by Bryan, JL
“I’ll text you,” he said.
“I’ll text you, too,” she said, with just the tiniest sneer in her voice. He looked bewildered, as if clueless what he might have done to annoy her.
“Take care of yourself,” Cassidy said. “Don’t drown in your fancy aquatic center.”
“Almost nobody does.”
The nurse began to wheel him out.
“Hey, Peyton? Do you know if they ever caught the guy in the hearse?”
“The hearse?” Peyton looked back over his shoulder.
“By ‘the hearse,’ I obviously mean the one that almost ran into us and made us crash.”
“You mean the truck?”
“It wasn’t a truck. It might have been a limo.”
“No, it was the biggest truck I’ve ever seen,” Peyton said. “Bigger than a Mack truck, dark as hell, all those smokestacks throwing out sparks...the high beams were like fire. They blinded me. What kind of truck was that, anyway? It took up both lanes. That can’t be legal.”
“Wait, what? What are you talking about?” she asked, but the nurse had already wheeled him out, relentlessly keeping things on schedule. “Peyton! Come back!”
“Text me...” he said from somewhere out in the hall.
Cassidy sighed and looked at her purse, located on the far side of the narrow table by her bed. She reached out with her right arm, and immediately felt searing pain erupt from her right leg and burn its way up her side.
She cried out in pain and let herself sink back onto the bed. She hadn’t expected that.
She couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said, though, that he’d seen something very different before the crash. She was certain that it had been a long, low, shadowy vehicle with pale blue headlights almost too dim to see.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to reach across the table again, resisting the howling pain long enough to snatch up her phone. She sighed as she dropped back into place on her pillow. She needed more pain meds than she was getting, but they were being stingy about it and claiming it could react with all the recreational drugs still draining from her system. Cassidy had assured them her body could handle quite a lot of drugs at once, but it didn’t help.
She tried to turn on her phone and text Peyton, but it was dead and she didn’t have a charger with her. She groaned and tossed it back onto the table.
They’d both been high and a little sloshed, and they’d probably both banged their heads pretty hard. Peyton had to be wrong, she thought—why would anyone build a truck two lanes wide? Who could ever use a truck like that? Peyton’s memory had to be more distorted than hers, because his didn’t make any sense.
In the early afternoon, she had a quick visit from a physical therapist. He was a handsome young black man, tall and lean, with a quick, generous smile.
Please say there’s a massage involved, she thought, glancing at his long and muscular fingers.
There wasn’t. He presented her with a pair of crutches and invited her to stand on them.
“Already?” Cassidy asked. “What if I re-break the bone or something?”
“The broken part’s been turned to steel,” he told her. “We don’t have to worry about your bones, just your muscles. You need help getting off the bed?”
“No, I can probably do it.” Cassidy winced as she heaved herself into a sitting position. She tried to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, but her right leg was just dead weight. She felt a stab of panic, realizing for the first time just how immobilized and helpless she’d really become.
“Just let me know if you need a hand.” His eyes regarded her. They were a golden-brown hue, full of mirth while his lips remained solemn.
“I need a hand.”
He helped her to her feet and supported her while she eased the crutches under her arms. His touch was warm and strong, keeping her steady.
“You’ll probably want to let your good leg and your crutches carry your weight,” he said. “I want you to do the opposite. Put as much weight as possible on your right leg.”
“I can’t even feel my right leg.”
“Put some weight on it, and you’ll feel it just fine.” He winked, and it was just the way a wink was supposed to be, she thought—not cheesy, not creepy, but playful and teasing. “You ready to try?”
“Sure.”
“Easy, easy...” he said, drawing his hands slowly away from her.
Cassidy felt herself swaying, but she didn’t topple over onto the floor.
“I’m doing it!” she said. “This is easy, I’m not falling—”
Pain shot up from her right leg, and she fell. The therapist caught her with his quick hands before she swayed too far, then set her back on both feet.
“It hurts,” Cassidy growled.
