Lily's Temptation Vol. 1

by Michaels, C. C.

  Maybe it’s a memento of his youth. Perhaps it is a window into Mandel. Maybe he was once a fun-loving child, though now looking at his picture, it seems unlikely this stoic pillar of knowledge was ever the type to daydream. I look at my watch and wonder where he is and why we need this meeting.

  Against the wall, there are two great bookshelves. They shoot toward the ceiling, standing over me like bullies on a playground. On each shelf, there are rows of perfectly symmetrical books. There is never a book taller or smaller than the one preceding it. The books are most likely medical journals or serials of the most recent addition of a famous authority on a famous case or study. I can’t tell what the spine reads, but it is probably not the Harry Potter collection. To say they are this color or that would be useless; the books lacked a personal touch. I imagined them being mass-produced in a drab factory. Those books are purely ornamental. They lounge on shelves all day, contributing nothing to understanding. There are years of knowledge hidden in the pages. The culmination of hundreds of people’s life work lay among the chapters. Countless patients and innumerable deaths went into every bit of knowledge that is contained in those books.

  And yet, despite the tortuous hours spent perfecting the understanding of the human body, the books are going unread. They recline into the shelves behind Mandel’s desk every day, their purpose is to add color to the wall now. Their purpose is to have no purpose.

  Mandel opens the door while talking to a nurse about prescriptions. It’s about time. I turn in my chair to greet him, then stand to make the occasion more officious. He is facing away from me as he talks to the nurse. His hair is balding in the back and he looks like my great uncle Hal, who was racist and smelled like dirty laundry. I shake my head trying to clear my mind.

  Mandel faces me and I awkwardly put out my hand for some reason, like we are going to shake. I don’t know if it’s because he’s a father figure to me or what. He greets me, saying my name with enthusiasm and rushing past me like a gust of wind. I take my seat and wait for him to dispense with the good news; or, at least, I expect it to be good news by the way he rushed in the room. He clicks on his mouse for a bit with his head tilted back, looking down his nose through bifocals. The white glare of the computer light makes tiny squares on his glasses.

  The chair I am sitting in all of the sudden feels rigid as if crafted out of jagged rocks. The sound of Mandel clicking his mouse bounces off the bookshelves, diplomas and air vents and drives into my ear like a knife. I place my hands on my knees, bouncing my left leg, then stop and look to my left, breathing slowly out of my mouth. What is he waiting for? I hate this waiting game. Mandel continues to click; in the silence, his cologne is now present, hanging about the room like a lazy cat. A common trait of old people, its scent is strong and reserved for those who have long since lost their ability to discern the proper amount to apply. I try to remain respectful, but this is getting ridiculous.

  I shift in my rock-hard chair, clearing my throat, trying to remind him that I’m still here. Mandel looks to me, taking off his glasses and leans back in his chair.

  “I’ve taken that Maddox character off your hands. You won’t have to deal with him anymore.”

  No! A cold shard rips through my gut. What’s he talking about? I didn’t request this. I struggle to keep my facial expression from betraying me.

  Mandel smiles and leans forward, crossing his hands on his desk. My mind gets tied up on Mandel calling Maddox a character. It sounds so unnatural for a full-grown man to call another adult a “character” that I bite my lip and lower my head to keep Mandel from seeing it.

  “I see this is good news to you,” Mandel says, mistaking my reaction for affirmation.

  “Um, I don’t understand. What do you mean you have taken him off my hands?”

  Mandel leans back and clicks on his mouse saying, “He won’t bother you anymore—”

  “He wasn’t bothering me.” I answer too quickly and probably with too much of an edge in my voice for my own good.

  Mandel’s eyes shoot back to me. Oh, I’ve done it now. I can’t tell if he is more annoyed that I cut him off or that I said Maddox doesn’t bother me. So this is why Mandel wanted to talk to me. No words of praise for doing a good job lately, or pearls of wisdom to make my job easier, just the usual bullshit Mandel knows how to deal out. I shift in my chair again, trying to hide my annoyance with him.

  He leans forward with his elbows on the armrests, his hands locked together, and says, “Maddox is a drain on our efforts. He’s the kind of person who is dependent.”

  “He seems like any other patient.”

  “And I believe that’s his intent. But I know Maddox; I know his type, you see. He’s the kind of person to ingratiate himself amongst those who have an overdeveloped sense of sympathy.”

  Does he mean, like me? “I don’t understand,” I say, hoping Mandel sees the absurdity of what he just said.

  “He is a liar. He feeds on people’s pity, like a leech to blood.”

  “Why are you telling me this...sir?”

  “Well, I’ve noticed your interactions with Maddox seem to go beyond the regular decorum necessary between doctors and their patients.”

  Oh, crap. Am I that obvious? “Are you forbidding me from seeing him?” I say with a smile.

  “I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as I am. I don’t want my best resident to get tangled in the life of a drunk like Maddox.”

  How dare he tell me what to do. Wait, did he just say I was his best resident? “I’m sorry, is this the kind of decision you can make unilaterally?” His remark gives me confidence and I am emboldened to say what I want.

