didn’t read the entire question.”
I suppose that’s possible. I look back down at the ball. I see the words “What”, “president”, and “ates”. Amy reaches into her pocket and pulls out the red pen. She’s done this before, so I know before she does it that she’s going to put the pen just to the left of the question. That way, I can look for the pen to know where to start reading.
“What is the name of the President of the United States?” I read carefully.
Before I can answer, the old man quickly pipes in with, “His name is Dave.”
I frown at him. I don’t think the president’s name is Dave. I can’t remember his name though. I think it might be Alabama.
“Well,” the old man says, “that’s not the real president’s name. That’s just the guy who is pretending to be the president because the president had a stroke and is sick. So Dave steps in and everybody thinks he’s the president. Except his wife, who is that woman who sort of looks like a man. She knows the truth because Dave looked at her leg and her husband never looked at her leg anymore.”
“Um,” Amy says, “I think that was all from a movie called Dave.”
“Of course it was a movie,” the old man snorts. “Dave was just pretending to be the president, but then the president had a stroke and he had to step in and be the real president. And his wife was played by that actress, the one who looks like a man. You know who I mean. Anyway, he looked at her leg. When they were in the car. And that was how she knew that he was Dave and not really her husband. And…”
Oh God, the old man is still talking. How does he talk so much?
I try to listen, but I get distracted by a face peering into the small window on the door to the room. It’s a man who looks incredibly familiar to me. He’s very handsome. Like, just so incredibly handsome. He looks like a movie star or something. He has perfect hair, the color of chestnuts, and a powerful jaw. My heart leaps when he raps on the window.