“That means you’re doing it right.” He flashed a smile. “You could make it easier on yourself, though. Let me show you...” He gently moved her arms and hands, adjusting her position on the crutches, and she felt the strain in her wrists and shoulders shrink away.
“That did help,” she told him.
His hand floated just above her forearm, tracing the coils of white-flowering hemlock and purple-flowered belladonna from her elbow to her wrist. “Nice ink,” he said. “Those are powerful plants.”
“Thanks.” Cassidy gave him a weak smile, though she was in pain and struggling just to stand still. “You got any tats?”
“Couple things. I can’t be taking my shirt off around patients, though.”
“It’s okay, I’m a professional.”
“You’re a pro at checking out tattoos?”
“Yep. I’m a tattoo artist.”
“For real?” He raised his eyebrows and seemed to be checking her out with renewed interest. “Are you good?”
“Some days.”
“If somebody had a tattoo they needed fixed, could you change it up to look better?”
“Yeah, let’s have a look. Help me sit down.”
He eased her back to the bed, leaning the crutches beside her.
“This is gonna look bad if somebody walks in here...” He turned his back to her and looked over his shoulder with a smile that was almost shy. Cassidy lifted his dark blue hospital scrub shirt.
One side of his back featured a long-billed bird in flight over the Nile. She knew it was the Nile because a small island with a clearly Egyptian temple—closely packed square columns, animal-headed people seated on thrones—jutted up in the center of the river.
“That’s amazing work,” she said.
“You think so?”
“The detail on this bird...” Cassidy traced it with her fingertip. His back was as warm as his hands, ridged with muscles, his skin a hue that reminded her of the jars of dark, bold wildflower honey her mother sometimes purchased at the farmers market. For just half a second, she was tempted to lash out her tongue and discover whether he tasted as sweet as he looked.
Go away, evil thoughts, she told herself. Her boyfriend was in a body brace with cracked ribs, even if he had run away to a ritzier hospital. Part of her couldn’t help feeling abandoned.
It wasn’t as though Peyton didn’t look at other girls—the scene was full of drunken sluts who treated even local club DJ’s like rock stars.
“That’s an ibis,” the therapist said, shaking her out of her thoughts.
“I like the temple, too.” Cassidy leaned forward to inspect the detail work, the tiny, barely-visible hieroglyphs between the seated statues. “This is beautiful. Why would you want it changed? Who did this, anyway?”
“You’re looking at the wrong tat.”
“Oh.” Cassidy had been so immediately engaged and absorbed by the masterful scene on the right side of his back that she’d neglected to notice the wildcat prowling down along the left side. It was clearly by another, much less talented artist. It tried for photorealism but came off cartoony, the wildcat’s head cocked at an angle that was probably supposed to be inquisitive but instead just looked very, very
uncomfortable for the poor wildcat.
The worst details were on the wildcat’s face. It had two disproportionately tiny fangs, sized and positioned in a way that reminded her of The Count from Sesame Street. Worse, the shading around the wildcat’s eye very nearly suggested a monocle.
“Oh,” Cassidy said, struggling for something nice to say. “Well, it’s, you know...a wildcat.”
“My college mascot.” He pulled his shirt tail from her hands and lowered it as he turned around. “What do you think?”
“It’s nice.”
“Man, he looks like The Count! Everybody in the locker room was like ‘one...two...three! Three hundred dollars wasted on that ugly-ass tattoo!’” He imitated The Count’s semi-Transylvanian accent. “Weeks of that.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Why didn’t you get it fixed?”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Are you good enough to make this look good?”
Cassidy took a deep breath. “I can make it look better.”
“That would be something.”
“Come by my shop after I get back to work. Neolithic, in Little Five. I’ll fix your ink if you get me walking again fast.”
“The system will probably give you somebody else for outpatient,” he said.
“Oh.” She frowned. “But you can still help me. I don’t have insurance, so I’ll get the bare minimum.”
