The Doctor's Nanny

by Emerson Rose

  “Nope, none. I’m great at what I do… the best actually. You’re lucky I happened to be at the hospital that night. If the ER docs had tried to stitch you up, you would have ended up looking like Frankenstein for the rest of your life.”

  Wow, was I right! This guy thinks he’s a god. I knew it, douche waffle with a capital D. The urge to roll my eyes is detoured only by the pain in my face.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say with no enthusiasm whatsoever. With his arms still crossed, he raises his hand to his chin to look at me like a bug under a microscope.

  “That doesn’t please you?” he asks.

  I scrunch up my face and grip the edge of the exam table. “Please me?”

  “Not looking like a monster. Usually, my patients are grateful when they don’t have grueling scars covering their faces.”

  “Scars build character. People are too worried about appearances these days,” I say, too stubborn to admit I agree with him or to thank him for his excellent work. I don’t know why, but he irks me, and I can’t bring myself to suck it up and play nice.

  His eyebrows shoot up, and the corners of his perfectly shaped lips turn down. For a split second, two feelings course through me. One is regret for not thanking him. I can’t be sure, but I think I may have bruised his ego a bit. Two is a magnetic attraction to his pouty mouth. A part of me, a very small part, wants to lean forward and kiss this asshole. Another part wants to hop off this table and leave, but I can’t. I need my damn nose fixed, and since he decided to take it upon himself to stitch me up in the ER, I’m stuck with him as a plastic surgeon according to my insurance plan.

  “Well, if you’re so into building character, would you like to leave your nose a mangled mess?” Oh my God. I can’t believe he said that. He’s a doctor, a professional who is supposed to recommend the best plan of action for a patient’s health and not act like a snide baby.

  “I can’t breathe through it, and last I knew it was the primary purpose of a nose so no, I’m not interested in leaving it a mangled mess as you so eloquently put it.”

  “I’m glad we are on the same page, then.” He steps forward and bends his knees enough to put us eye to eye. He has extraordinary eyes—they’re gold and not golden brown or golden but gold like the metal. It’s not a natural color. Maybe he has contacts? Either way, I can’t stop staring at them.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my ogling, though. He’s busy looking at my mangled nose. It shouldn’t bother me, but I hate that he described it that way. It makes me feel more self-conscious than I did in the first place, and that was pretty self-conscious.

  “They’re not contacts. Amber, it’s the rarest eye color and usually much darker.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. I thought he was concentrating on what he was doing and not my staring. “I can give you your old nose back, or, if you like, I can make it different. In both cases, you will be able to breathe fine.”

  “I’ll keep my old nose, thanks.” I liked my old nose, and I have no idea why he would suggest making it different.

  He steps away, and I miss his closeness. Why do I miss his closeness? It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been on a date, has it?

  “We should schedule the surgery soon. Are you available day after tomorrow in the morning?” He turns his back to me and opens a cabinet over the sink to get some papers. More paperwork, fun.

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  “You’ll need to be here at 6:00 a.m., and you will need someone to drive you home. Can you arrange that?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Your boyfriend can be with you right up until you go into the OR and again when you are in recovery. If there are no complications, you can go home the same day.”

  Nice way to slip the boyfriend reference in there, I’ll give him that. But then again, he’s probably used to digging for tidbits of his patient’s personal lives. He doesn’t have a wedding ring on, and I’d be willing to bet a month’s salary, he uses his practice for his personal dating service. I can just see it now, women making appointments so they can have a few minutes of private time with the good doctor. Then he points out all the flaws he wants to fix to make them perfectly fuckable. They have a fling for a few months, and then he moves on to his next conquest. Or even worse, he signs her up for another liposuction procedure on her ass and fucks her for a few more months.

  “My best friend can help me.”

  “Good. Will she be able to stay with you for about twenty-four hours until you’re able to get around on your own?”

  “Yes, and if not, I have friends. I’ll be fine.”

