Brain Damage, page 8
part #2 of Prescription: Murder Series
“I know, but…” The old man bites his lip. “Jamie’s the last person you’d expect to act this way. Honestly. He’s just the nicest guy you’d ever meet. And he’s always been so responsible. When he was growing up, he never gave me the slightest bit of trouble.”
Maggie glances at Jamie, like she doesn’t quite believe it. “Is that so?”
The old man nods. “I’m not sure if you know this, but he’s been raising his son all by himself for the last six years. The kid’s mother… she just took off.” His eyes cloud up for a second, then he shakes his head. “Anyway, you have to believe me that if Jamie had any idea how he was acting, he’d be completely mortified.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Maggie says as she scoops the remainder of the peas into her hand. She gets back on her feet. “However, we would like Jamie to apologize.”
“Of course,” the old man says. He looks down at his son. “Jamie, tell this woman that you’re sorry for throwing food at her.”
Jamie’s eyes widen. “She started it,” he insists. “She should apologize to me first.”
“Say you’re sorry, Jamie,” his father says in a stern voice.
Jamie screws up his face for a second, like he’s going to throw a fit. But then I guess he thinks better of it. He sighs and faces me. “I’m sorry, Helmet Girl.”
“And I apologize for him too,” the old man says to Maggie.
Maggie smiles. “Really, it’s okay. He’s probably just bothering her because he thinks she’s pretty and he likes her.”
“I don’t!” Jamie yells.
And to emphasize his point, he picks his roll up off his tray and throws it at me. It bounces off my helmet.
Chapter 16
Three Months After
I always see family members coming to visit other patients. I only get one visitor: my mother.
I asked her once where my father was, and why he never comes to visit. About a minute after I said it, I suddenly remembered a phone call from my mother many years ago, telling me that Daddy died from a heart attack. If he were alive, I’m sure he would visit me. If I had a sister or a brother, they might come. But my mom told me that I don’t have a sister or brother.
I do have a husband, of course. Clark. He came that one time but never again. I’m sort of hoping he’ll come again, but part of me sort of hopes he doesn’t. I’m not sure why but he makes me nervous.
My mother can be sort of annoying when she visits, but I like that she usually brings me some soda from the kitchen. They have these tiny cans of soda, but none of them are name brands. Like instead of Coca-Cola, they just have a generic cola. And instead of Sprite, they have a lemon-lime soda.
I like it that my mom fusses over me. Like when I am sitting in my wheelchair in my room, I always get cold, so I can ask her and she’ll put a nice big quilt from my closet on top of me. The nurses will do that too, but sometimes they tell me that it’s too hot in the room and I shouldn’t have the quilt because I’ll get overheated. For some reason, I always feel cold. Except when I feel really hot.
While I am sitting in my room with my mother, a thought suddenly occurs to me. “Do I have any children?” I ask her.
She stares at me in surprise. I guess it was a weird question to ask.
“Why do you ask me that?” she says, her brows scrunched together. “Do you think you do?”
“Probably not,” I say. “If I had children, I think somebody would have mentioned them or they would’ve come to visit me.”
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think that I almost definitely don’t have children. If I had children, I would definitely know about them, right? There’s no way I could have a son or daughter and just forget that they existed. Plus, I’m sure they would come to visit me.
But part of me is worried that maybe I could forget that I had a child. After all, I forgot that my father died. If I have a child and I forgot him or her, I’d feel really bad about it.
“You don’t,” my mother says.
Thank God.
“Oh, good,” I say.
But then another thought occurs to me. I’m thirty-seven years old. I’m pretty old. Shouldn’t I have kids by now?
“How come?” I ask.
She stares at me. “How come you don’t have children?”
I nod.
She doesn’t answer me right away. I think it was a good question. I know sometimes I ask really stupid questions, which I could tell because of the way people smile or laugh when I ask them. Maybe this is a stupid question. But if I am a grown woman and married, it seems like I should’ve had children by now.
“You wanted to focus on your career,” Mom finally says.
So before I got hurt, I was a doctor. Just like Dr. Greenberg, except I was apparently a doctor specializing in skin. That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me though. How could you specialize in skin? Skin doesn’t get sick. I said that to Amy and she told me that I probably helped people when they had rashes, like the kind that I got on my scalp from all the scratching I did on there. I guess that’s an important job.
Well, either way, I don’t think it’s something I’m going to be able to do anymore.
“It’s probably better I don’t have children,” I say thoughtfully. “Because I wouldn’t be able to take care of them right now.”
“That’s true,” my mother says.
It’s frustrating that I can’t always remember what I was like before I got hurt. When we were in the hallway the other day, they put on this movie about a guy who gets shot in the head during a robbery. Before he got shot, he was this really big jerk, and then after he gets shot, he becomes really nice. So I guess the moral is that it’s good to get shot in the head if you are a bad person.
Except I don’t really think I was a bad person.
Maybe I was though. After all, hardly anyone aside from my mother comes to visit me. And she sort of has to visit me because she’s my mother. I asked my mother about that and she said it was because they all visited me right after I got hurt, and now it’s been a long time. Also, a lot of them are really busy with work like I used to be.