“Bare minimum’s pretty good here,” he said. “But sure, I’ll help you out. Gotta love the barter system.” His gaze lingered on her for a moment, then he nodded once and turned his attention to her leg. “You need to start stretching each of these muscles at least four times a day. You want to focus on rebuilding flexibility right away.”
He showed her how to let her leg drop slowly over the edge of the bed, supported by her good leg, to stretch out her quads, and how to sit flat on the bed and try to straighten her right knee in order to stretch out her hamstrings. The stretching burned, and she clenched her teeth.
“Good,” he said. “We’re out of time, but keep working on that. Be flexible, be strong.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, in mock-military tone.
“And think about how you’re going to fix my wildcat.” He jotted down his number on a small pad with the hospital logo in the upper corner.
“I already know how to fix it. It will take one...two...three! Three hours!”
“You’re an evil girl. I knew that when I walked in, though.” They traded phone numbers.
“Your name’s Ibis?” she asked, looking at the piece of paper where he’d written his name and number.
“That’s what I said when I walked in.”
“I wasn’t paying attention. So the ibis on your back...”
“...refers to my first name. Look at you, putting things together all by yourself. Did you read a lot of Nancy Drew growing up?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“I get a two-minute break every sixteen hours.” He waved as he left.
“Good-bye, Ibis,” she said, watching him stride away, then watching him collide with Barb as she entered the room. Barb gaped up at him.
“Excuse me.” Ibis walked around her, then quickly swerved the other way to avoid Cassidy’s other housemate, Allie, and Allie’s two boyfriends, who stumbled into the room behind Barb. The sight of Barb cheered Cassidy right away, but Cassidy wished she hadn’t dragged Allie and her boyfriends along.
Cassidy raised an eyebrow with a glance toward Allie, who was drooling after the tall dark man exiting the room. Barb gave Cassidy an apologetic look and half a shrug, which told her that they’d insisted on coming, and she wasn’t able to stop them.
“Sorry,” Barb said. “I only just found out. I thought you’d stayed over at Peyton’s last night. Are you okay?”
“I’m fucking awesome,” Cassidy said. “They screwed a steel rod thing into my leg. It’s now unbreakable, I think.”
“What’s up with Dr. Hottie?” Allie chirped, appearing at the other side of Cassidy’s bed. She wore a high-cut tank top with purple hand shapes around her boobs. “Tell me he’s your doctor.”
“He’s a physical therapist.”
“Is he single?” Allie asked, which brought little scowls from both of her current boyfriends.
“He’s pretty giant,” said Allie’s boyfriend, Whitley, a short, thin guy with a goatee and a porkpie hat. He was a saxophone player who claimed he couldn’t find a band “good enough” for his supposedly amazing musical talent.
“Freakish,” said Allie’s other boyfriend, Chet, a local stage actor/waiter with sideburns, wearing sunglasses. He shook his head, as though feeling sorry for Ibis and his abnormally tall and handsome appearance.
“So Cassidy, we were all totally bummed when we heard about you! What happened?” Allie asked.
“The car crashed,” Cassidy said. “We didn’t die.”
“Where’s Peyton?” Barb asked.
“His parents already moved him to some rich-person hospital in Alpharetta,” Cassidy said. “They have an aquatic center.”
“Oh, let’s go visit him!” Allie said. “I love swimming. You should see this bikini I made out of this vintage raincoat, Cassidy!”
“Sorry I’ll miss it,” Cassidy told her.
“How are you feeling, though, really?” Barb asked.
“One big problem is that I broke my leg.” Cassidy hiked up her hospital gown to show her the stitched gash in her thigh, through the middle of a garden of Venus flytraps that curled around to her hip.
“Gross!” Allie said. “That looks like it hurts. Can I touch it?”
“Seriously, Allie?” Barb asked.
Allie’s two boyfriends had been mostly staring into space—pills, Cassidy guessed—but they came to life at the sight of her long, freckled, Frankenstein leg bared to the upper hip. They drifted closer to the bed for a better view of Cassidy’s intimate areas, and she quickly covered herself up again.