  “I worked it out so you don’t have to worry about him.”

  I swallow hard, trying not to let him see my uneasiness. Something inside of me wants to scream out. He can’t take Maddox away from me. I realize in this moment that I don’t want to lose him. We’ve only just begun to make a connection and his mysterious pull on me has anchored itself deep within The thought of not stopping by his room to get a look at those aqua blue eyes rattles me more than I like to admit. As much as I know Mandel is right, my emotions flare to conspire against me. “But it’s my job to treat Maddox.” I throw out a pathetic retort.

  “Not anymore.”

  “You can’t just take away my patients.”

  I’m trying to remain diplomatic, but the mere fact that I’m protesting so much is a dead give-away and it’s not lost on Mandel. He reads me like a book. He leans back and breathes out a snort of disgust through his nose.

  “I know his type. He’s a detriment to your experience and to your understanding of how a doctor should conduct one’s self.”

  “You keep saying you know him, but I don’t think you do.” I sit up straight and lean forward slightly. “What’s he done to receive this judgment?”

  “Are you forgetting his infamous arrival? He assaulted Jack and brought disorder to our already hectic ER.”

  “He was suffering from a head injury. He couldn’t control himself.”

  “That’s always the excuse.” He ignores my protests with the wave of a hand. “When does it stop? Maddox will apologize for the rest of his life, but how many times does he need to apologize until he realizes he’s truly sorry?”

  “But, but, I still have to treat him. We don’t get to pick and choose our patients. I think this approach is simply asinine. How am I supposed to learn from an experience if I am denied the opportunity?”

  “You’re still in a learning phase and I know it sounds harsh, but I’d feel better if Maddox were under the care of more seasoned observers.”

  “You mean people who won’t question you?” I narrow my eyes.

  “People who understand my concerns...”

  “How can you be so narrow-minded?”

  Dr. Mandel’s eyebrows leap up then fall firmly, arching above his eyes like two great storm clouds. “Maddox isn’t trying to do anything. He isn’t this nefarious villain you
think he is and if he were, do you really think that poorly of me that I wouldn’t be able to see it in him?”

  “I thought you might’ve been a little more grateful, but I can see Maddox’s good looks have blocked your better judgment.” He picks up the small magnifying glass laying on his desk and twirls the silver handle between his thumb and forefinger, watching it spin with his eyes.

  “What century are you from?” I say, shaking my head at Mandel. I stand up. He calls for me to sit down but I walk towards the door and turn back to say, “I will treat Maddox because it is my job.”

  The adrenaline swirling in my system is practically making me shake as I let the door shut behind me. I just stood up to Mandel and I am not sure if it was the best idea I’ve ever had, but the thought of not seeing Maddox pushed me to action. Maybe unwise action, but action, nevertheless. I don’t know much about him, where he lives, why he was in a fight the night the paramedics brought him in or how to get a hold of him once he leaves the hospital.

  I’m not supposed to want to know these things. He’s my patient and that’s all. Not a potential date. Beside, even when I peeked at his personal information in his chart, there was none. He didn’t list anything. It is like he just fell from the sky.

  All the more reason to leave him alone. I’m sure it will be better for me if Maddox is treated by another resident and released from the hospital. But I don’t want that to happen because every spare minute I have, every moment that my brain isn’t occupied with details of doing rounds, it’s filled with thoughts of Maddox. Dreamy wishful thoughts of gazing into his eyes and feeling his arms slip around my waist. Wondering how delicious his lips would feel on mine, or feel how my excited heart would race to have his powerful chest pressed up against mine. And he certainly looked like the type of guy who could take me all the way to heaven.

  Chapter 8

  It is my day off, and for the first time in a while I have the whole day to myself. I sleep for most of it. I turn off my brain and sink into my bed. When I wake up, I feel the massive exhaustion one gets from too much restful sleep. It feels like my veins are full of pancake syrup.

  My apartment is barren except for a crummy couch my parents bought me at a yard sale and the table I bought from my last roommate. The apartment is small, but against all logic the empty spaces fill the apartment and form an optical illusion, tricking the eyes into seeing more space than is actually there.

  As I look out the window, the sun lingers above the horizon as if it is waiting to see me before it descends. My favorite moments are when the sun goes down but some light still persists. In those dwindling minutes, there is no greater way to view the world. There is calmness in this time. It feels as if the entire world is winding down with me. The rustling leaves of trees and bushes clap for the racing wind as it runs up and down boulevards and avenues. The clouds float lazily after the sun. Their colors glow, as paintbrush rays stroke mauve and violet on far-away clouds. But the closest clouds are rendered deep sanguine and a fiery orange.

  The window is open and I smell the scent of dozens of dinners: garlic-salted cheese burgers, lemon and pepper seasoned steaks, and the faint wispy hint of bread. I imagine groups of people coming together over food sharing conversations and sipping on wine or beer underneath the handsome glow of a dining room’s light.