I keep trying to remember things that happened before. The memories are still there, but are covered by a hazy cloak. It’s like waking up from a dream and trying to remember what happened during the dream. I remember things like having dinner in a restaurant with Clark, or putting these long dangling earrings in my ears, or trying to hail a taxi in the rain. But if I try to grab any piece of it, it’s not quite there.
Chapter 17
One and a Half Years Before
Believe it or not, I’m still dating Clark.
It’s been four months. And between you and me, it’s been a really good four months. I’m still not convinced that this man will be the father of my children, but it’s not totally out of the question. Stranger things have happened—a man walked on the moon, after all.
Even Kitty has grudgingly accepted him. Sort of. The first month or so, they kept their distance from one another, but now she seems to be treating him like one of the family—constantly following him around and begging for treats as part of her quest to be The Fattest Cat in the Entire Universe. Although Clark doesn’t see it that way.
“Your cat doesn’t trust me,” he said to me. “She’s always spying on me.”
I laughed. “Spying on you?”
“Yeah,” Clark insisted. He was smiling, but I think he was at least partially serious. “She doesn’t trust me. She’s making sure I’m not up to no good.”
“Oh, come on!” I said. “She adores you. That’s why she likes to sleep next to your head.”
“Right, because she’s trying to kill me!” he said. “Charlotte, she sleeps on my face.”
“That’s a sign of affection.”
“Right, well,” Clark muttered. “You’re going to feel awfully foolish when you wake up to find me smothered by your cat’s fat ass.”
So, yes. Clark and I have had sleepovers. I’m a woman in my mid-thirties—it’s hard to maintain celibacy in a relationship, even if that’s what I wanted. And I don’t want that. I mean, if you’ve been in a desert for a year, and you finally come across a stream of water, do you say, “No, I’m going to wait six months before I have any?” No way. You’d take a drink!
I can’t help but feel self-conscious during sex. I always flick off the lights before Clark comes out of the bathroom. I wish I were twenty pounds thinner. I wish my breasts were bouncier. I wish my stomach were flatter. For starters.
They say that dating a beautiful woman is expensive for a man. Well, I’m here to tell you that dating a handsome man is expensive for a woman, especially a woman like me, who is not used to putting in much effort with my appearance. It sickens me how much I’ve dropped recently on clothes and shoes. I don’t want to tell you what I spent at the hairdresser last weekend, but I now own every single hair product known to man and my hair is as golden and shiny as the sun. If I can’t be skinny, at least I’ll have pretty hair.
Also, I have been waxed as hairless as a newborn baby. Well, not completely. I drank a glass of wine to work up the courage for my bikini wax. Dating a handsome man is not only expensive, it’s painful too. My Jimmy Choo heels are another perfect testament to that.
I’m not sure if I’m doing it for Clark or for everyone else. I need to become the kind of woman that a man like Clark would date. I’m sick of getting funny looks whenever I go out with him. I know what everyone is thinking: what does he see in her? I’d like to pretend I don’t care, but I obviously do.
Sometimes I worry that the Charly who just wanted to be myself, screw everyone else, is getting lost.
As I lie in bed next to Clark, sweaty from the activities of the last hour, I try not to think about all that. I allow Clark to draw me closer to him, and I snuggle up against his broad shoulder. Clark’s body is always so warm and comforting against mine.
“This is nice,” he says.
“Yes,” I murmur. And it is. It really is.
I feel his stubble brush against my forehead, and then I hear him whisper the words in my ear, “I love you, Charlotte.”
I freeze up. It’s the first time he’s said that to me. I know I’m supposed to tell him I love him back or something like that, but all I can think to blurt out is, “Why?”
I probably shouldn’t have said that. But truly, I’m baffled.
Clark pulls away and stares at me in amazement. “Why? How could you ask me that?”
I feel my cheeks turning pink. Yes, I definitely should not have said that. But now it’s out there, and I have to explain it. “I just… I mean, the thing is, I’m not very…”
He frowns at me, shaking his head.
“I’m not pretty,” I finish.
Wow. I can’t believe I just said that. But you know what? I’m not sorry. It needed to be said. It was the elephant in the room the whole time we’ve been dating.
“Charlotte,” Clark says. He squeezes me against him. “You are amazing in so many ways. Not only are you really pretty, but you’re smart and funny and sweet.”
Well, I’m smart, I’ll give him that. My board scores attest to that fact. I don’t think I’m particularly funny though. I don’t know if I’m sweet either, but I’m not mean or anything. I let that Stan Leroy guy down easy.
“I wish you could see what I see,” Clark says softly.
He strokes the side of my face. Clark thinks that I am pretty and smart and funny and sweet. I don’t think I’m at least three of those things, but whatever. I don’t even care anymore. I’m sure this thing will come crashing down on me at some point, but I’m going to stop questioning it. I’m just going to enjoy the ride.
“I love you, Charlotte,” he says again.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
Chapter 18
Sixteen Months Before
I know I’m supposed to be having a romantic dinner to celebrate Clark’s and my six-month anniversary of dating, but all I can think about is how itchy I am.