“I hope they’re giving you some great painkillers,” Barb said.
“Could be better,” Cassidy told her.
“We brought you some stuff.” Barb set a large grocery bag on the bed beside Cassidy. “First, healthy organic food...grape Twizzlers, Jelly Bellies...”
“Very healthy.” Cassidy nodded in approval.
“Hershey’s, because chocolate is like heroin, it makes everything better for a couple of minutes.” Barb tossed the candy onto the bed, followed by a copy of the latest Inked magazine and a couple of battered paperbacks from Barb’s horror collection.
“Thanks!” Cassidy said, genuinely touched.
“Show her my thing from the gift shop!” Allie said.
“Allie picked this out.” Barb held out a Mr. Potato Head.
“You could play with it, you know, to kill time. Isn’t it cute?” Allie asked.
“Thanks, Allie.”
“Hey, speaking of me,” Allie said. “Can we talk about that tattoo? Because I totally think I know what I want. I was looking up things that would express my female sexuality—you know, as a woman—and I was thinking maybe this mermaid, okay?”
“She probably doesn’t want to talk about work,” Barb told her.
“I’ll talk about anything right now,” Cassidy said. “Especially if it’s not my leg or how insanely stingy they’re being with my painkillers.”
“So, a blueish-greenish look, and she has to be sexy,” Allie rambled on. “But not slutty-sexy, or trashy-sexy, but kind of classy-sexy. And topless.”
“Um...” Cassidy thought it over. “I could do a kind of Botticelli Venus thing.”
“Oh, yeah! I love Botticelli. He’s totally Italian, right?”
“Totally.” Cassidy nodded, finding it both amusing and sad that Allie, a student at the Art Institute of Atlanta, didn’t immediately get the reference to Botticelli’s most famous painting.
“Italian artists are so hot,” Allie said. “Like the really dead ones, you know?”
“Is there anyt
hing I should bring you tomorrow?” Barb asked.
“They’re actually kicking me out in a couple of hours,” Cassidy replied.
“Seriously? Crap, I didn’t know that...hey, you boys are taking MARTA home,” Barb told the two guys.
“No way,” said Whitley, he of the goatee and porkpie hat. “We can all cram into the car. Cassidy can put her leg on my lap.”
“Yeah, we didn’t even want to come anyway,” whined Chet, scratching one of his sideburns. “Allie was all pushy about it.”
Thanks so much for coming, douchebags, Cassidy thought.
“My mom’s picking me up,” Cassidy said. “I’m staying with her a few days. So you don’t have to give me a ride, Barb, but thanks. And I appreciate all this stuff. Especially the candy. It’s really sweet.”
“Of course the candy’s sweet!” Allie cackled.
“So it’s back to the old apartment?” Barb asked.
“Just for a couple days.”
“I’ll come visit,” Barb said. “It’ll be nice to hang out on the old balcony again.”
“Looking out over the scenic sinkhole full of trash,” Cassidy added.
“I’m nostalgic already.” Barb smiled, but it looked forced, and a touch of fear shone in her eyes. Cassidy knew she was thinking about the night they’d made the Ouija board.
“It’ll be great. We can sneak drinks from my mom’s liquor cabinet and refill the bottles with water,” Cassidy said.
“We’re good at that! One last thing—I wouldn’t be your best friend if I didn’t bring you...” Barb reached into the bag and handed her a small bristol-board drawing pad and a few mechanical pencils.
“Thanks!” Cassidy said. “I’ve been dying to draw.”
“You can work on my mermaid!” Allie said.
“I might actually do that.”
“Oh, I want to watch! I can give you advice while you draw!” Allie volunteered.
“You really don’t need to do that, but thanks anyway.” Already her hand was in motion, tapping an eraser to get the lead out, tracing curves on the pad. “Where did you want it, Allie?”
“My calf. Or my thigh. What’s sexier?”