  I turn from the window, reaching for my phone to call Jasmine. I ask her to meet me at a bar for drinks so we can catch up with one another. She says yes and asks if I am okay. I forget to tell her the truth, the real reason I want to meet, and then I leave my massively empty apartment.

  In a cramped booth with wobbly seats, Jasmine tells me about her job teaching high school freshmen and about a book called, Bless Me, Ultima. She brushes her auburn hair out of her face and takes a drink of wine. I nod as she speaks, taking big gulps of my drink while she meanders through her thoughts.

  The light above our table is too low and not nearly bright enough. I squint to make out Jasmine’s emotions, which fire across her face far quicker than I have time to react to as I have been downing my drink rather quickly and the only thing I notice is that her eyes look sunken in by the shadows that cast dark blotches on her fair, white face.

  “What are you drinking?” she asks pointing to my drink.

  “It’s an Upper Manhattan that isn’t mixed well.” I trail my finger around the rim of the glass as I sit slumped over the table. She tells me I look tired and mentions an energy supplement product that she says works well for her. I drift off for a minute as she rambles on.

  Thoughts of Maddox creep into my mind. I wonder how he’s feeling tonight. I picture his gorgeous, green eyes looking forlorn as he sits alone in his hospital room. Why haven’t any of his family come to visit him? Maybe Mandel is right about him? A drifter, a user. But I want to know more about him because all I know is that since he came into the ER that night, everything has changed and I just want to know him better now. I am feeling like--I miss him. But how can I miss something I haven’t even known yet? And, there’s something about his eyes. When I look in his eyes, it’s like coming home, or something I just can’t explain.

  I nod mechanically, looking past Jasmine to the booth behind her. A well-groomed head bobs and swings back with laughter as Jasmine talks. It breaks my daydream and brings me back to our one-sided conversation; Jasmine has been doing most of the talking. I am more interested in my drink, so I let her go on and I take another large swig. The ice smashes into my nose and breaks apart. The waitress appears and asks us if we are satisfied. With my nose still in the tipped glass, Jasmine answers ‘yes’ before I have the time to speak.

  I slam the glass down to the table top. “Hey, maybe I wanted another one.”

  “You drink too much, anyway.” She waves her free hand in the air. “That’s what gives you those bags under your eyes.” She teases in the way only a sister can tell you you look like shit.

  “But enough about my dull life. I want to hear about your job.” Jasmine wants to hear stories. Everyone always wants to hear hospital stories. I tell her about how Maddox whacked Jack in the nose and my x-rated show and tell with Ms. Margaret. I tell her how ticked off I am at Mandel and how I should probably go for Jack, the safe bet, instead of risking my job over a hot stallion like Maddox. I list off the litany of tasks and jobs I do. My voice sounds monotone and I ask her about her love life to guide us back to focusing on her, because I really don’t want to talk about my life, although secretly I do. I’m tired of keeping my emotions bottled up inside. I’m teetering on the brink of spilling my guts when she mentions a few names of guys she’s met at work and the focus is back on her. I’m glad, because I am afraid if I open up now, I might just have a meltdown right here in this booth. Better to just have another drink.

  My eyes bounce with the well-groomed head in the next booth while she talks again. I put a finger up at Jasmine as I flag down the waitress and ask for another, pointing to my empty glass.

  “I thought you said it wasn’t made well,” Jasmine says before she drinks her wine.

  “It’s good enough, I suppose,” I say as I crunch ice in my mouth.

  “What’s up, Lily? You seem distracted.”

  I wait for the right words to line up in my mind, but they scatter in every direction and I strain to catch each one. I slur my words, lobbing them like dirt clods. The alcohol mixes with my exhaustion and lack of nutrients to form a perfect head rush.

  “I dun know. I thought this would be better. I thought this would be a good dinner table but whatever.”

  Jasmine chuckles saying, “What are you talking about, Lily?”

  “Iz juss this whole—” The waitress drops of my drink. “Thank you. It’s just this whole, wait...what was I saying?”

  Jasmine smiles, saying, “Oh, my God, Lily, you're drunk.”

  “I know. Iz a secret though so, shhhh. No telling Mom.”

  “And risk ruining the image of her golden child? I won’t say a word.”

  I le
an forward which in this booth puts me practically in Jasmine’s lap saying, “Mom thinks I’m the golden child?”

  “She gave up on me and focused all her attention on you after she divorced Dad.”

  “Shit, that explains the motivational posters she bought me for my birthday every year. I think one year she gave me a poster with Martin Luther King, Jr. and the one with the cat that says, ‘Hang in there’.”

  “Maybe Mom felt they were connected, somehow.”

  I laugh, slamming my hand on the table and then covering my mouth, saying, sorry. Jasmine leans in, asking me if I am okay as I throw back my drink. I tell her I am fine and I crunch the ice again.

  “Lily, sweetie, stop crunching your ice. You know what they say about it -- chewing ice is a sign of sexual frustration.” She raises her eyebrows and waits for her words to sink in but I’m having a hard time organizing any thoughts right now. If she only knew. Damn you, Maddox. Look what you do to me. Reduce me to taking out my frustrations on ice.