by Julie Cross
Okay, I probably won’t go that far.
I wrap my fingers around the front of Marshall’s shirt, pulling him down to me. He smells like soap and deodorant, and it’s way more delicious than the Thanksgiving dinner scents wafting in the air.
“Hey,” I say. “If I forget to tell you later, thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles and plants a kiss on my forehead. Then his fingers slide down my back and cup my ass, squeezing it gently. “Seeing you in these tight-ass jeans is worth all the drama.”
I laugh and shove him away. I think both of us may be tucking our real feelings inside all these superficial comments about nice asses and nice abs. But I’m not planning on exploring that fact right now. Instead, I’m gonna slap on a happy face and greet my former boss and … her.
I reach for Marshall’s hand, then head over to where my dad is probably discussing the pacemaker he’ll be implanting later on. All three doctors (well … if we’re counting the Ph.D. as a doctor) now have their backs to us.
“We had pediatrics specialists from Mayo and Hopkins consulting on the case via Skype, and none of them got the diagnosis before she did,” Chief O’Reilly is saying. “Both of them had me convinced I needed to quarantine an entire wing of the hospital until we found out what was wrong. You know what that would have cost?”
“I can’t even imagine,” Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D., says.
I stop and squeeze Marshall’s hand so he doesn’t drag me closer. They’re talking about me. About the Kawasaki/leukemia patient from a couple of weeks ago. My confidence fizzles out, and I start to turn around, but Marshall holds me in place and then gives me a shove from behind. I stumble, almost falling into my dad and getting his attention at the same time.
“Isabel,” Chief O’Reilly says, causing all three of them to turn around and create a happy little circle with the five of us. “We were just talking about you.”
“Huh … really?” I clear my throat and touch a hand to Marshall’s chest. “Marshall … this is Chief O’Reilly. He basically runs the entire hospital. Chief, this is Marshall Collins.” I wait for them to shake hands, then force myself to look at Little Miss Uptight and Psychological. “And this is Dr. James. She … um, she—”
“Is head of the psych department,” she finishes for me, reaching out a hand to Marshall, practically X-raying his brain with her eyes.
“I’m pulling a B in anatomy this semester, so I’m sure I’ll feel completely equal in whatever conversations are about to take place,” he says, all charm.
God, is he ever nervous?
All three doctors laugh. “Don’t mind our excessive medical jargon,” O’Reilly says, winking at me. “Sometimes we simply have no idea what else to discuss. We aren’t very well-rounded individuals.”
“Marshall knows,” Dad says to the other two. “I’ve already tried and failed to discuss sports.”
“Let’s talk about Isabel.” Dr. James eyes me again. “I would love to hear what you’ve been up to since we last saw each other.”
You mean when you crushed my dreams? The blinding anger takes longer to dissolve than I would have liked, and Marshall has to release my hand and rest his fingers on the back of my neck to get me to say something.
“Right.” I glance at my hands, wishing there was an alcoholic drink in them right now. “I’m currently studying at NIU.”
“What are you studying this time?” she asks, a hint of judgment in her voice. Enough judgment to get my blood boiling again.
“Oh, a little bit of everything.”
O’Reilly opens his mouth like he’s ready to move on to a new subject, but Dr. James won’t let it go. “Like what?” she presses.
My jaw tenses, my hands balling at my sides. “Like poetry, darts, bowling, military obstacle courses—I’ve recently mastered the army crawl technique. And plenty of hands-on activity outside of the classroom. It’s amazing what you can do with a well-crafted fake ID. Not to mention the amount of cash some of these students are willing to pay for the simplest of hacking jobs. I can’t believe the lack of security in a state university’s computer system. Takes me fifteen seconds to change an F to an A. I’m pulling in more cash than I ever would as a resident. And I haven’t even broken into the prescription drug peddling market. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of connections. Who knew making money would be so easy, right?” I shrug and try to ignore the fact that both Dad’s and O’Reilly’s mouths are hanging open. “But you know what they say about geniuses—we make excellent criminals. Assuming we don’t have any other options …”
“Oh, boy,” Marshall mutters under his breath.
But Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D., shows no sign of shock or surprise. She folds her arms over her chest and continues her penetrating stare. “You’re angry with me for not giving you a passing evaluation. I understand. If you’d like to come by my office tomorrow morning, we could chat about how you’re feeling right now.”
A dozen different swear words dance around inside my head, but I force myself to say, “No, thank you.”
“What Dr. James is trying to say,” O’Reilly interrupts, throwing a worried glance in Dad’s direction, “is that you impressed a lot of people with your recent diagnosis, the CDC included. They didn’t have to come in here with their rubber suits and shut the place down. The AMA feels you’re too valuable a resource to make you wait the full six months before retesting.” He narrows his eyes at Dr. James. “I’m certain this reevaluation will be much less intrusive than the last.”
I’m a quick thinker, yet my brain is still playing catch-up. I had no idea that so much was riding on diagnosing that three-year-old a couple of weeks ago, nor did I realize until eavesdropping on their conversation minutes ago that anyone besides Justin and Dad knew I’d been consulted. I’m not an employee of any hospital, so it was all unofficial and off the record.
“Wait.” Dad rests a hand on my arm and turns to O’Reilly. “So you’re saying she could be placed in a program very soon? After she meets with Dr. James tomorrow?”
“That’s correct,” O’Reilly says.
I don’t even know how to react. I just stand there, my gaze bouncing between the three doctors, until Dr. James says, “I’ll see you around ten in my office tomorrow, Isabel?”
My head bobs up and down. Dad wraps an arm around my shoulder and turns us in the opposite direction.
“Excuse us,” he says over his shoulder to Dr. James and O’Reilly.
I tug Marshall’s hand dragging him out into the hall with us. I shake out of Dad’s grip. “Did you know about this? You could have given me some warning.”
“I didn’t know anything. You heard me question the chief,” he says, glancing down the long corridor. “We’ll talk about this tonight. I’ve got to go check on my cardiomyopathy patient.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, Dad, whatever. I’m gonna show Marshall around.”
I’m still gripping Marsh’s hand when we head in the opposite direction, toward the back entrance to the ER.
“So,” Marshall says after we turn a corner. “I’m guessing this is turning out to be an unusual day?”
My heart starts pounding. I can’t quite grasp what I’m feeling. Maybe a bunch of things all at once.
“Izzy?” he says, stopping and facing me. “What’s going on in your head? I can’t tell.”
“Me either.” I look him over, hesitant to make eye contact. “What’s going on in your head? I mean …”
He gives me that sexy half smile. “I’m excited for you. Do you think it was my tutoring? I felt like I did a pretty good job.”
“Well, I haven’t passed yet,” I remind him. “But yes, of course it’s your tutoring.”
Marshall wraps his arms around my shoulders from behind and drops his mouth to my cheek. “My girlfriend is going to be a surgeon. I won’t even need to work. I can stay at home and watch TV all day and hire a maid. A hot maid. ’Cause you’ll be in surgery all the time and I have needs.”
“Oh, do you?” I spin around to face him. I know he’s only teasing with the references to playing house, probably to avoid stating the obvious, but I’m both grateful and feeling a bit warm and fuzzy because of it. “Let me show you the best spot in the entire hospital.”
I lead him to a stairwell and up to the third floor, near the peds wing. I open an unmarked door and flip on a light switch, revealing a small bed and nothing else. I close and lock the door behind us, leaning my back against it. Marshall turns in a circle, assessing the room. “The on-call room?”
“It is.” I reach for his shirt and pull him against me. “But if you’re hungry, we can go back and get some turkey and stuffing …”
Marshall reaches above my shoulder and checks the lock a few times before quickly yanking my sweater over my head. “I already ate.”