  “All right then, I’ll have Nia come back in and explain the pre-op orders to you, and I’ll see you day after tomorrow.” He shoves a stack of papers at me, and I take them. Then he gives me a little salute, and he’s gone. So much for a long, comfortable appointment lounging on the couch discussing my surgery. Nia had it all wrong, her boss is a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of doctor and not a coffee-and-tea Chatty Cathy. Or maybe it’s just me?

  Who cares? I’m done, my surgery is scheduled, and I’m on my way home to drug myself up and pass out.

  Sometimes it’s good to check out for the day.

  2

  Xander

  I was hoping my 2:30 p.m. appointment might turn into a 6:00 p.m. dinner date, but she is not my type, which is funny because I thought every woman was my type.

  I should have known a patient from Serenity Medical Center wouldn’t be up for a free procedure and a few weeks between a rich doctor’s sheets. That area is full of the artsy hippy types who would rather smoke a jay and imagine they are beautiful than make an appointment with a plastic surgeon to become beautiful.

  Not that she’s not already beautiful. It’s easy to see even with the deep purple bruising, the stitches, two black eyes, and smashed nose that she’s gorgeous under it all. She has near-perfect bone structure, flawless dark mocha skin, and fabulous silver-blue eyes—an odd combination for an African American woman. When I saw her in the ER, I knew I couldn’t let them touch her. They would have ruined her beautiful skin, and that would have been a travesty, so I fixed her up, and damn, if she hasn’t been on my mind all week.

  All hope is not lost yet. We still have to see each other before and after her surgery, and it doesn’t sound like she has a boyfriend. She could change her mind, or I could change it for her.

  It’s been a long time since I had a challenge in the dating department. Women fall into my lap by the dozens every week wanting me to make them bigger or smaller or smoother and more beautiful—always more beautiful. All it takes is a compliment or two and a suggestion on how to perfect their already lovely good looks, and they are eating out of my hand.

  Sometimes, it’s too easy, and I feel guilty but only for a minute. I worked hard to look this good and harder to make a shit-ton of money. I’m a hot commodity—rich, handsome, a good father, established in my career—if she’s not interested, it’s her, not me.

  The morning of Sasha’s surgery, I get up at 4:00 a.m. like always and walk down the hall to Tori’s bedroom. I worked late last night, and I didn’t get to tuck her in when she went to bed. I’m in for a scolding I know. For a five-year-old with no mother, she has learned the art of making a man feel guilty remarkably well. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, she doesn’t hold back telling me how she feels.

  I push open the heavy mahogany door a crack and look into her fairy tale princess bedroom and thank my lucky stars that she’s still sound asleep in her canopy bed. I back away and make my way downstairs to the kitchen to take a handful of vitamins before my run.

  Zion isn’t here—strange. Zion is the nanny. We meet in the kitchen every morning before my run to discuss her and Tori’s plans for the day. In the five years she has lived with us, she’s never missed a day. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and dump my vitamins from the daily med organizer she sorts them into and toss them back.

  I walk t
o the glass wall that faces the ocean and look outside just in case she stepped out onto the deck for something, but she’s not there. I don’t have time for this today. I have a full surgery schedule this morning, and my partner is on vacation, so I’m seeing his patients in the office this afternoon. I need to get my run in and get to the clinic.

  I make my way to Zion’s bedroom and knock on her closed door. No answer. I knock again. Still nothing. Now what? I am respectful of our boundaries, and Zion’s room is hers to do with as she likes. Even though it’s in my house, I don’t consider it mine. I can’t barge in and rummage around. But what if she’s sick or hurt? She’s in her sixties—anything’s possible.

  I knock one more time, and when I don’t hear anything, I crack open the door. The room is pitch black, the sun blockers are down on the windows, but someone is in the bed.

  “Zion? It’s Xander, are you all right?”

  “Xander?” Her voice is weak and fragile which is nothing like our Zion.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Are you sick?”

  “I don’t know, I think so.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  Inside, I find her still in her bright pajamas from Africa curled up in bed. One touch of her forehead, and I know she’s burning up. “When did you start feeling sick?”

