by Eros, Marata
These days, I look for anything that does.
My hand covers my tummy, and I feel a surge of gratefulness for peanut. It gives life meaning. More than just me.
Just more.
Happiness comes in snatches, and I take every one.
*
“Excellent,” I say and mean it.
Glory looks at me, her eyes narrowed from the strain. Her name's really Gloria, but it never took. She thought it'd be a good idea to go to the skate park and go toe-to-toe with her teenage son.
That's all well and good if you're seventeen too.
Unfortunately, Glory is forty-two. Her arm thought so too. But she's not a life-sized Gumby.
Her arm went one way and her body the other.
Now Glory is a semi-permanent patient of mine.
“One more rep. Really rotate the cuff.”
I listen hard for the snap of overexertion, the telltale overextend. Sometimes that's a problem with hyper-flexible people. Their arm tries to cooperate as much as it can. Overdoing it is common.
Glory strains, the tension bleeding up her neck as the tendons stick out like guitar strings.
“That's it. Slow is better. Full motion… There. Done,” I say. “Settle the pulley. Don't just let it go.”
I receive my millionth glare and smile back with encouragement. Sometimes it's all my patients can latch onto.
At least, that's what they tell me when they're all done and better.
Glory leans back. Her recovering arm dangles along the side of the weight bench. “That is absolutely miserable.”
“Yes.” Because it's true.
Her eyes meet mine. “How do you know?”
Her tone accuses me of false empathy.
I raise my hand, palm out, and she catches the proof of my past.
“Oh.”
I nod. “I get it.”
She doesn't ask how. It's a wound of violence.
I wait.
When Glory's had her rest, she resumes.
Stronger than before.
Like I want.
Like she needs.
*
Friday
I haven't thrown up yet and I'm cautiously hopeful that the combination of crackers, milk and jello are keeping the nausea under control.
I enter Dr. Matthews's clinic and slide my insurance card through a slot a lot like the reception partition at my PA clinic.
The girl behind the desk gives me a bald smile of indifference as she makes sure I'm still insured.
A frown creases her brow.
“Miss Mitchell?”
“Yes?”
Please don't let there be a problem.
“Your bill has been taken care of by a private party.”
Mick.
Of course.
I feel shame coat my cheeks like clown paint.
The first genuine smile she's ever bestowed on me flashes across her thin lips. “A guardian angel.”
I used to think so.
I nod and say nothing. Mick said I made him know heaven only to toss him in hell.
I know exactly how he feels.
“Thank you,” I say.
Her smile falters a little. Most people would be ecstatic that their health care bill of over three hundred thousand was null and void.
Not me.
The price is too high.
She recovers her composure and says, “Room three. The CAT tech will run you through.”
*
“I'm not doing it.” I'm so resolute I feel it clear to my toenails.
“Dr. Matthews has ordered a re-CAT,” the tech states as though I'm being a willful child.
“Well, I have some news that'll change that.”
The tech glares at me. “Fine. We'll get doc in here, and he can talk to you.”
He stomps off, and I sit in the room, listening to the CAT's mechanical whir.
Ready for me.
Faren in a tube. Peanut getting radiation many times that of an X-ray.
I don't think so.
I carefully set aside the clipboard with its damning release form.
Doctor Clive Matthews breezes in.
“Faren?”
“I can't.”
His brow wrinkles. “Okay… We discussed this on our latest phone conversation, and you were in agreement. What's changed since then?”
I feel myself grow lightheaded. I know what's coming.
“What is it?” My chart, caught in his curled hand, drops to his side, his gaze serious behind slightly convex lenses.
He studies me with compassion.
I take several breaths.
“I'm pregnant.”
He just looks at me. Then he asks the same thing my mom did.
“How is this possible?”
I don't laugh, the question is posed so seriously. “I—I took some meds for my headaches and they negated the effectiveness of my birth control.”
Matthews rocks back on his heels, chin down.
He's silent for a few moments.
His magnified eyes meet mine. “This changes protocol, Faren.”
“I know,” I mumble.
“Is the father...” He struggles to verbalize the terrible possibilities.
“Yes. He'll take care of peanut after... after...”
His hand drops on my shoulder, and I break apart.
Finally my tears shudder to a stop, and I wipe my sleeve against my face.
He says, “Peanut?”
I shrug. “I don't know if it's a boy or girl... I don't know anything, but the baby looks like a peanut.”
He smiles. “They do in the beginning.”
I give a watery smile back.
Then my doctor lies, and I love him for it.
He pats my shoulder. “It'll be okay, Faren.”
I nod, believing him—if even for a moment.
~ 13 ~
Sunday night
“Ta-dah!” Kiki says, spinning around a beautiful charcoal gray top. Skinny glitter threads run through it. It has a soft cowl neck and a fitted band at the tunic-length end.
“I love it,” I admit, though clothing has always been way down the list of important stuff.
She judges my expression and pouts. “I know, I know. You won't be able to wear it for months. Until you get a Buddha belly.”
“When I can eat actual food again.”
She nods, a goofy smile plastered to her face. “Yeah.”
Then her face changes. “I think you need to write me into your will or something. I don't want that asshat Mick saying I can't have auntie privileges with Peanut.”
I feel my nose scrunch. “God, we need to get the baby a name or the baby will be named after food forever.”
“I don't know,” she muses, “I kinda dig Peanut. Ready for Jello?”
I make a face. “What flavor?”
“The flavor that doesn't make you do the puke-a-thon.”
Yeah.
My cell buzzes.