The clothes on the floor, the pounding of my heart against his, the idea of people everywhere outside the door to this tiny room makes this way more exciting. But it’s not just that. It’s Marshall. He’s gentle, yet direct and controlling. My hands are pinned above my head, my mouth falling open, a gasp escaping when he finally pushes inside me.
Marshall’s mouth drifts up and down my neck, his own groans soft in my ear. “Put your legs around me,” he whispers, his free hand sliding down my thigh and tugging my ankle toward his back.
My thighs squeeze his sides, and we’re so close you couldn’t wedge a sheet of paper between us. He releases my arms and pulls them around his neck. My fingers are in his hair, gripping tight, and then he’s kissing me. His hips freeze and I’m suddenly aware of my own panting. “Don’t stop …”
He pulls back, smiles, and says, “Just for a minute.” And then he’s kissing me again, moving harder and faster until I feel so many things my brain shuts down.
Marshall can turn off the noise. That’s why I love doing this with him. For a few minutes, I don’t think. I just feel.
A short while later, I’m lying in his arms, both of us sweaty and sleepy, the noise in the hall outside coming and going in spurts, beds rolling by creating a soothing rhythm.
I find that perfect spot in the crook of Marshall’s neck and gently rest my lips against his skin. “I want Johns Hopkins, but I want this, too. I’m not ready to give it up,” I admit despite my protesting conscious mind.
“What?” Marshall says. “Sex in on-call rooms?”
I laugh and allow my eyes to flutter shut. “Yes, but more specifically with you. And this. Right now. You get me, you know?”
He smooths my hair down and his hands drift slowly over my naked body. “We don’t have to think about that stuff right now. Just let yourself be happy with all the recent accomplishments and leave it at that, okay?”
“Maybe I could ask O’Reilly for a position here. I love this hospital.” The idea is out before I even let myself analyze it, but I know it’s something I want to explore.
“Izzy …” His tone is careful and guarded. He’s probably approaching this in the same manner I approach giving him medical advice. We can’t make decisions for each other. “Giving up your goals is not something I’d ever want you to do for me. Or for anyone else.”
“I wanted Johns Hopkins because it’s the best, because my dad went through that program. But lately I’m caring less and less about what he wants and more about what I want. And I want to be a surgeon and I want this.” I snuggle against him again, squeezing him tighter.
“But it would mean giving up your dreams of peddling prescription drugs at the university,” Marshall says in his most serious tone. “You have so much potential in that area. It would be a shame to see that go to waste.”
I laugh really hard. “I have no clue where that came from.”
“It was like a cloud formed around you suddenly. I thought you were going to claw that lady’s eyes out. I positioned myself for a fight. I would have totally had your back, by the way.”
I lift my head and kiss him on the mouth. “You are a very brave soul, Marshall Collins. I can throw you in front of any challenge and you’re ready.”
“For you.” He tucks my hair behind my ears. “For you, I’m ready.”
Chapter 25
@IsabelJenkinsMD: 80% of your brain is water.
“Let’s talk about Dr. Martin’s patient, the one he asked you for a consult on.” Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D., only allows her eyes to drop to the evaluation form resting on her lap for half a second before resuming efforts to point her X-ray vision at my brain. “Specifically, how did you feel when you finally pinned down a diagnosis?”
I stare at the frilly pink wallpaper. It’s too pretty in here. She’s trying too hard to make people feel at ease. I’ve been answering her questions for fifty-six minutes now, but it only took me thirty seconds to hate this office all over again. I’m 100 percent more nervous than I was the first time she tested me, mostly because I hadn’t even considered not passing, but after O’Reilly’s silent message yesterday, I’ve calmed down a bit. I think he’ll force her to pass me unless she truly believes that I’m a psychopath, and if that’s true, I’ll support being flunked. So my angle today is honesty. Just honesty.
“I felt relieved.”
One eyebrow quirks up. “Relieved? To diagnose a child with both cancer and a heart condition?”