My last patient of the day came in with an itchy rash on his arms and chest that I had initially been led to believe was eczema. By the time I identified it as scabies, it was too late. I was wearing gloves and all, but if I had known there was a chance he might have scabies, I would’ve gowned up. Hell, I would’ve put the guy in a bubble.
Now my incredibly handsome boyfriend is sitting across from me, telling me some story about an encounter he had trying to hail a cab, and all I can think about is the tiny bugs burrowing into my skin.
I think I might go crazy.
“You seem a little distracted, Charlotte,” Clark says, raising an eyebrow at me.
I can’t tell Clark about the scabies. You don’t tell the most handsome, sexy man you’ve ever met that you might have scabies. You just don’t.
“Just thinking about work.”
Clark nods and smiles. “Anything you want to talk about?”
In addition to being ridiculously handsome (have I mentioned that before?), Clark is incredibly interested in my work. Most people’s eyes start to glaze over after a few too many stories about skin problems, but Clark has impressive listening skills. When I tell him about some troublemaker patient or a fight I had with an insurance company, he always makes me feel better about it.
So yes, believe it or not, Clark is a really great boyfriend. I wouldn’t have thought it. I had assumed that a man who looked like him would almost definitely break my heart, quickly and painfully. But Clark hasn’t shown any signs of it. He’s sweet, relatively attentive, and he’s understanding about the long hours that I work on top of the fact that I’m training for a marathon. (My knee is so much better.)
Sometimes I wish he weren’t quite so handsome though. Obviously, I don’t mind having an attractive boyfriend, but I just wish he were a little bit less ridiculously good-looking. Especially at times like these, when we’re sitting together in a restaurant, and I feel like everyone in the room is wondering how a woman who looks like me ended up with a boyfriend who looks like Clark. Even though I’ve now lost fifteen pounds, I can’t help but think that way.
Our waitress, a girl at least ten years younger than me with shapely legs that put my muscular thighs to shame, comes over to clear away our dinner plates. “Can I interest you in some dessert, Sugar?” she asks Clark.
The waitress has been flirting shamelessly with my boyfriend throughout the entire meal. I’m beginning to wonder if she has some sort of bet going with the waitstaff over whether she can go home with him.
“No, thank you,” Clark says to her. To his credit, he hasn’t been flirting back.
Our waitress looks disappointed as she walks away. Notice she didn’t even bother to offer me a dessert. Good thing for her I’m not the one tipping her.
Clark takes a sip from his wine glass, gazing at me over the rim of the glass. I scratch my bare forearm self-consciously. I know the symptoms of scabies take at least two weeks to manifest, but I still feel really itchy.
“Charlotte,” Clark says softly, “I just want to tell you how wonderful these last six months with you have been.”
“Me too,” I mumble.
Maybe I’ll go get myself some permethrin cream at the pharmacy on the way home. It will make me feel better about the whole thing.
“I feel so close to you,” he goes on. “I never thought I’d feel that way about another person.”
“Me too.”
Really, you’re supposed to tell sexual contacts if you have scabies. Clark is most definitely a sexual contact. But I just can’t make myself tell him. I don’t want him to think of me as the woman who gave him scabies.
Clark stands up for a minute, and at first, I’m completely confused. Did he realize I was concealing my raging case of scabies from him and is going to walk out on me? But then, instead of walking out, Clark does the exact opposite of walking out.
He gets down on one knee. And pulls a blue velvet box from his pocket.
No. Way.
“Charlotte,” he says. He opens the blue velvet box and a gigantic diamond catches the light of the chandelier above us. My friend Bridget knows all about diamonds—the number of carats, the cut of the diamond—but I don’t know any of that nonsense. But I’ve got eyes and I can tell that this diamond is huge. I cover my mouth to keep it from hanging open. “Will you marry me?”
Okay, I don’t feel itchy anymore.
Everyone in the entire restaurant is staring at us. Even that awful waitress is looking our way and her jaw is dropped open in disbelief.
“Yes,” I say quickly. I glance around at the audience we’ve acquired. “Now get up. Please.”
Clark gets to his feet, but he pulls me up with him. He kisses me passionately in front of the entire restaurant, and the room breaks into thunderous applause.
This might be the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me. Well, without the scabies.
_____
I can tell Clark is in a good mood this morning because he’s whistling. Clark always whistles when he’s happy. I recognize most of the tunes he whistles as pieces from Mozart, which seems like an odd thing to whistle. I mean, who whistles classical music?
I recognize at least some of the music from my amazing music appreciation class in high school (thank you, Mr. Lieberman). This morning he’s whistling a piece I think is called Requiem as he makes his way out of our bed and into the bathroom. I smile and hum along softly to myself.
I’m going to marry this guy. We’re actually going to have a use for the second bedroom.
After Clark takes what sounds to be the longest piss in the history of the universe, he comes out of the bathroom full of energy and presumably ten pounds lighter.
“Let’s go out to breakfast,” he says, “and then we’ll get your ring resized.”
The ring he bought me is a bit big. He got my size by measuring one of the rings in my jewelry box, but considering my weight is currently at an all-time low, he overestimated the size. And he adorably wants to go with me to get it fixed.