  “Last night when I went to bed.”

  “What other symptoms do you have?”

  “I am dizzy and tired. I couldn’t get out of bed to get my phone, or I would have called you earlier. I am so sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for being sick. Where’s your phone, we should notify your doctor.” She points across the room to her purse, and I get it for her. “Have you eaten anything unusual? Have you been drinking plenty of water?”

  “Nothing different, and yes, I drink water all day with Tori.”

  “Have you vomited or had any diarrhea?”

  “I got sick once,” she says, but I sense something is off. There is something she isn’t telling me.

  “Zion, what else is going on? You can tell me. I’m a doctor not to mention I’m your friend.”

  “My doctor says I have diabetes.” I’m surprised. I always thought Zion was as healthy as a horse.

  “Did you know or is the first time a doctor has brought it up?”

  “A doctor in my country told me I might have it a long time ago.”

  “Are you taking medication or checking your blood sugar?”

  She looks away from me at the wall, and I know the answer. She’s been hiding that she’s diabetic from everyone including herself.

  I sit down next to her on the bed. “Diabetes is a serious disease, and you have to take care of yourself if you want to live a long life. Checking your blood sugar and taking your insulin are crucial to your health. Where is your glucometer?”

  She points at the drawer next to her bed. I open it and take it out along with a small pouch of supplies. I go about pricking her finger to check her blood sugar. It’s so high, the meter won’t even give me a proper reading. I check it again to make sure it isn’t malfunctioning, but it’s not. Zion is in trouble, and she needs to be in the hospital.

  “I’m calling an ambulance.” Her eyes go wide, and she tries to sit up, but she can’t and falls back onto her pillow.

  “What about the baby? You have a busy day. I can’t go to the hospital,” she protests weakly.

  “You can’t take care of Tori like this. I think you might be in DKA, and that has to be managed in the hospital. I’m sorry, Zion, but it’s non-negotiable.”

  “What is DKA?”

  “Diabetic Ketoacidosis. It’s when your blood sugar is extremely high, and your body doesn’t have enough insulin. You have a chemical imbalance, and it’s life-threatening. Have you been not feeling well lately?” She nods up and down, and I take out my phone and dial 911.

  When the ambulance is on the way, I open the shades halfway and let in some sunlight. “I’m going to run upstairs and check on Tori. I’ll be right back. Don’t try to get out of bed. The ambulance is on the way.” She nods, and I power walk through the house and upstairs. Tori is sitting in the middle of her big bed looking out the window with a dazed expression. This is how she looks for about fifteen minutes after she wakes up, all dreamy with her sun-streaked hair in a messy halo around her face.

  “Morning, princess.”

  “Daddy? Where’s Zion?”

  “She’s in her room. Zion isn’t feeling well today, honey. I don’t want you to be upset, but she’s going to have to go to the hospital for a little while until she feels better.”

  Her sweet face scrunches up, and her bottom lip comes out. Oh shit, she’s going to cry. I cross the room closing the distance between us and scoop her off the bed. “She’s going to be fine. She just needs the doctors and nurses to take care of her for a bit.”

  “You’re a doctor, you do it. I want my Zion.” The first of her tears spring from her eyes when she says Zion as if on cue.

  “Daddy isn’t that kind of doctor, honey, and I don’t have the medicine and things she needs here. Come on, we have to go sit with her until the ambulance comes, so she’s not alone.”

  “Okay. Where do I go with no Zion?”

  “You’ll have to come to work with me, baby. You can hang out with the nurses until I can get ahold of somebody to come and get you.” That’s part truth and part lie. She’s coming to work with me, but I have no one to call to help take care of her except the nanny service that hooked me up with Zion when she was born.

  I work a lot, and any extra time I have, I spend with Tori. There’s no time for a serious girlfriend in my life. I have a lot of friends and acquaintances but no one close enough to entrust my only child with. Tori’s mother pops in and out of her life when she’s feeling maternal which is once a year at best. I should have had a backup plan for emergencies, I know, but I don’t have time to deal with hindsight right now. I have a sick nanny and a long day ahead of me.