“Yes.” I nod, convincing myself. “Don’t you think other people felt relieved, too? It sounds like the CDC did. I bet O’Reilly celebrated the fact that he didn’t have to quarantine the place or deal with his own staff being exposed to some kind of rare infectious disease.”
“Anything else?” she prompts. “It’s normal to have more than one feeling in a given situation. Sometimes conflicting feelings …”
“Heavy.” I glance out the window, watching the traffic zip by. “I felt heavy. Sometimes you want an answer so bad you don’t realize how that answer might affect you. And the fact that once you have it, there’s no hope of a different outcome.”
“Interesting.” She scribbles on the paper in her lap, and finally I have a few seconds to shake out my nervous hands. “What about Marshall?” she goes on. “Tell me about his illness and how that affects your relationship.”
“I guess that technically, his illness is the reason our relationship even happened,” I say, knowing that’s mostly true.
“How so?”
I try my best to explain the details of our fall break together and what we both revealed to each other. “I think we both thought that no one could possibly accept the bad stuff, but I’m okay with that part of him and he seems to be okay with that part of me.”
She stares at me long enough to make me squirm. “I didn’t realize that you were aware of your family history. Of your birth mother’s mental health problems.”
Oh, right. That’s because I hacked into the hospital system and looked at your report. Shit. I clear my throat, giving away the potential lie in that action alone. “I … um … overheard my parents talking recently. I haven’t told them I know yet.”
“Are you afraid that you might become like your mother? That you might inherit mental illness from her?”
“Are you afraid of that?” I ask. “Is that why I failed the first time?”
She turns around, plucks a sheet of paper off her desk, and sets it on the coffee table in front of me. “Are you familiar with the term twice exceptional?”
“Someone with both extreme strengths and areas of significant disability,” I reply automatically.
“And I know you know what Asperger’s syndrome is,” she goes on.
“You think my birth mother had Asperger’s syndrome?” I blurt out, unable to help myself.
“You tell me,” she says, leaning back in her chair, ignoring the page in front of her. “You’re phenomenal at diagnostics, Isabel. What are the symptoms?”
“I don’t diagnose psychological disorders,” I say.
“But you know them, correct?”
“Correct.” I sigh. “Symptoms for which stage of life
?”
She lifts both eyebrows this time, possibly impressed. “Adolescence.”
“Disinterest in following social norms or conventional thinking, inability to read body language at times, lack of empathy—though it can be much less present as adolescents move into adulthood—anxiety, depression …”
“Do you know the name of the publication that provided you with that information?” she asks. I nod. “How long ago was the article written?”
“Three years, five months, and eighteen days.”
She leans forward and taps the paper on the coffee table. “Now, look at the date on this form, admitting your birth mother into a hospital for treatment of her depression … that was nearly forty years ago.”
“The depression was a symptom of undiagnosed Asperger’s,” I mumble to myself before looking up at Dr. James. She’s studying me in a different way than earlier, like she’s anticipating a new reaction from me. Suddenly I get it. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, and I’m already shaking my head. “No … I don’t have Asperger’s. This isn’t forty years ago. Someone would have told me. Someone would have diagnosed me. Do you know how many tests I’ve had, all relating to my freakish brain? Hundreds.”
I stand up like I’m about to leave, but I know I can’t. So I pace back and forth in the space between the couch and coffee table in this too-pink office.
“You lived in eight different foster homes the first five years of your life, Isabel. You were an unusually and highly gifted child who not only didn’t fit in with peers but also didn’t fit in with the families you lived with. How could you fit in? They didn’t understand why a three-year-old could read at the level of a high schooler. By the time of your adoption, you’d experienced so much rejection and also had the intellectual capability to take that rejection personally. Behaviors like defensiveness and a lack of proper relationships and connections were to be expected. Even things like being taken advantage of by an older man in a position of authority makes sense as one of the long-term effects of your early childhood.”