A text from Jay, which I ignore.
“Jay again.”
Kiki gives an explosive sigh of disgust. “Y'know, some dudes need the entire can of pepper spray. Just a squirt won't do.”
I laugh.
My cell rings in my hand and startles me so much I almost drop it.
I yell, catching it midair with both hands. “Hello!”
“Faren, it's Doctor Matthews.”
I fluster a response. “What?” He's the absolute last person I expect to phone me on a Sunday night.
“It's Doctor Matthews.”
“Yes. Hi, Doctor...”
“I need you to come in right away.”
My heart pounds. What's wrong?
“What's wrong?”
“It's something that needs to be discussed in person.”
I feel my eyes widen.
“Okay...”
“Faren, let someone else drive you. Maybe the baby's father.”
“No way,” I answer immediately.
The open phone lines hu
m.
“Fine, but someone.”
My eyes flick to Kiki, who’s still as a statue. “I have someone.”
She nods.
“Good. Come right away.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead.
Has the tumor grown? Can I no longer count on the eight months I need for my baby?
“What is it?” Kiki asks.
“I don't know. It was Dr. Matthews. He says I need to come in.”
Her brow furrows. “On a Sunday? Is he a quack?”
I shake my head, my lips quirked. “He's definitely not a quack.”
Her brow furrows. “Probably bad news if he doesn't want to tell you over the phone.”
Kiki's got a way of telling the truth that hurts. Those are the words I'm thinking but don't want to say.
“Let's find out,” she says. “I mean, really? What can he tell you that's worse than dying?”
She shrugs, trying to ease me.
I accept that it's bad. My hand moves unconsciously over my belly.
I'm not giving up without a fight.
“Ready?” Kiki asks, car keys in hand, her other grips the doorknob.
“Yes.”
Whatever it is, defeat will never own me again.
*
Matthews's face is like granite. I’m nervous by how nervous he is.
“First, I can't tell you how sorry I am. There's nothing I can do to give you back the time you've lost,” he says.
Kiki reaches for my hand, and I squeeze it.
He takes a deep breath. “We've made a grave error.”
Oh no... I don't have months. I have days.
“There is another young woman who has terminal cancer.”
What? “Like me?” I'm trying to connect the dots and not making it work.
“No,” he says.
Kiki gasps, and I drop her hand.
“Not like you.”
“I—what?”
“You don't have cancer. I'm breaking every HIPPA code, but I owe you this. Farrah Michael does.”
“Who?”
I've been slapped.
Beaten.
Trounced.
I don't understand.
“I know it's a lot to take in. There was a mix-up with the images. Your name was next in line, and somehow, it was placed on the wrong set of patient photos during processing...”
He spreads his arms wide, his face somber with injustice, regret, and a myriad of other emotions.
Kiki stands. “You mean to tell me you got Faren's photos mixed up with some other broad's because their names are alphabetically side-by-side? What load of crap is this? I couldn't make this horseshit up if I worked for it!”
“Kiki,” I say quietly.
She turns, as pissed off as I've ever seen her. “What?”
“I'm not going to die.”
Matthews gives Kiki a wary glance and nods. “That's right. I couldn't get Faren's pregnancy out of my mind. We weren't able to do another CAT to assess progression, so I did some digging...”
“Why didn't you accept the diagnosis you gave me?”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “I'm a man of science.” He takes off his glasses, pretending to polish them with the bottom of his white lab coat. He slides them back on. “But sometimes even I want to believe in a miracle. It nagged at me. I trusted my gut.”
His eyes shine.
Mine do too.
“I'm beyond mad at you.”
“Me too,” he concedes, inclining his head.
“Me three, jackass,” Kiki trills, and he winces.
Doctor Matthews stands and walks to the lighted box for Cat images and X-rays. He clips photos in place.
“Here's your brain, Faren.”
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that it's perfect.
He slides my X-ray beside my CAT, then does the same with Farrah’s.
My one cavity looks like a solid block in the sea of my teeth.
Her teeth are dotted like a speckled egg.
“Dentition does not lie,” he states quietly.
I meet him around the desk.
As mad as I am, Doctor Matthews is still the bearer of the news that completes me. Kiki's crying in the background.
I hug Matthews, and he hugs back.
I will live.
The End
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Acknowledgments
I began TDS with the encouragement of my husband and continued because of you, my Reader. Your faithfulness through comments, suggestions, spreading the word and ultimately purchasing my work with your hard-earned money gave me the incentive, means and inspiration to continue.
There are no words that are sufficiently adequate to express my thankfulness for your support. But know this: TDS novellas continued past HARVEST only because of you.
I truly feel connected to my readers. It is obvious to me, but I'll say the words anyway for clarity: a written work is just words on pages if they are not read by my readers. As I write this I get a lump in my throat; your enjoyment of my work affects me that deeply.
You guys are the greatest, each and every one of ya~
Marata xo
Special Thanks:
You, my reader.
My husband, who is my biggest fan.
Cassie C., my copy editor. Thank you readers, by supporting my work you've provided me with the means to give you cleaner copy.
Cori M., my proofreader
My Aussie Girl, I love ya.
BDH, a big supporter of my work, and of me as well; priceless~
Dii
Shana
Autumn
Crystal
Gemma
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Disclaimer: The DNS titles are a completely different “flavor” from the work that you just enjoyed. These are explicit erotica centered around sexual, non-romantic encounters. These short stories are more sexual in nature, whereas the dark
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BLOG: marataeroseroticaauthor.blogspot.com
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*
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