  The doorbell rings as we are passing through the foyer. “Hi, she’s right through here,” I say to the two paramedics and guide them through the house updating them on her condition. “She’s a non-compliant, uncontrolled diabetic with a fever, vomiting, dizziness, and weakness. I took her blood sugar, but it’s too high for her meter. I tried twice, but it still gave me a high reading. She’s probably in DKA. Take her to Saint John’s, tell them she works for Dr. Xander Sullivan, and make sure she gets a private room.”

  Only the best for our Zion. Back in her room, they start an IV and load her up. Her eyes are wide, and she looks terrified. She glances over at me holding Tori and tries to apologize again, but I’m not having any of that. “We will be fine, go to the hospital, and we will be over to see you as soon as possible. I have a full day, but we should be able to come see you later this evening.”

  She nods and grabs my hand when they wheel her by us. I give her a reassuring squeeze, and Tori leans over the rail to kiss her. “Bye, my Z, I love you,” she says with tears in her eyes.

  “Bless you, child, don’t you worry about your Zion. I’ll be back before you know it and better than ever.” Zion sounds stronger than she has all morning. I love that she cares enough about Tori to cover up her fears for her benefit like a mother would. Zion is the closest thing to a mother that Tori has ever had. Their bond is just as strong as if she were her own, and I couldn’t be more grateful for her presence in Tori’s life.

  Tori snuggles her wet face into my shoulder, and we follow the paramedics to the door. When everyone is gone, I take Tori to the kitchen and sit her on the island. “What do you want for breakfast? Daddy’s cooking.”

  She tucks her chin down to her chest and looks up at me through her long, dark lashes. “You don’t cook,” she says accusingly. She’s right, I don’t. I don’t have time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how.

  “I don’t, but I can. How about scrambled eggs and a fruit cocktail?”

  “Fruit what?”<
br />
  “Fruit all cut up together in a bowl.”

  “You mean fruit mixers?”

  “Is that what Zion calls them?” She nods. “Then scrambled eggs and fruit mixers, does that sound good?”

  “Yes.”

  She sits and watches me work scrutinizing my every move. I feel her waiting for me to screw something up, but she never says a word, so I must have passed the test. Sitting on the bar stool shoveling in her food, she acts like she hasn’t eaten in a year, but that’s just Tori. She’s enthusiastic about everything she does right down to the simplest tasks like eating.

  She stops for a moment and glances toward the hall leading to the foyer and then turns her attention to me. “Did you push the buttons?”

  “The security system?”

  “Uh-huh, did you push ‘em to keep the bad people out?”

  Shit, I forgot to reset the security system. Tori is terrified of intruders. Her biological mom and her goons broke in one night and tried to kidnap her. It scared the living shit out of her, and she’s never been the same.

  For two years now, I have told her that she has a case of stranger danger. What she has is PTSD so bad she has to be medicated for anxiety and sleep.

  “I’ll go take care of that right now. Go ahead and finish your breakfast.” I turn to leave the kitchen when she stops me with her next worry.

  “What if it’s too late?” she asks biting her bottom lip. This isn’t the first time we have been over this, and I have a feeling it won’t be the last. “Sweetheart, if someone had come in, I would have heard them.” I know that’s not going to be good enough, but I have to try.

  “Not if they came in a window upstairs.”

  This kid is smart beyond her five years. It’s something I’ve always bragged about, but when it comes to safety, there are times I wish she thought like a typical five-year-old instead of a twenty-five-year-old single, white female living alone in a big city.

  “Come on, let’s go look at the control panel and do a sweep of the house.” Re-entering the kitchen, I pick her up from her stool and carry her into the foyer where we go through a security check of every room in the house. She watches the security system’s screen as it blips green on every window and every door, and there are a lot of them. I don’t have time for this, but she can’t rest easy until she is sure she’s safe in her home.