by Max Monroe
It amazes me how well I understand her punctuation-only message.
Me: Relax, Mambo. I’m kidding. Things have been busy, but I’ll call you tonight when I get home.
With my parents settled in Florida and my very busy business in New York, it’s not easy keeping in touch with my folks. Hell, sometimes, weeks go by before I remember to check in with them.
Hence the whole bastard son thing.
Mom: Okay. And I’m not sure if you realize this, but there is a very important day next week…
Me: Lol. I’m very aware that your birthday is next week, but I appreciate the subtle hint.
Mom: Well, you know…just in case. What good is a rich son if not for getting presents?
I laugh out loud just as another text comes in.
Mom: ☺ Love you, Milo.
Me: Love you too.
Mom: Oh, and your father says hello.
Me: Tell him I say hello and that he should finally give in to technology and get a damn cell phone so I can actually reach him.
Where Lydia Ives is all about the technology, Kerry Ives refuses to take part.
The man still watches VHS tapes, for fuck’s sake.
The day he gets a cell phone might actually be the apocalypse.
Mom: He says you can always call the landline.
I laugh to myself. Jesus. This conversation would go on forever if I’d let it.
Me: All right, well, I have to finish up an interview, but I’ll call you tonight.
Mom: What kind of interview?
Me: You can ask me all about it later.
Mom: Do you know what time you’re going to call? Your dad and I like to watch The Bachelorette at nine.
God forbid I interrupt Chris Harrison announcing the final rose of the night.
I shake my head on a laugh and type out what will be my final text of this chat.
Me: I’ll make sure it’s before then.
I slip my phone into my jacket pocket, and when it vibrates another three times against my chest, I can’t not laugh. That woman would keep me in a text message conversation for twelve hours straight if I’d let her.
As I head back into the restaurant, I make a mental note to call two people.
Obviously, when I get home tonight, my mom.
And hopefully, sometime later this week, Maybe Willis. I don’t know much about her these days, but I know for sure it’ll be good to catch up.
Maybe
The clock in my dad’s SUV clicks to eight in the morning, and I groan as he pulls into the parking lot of my oral surgeon’s office in New Jersey for surgery day.
Of course, when I say my oral surgeon, I mean the oral surgeon for which Bruce found a coupon on Groupon, so who knows how in the hell this is going to go. And, while I wish it were something fun like a pair of new boobs or a bionic arm, I’m disappointed to say I will just be the owner of one fewer tooth.
A tooth I don’t need, obviously, but still.
I feel like any type of surgery shouldn’t come with a twenty-percent-off discount, but I’m currently too tired to decide if it’s a bad omen or not.
It’s too early to be without coffee, and thanks to the mandatory twelve-hour fast, I can’t stop thinking about Dunkin’ Donuts.
And I have my dad sitting beside me in the driver’s seat, belting out the lyrics to “Isn’t She Lovely” as if he’s Stevie Wonder himself.
Basically, this morning is shit, and I’m grumpier than Bruce on a late-Gerbera-daisy-shipment day.
God help me.
“And everyone laughs over my need to have a car in New York,” Bruce says after he finishes singing the chorus. “Looks like it came in pretty handy today.”
He’s so proud of himself. The man who spends an insane amount of money just to park this fucking car in the city has driven it one day in the last two months to bring me to a discount surgeon, and he’s bragging about it.
Bruce pulls in front of the office, puts the car in park, and turns toward me before I can get out of the passenger seat to head toward my dismal fate of anesthesia and blood loss.
“Break a leg, Maybe!”
I groan. “Pretty sure that doesn’t apply in this scenario.”
“Knock their socks off!”
“Not that either.”
He grins. “Good luck, honey. I’ll be in the waiting room.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, climbing out of the relic that is his 2010 Hyundai Elantra, and head through the sliding glass doors at the entrance.
In no time at all, I’m standing in front of the receptionist’s desk giving a woman named Harriet my information.
She goes through her medical spiel, hands me a stack of forms to sign verifying my insurance information, and then gives me a look that, lack of caffeine or not, demands I dutifully listen to her instructions. I blink three times and steady myself by locking a clamp-like hand on to the counter.
“No cell phones, no headphones, no tablets, no food, no drinks, no loitering, no yelling, no nudity—”
No nudity? During oral surgery? What in the hell happened to make that one end up on the list?
She continues the insane list without even taking a breath. Clearly, she’s run through it hundreds of times. “No unauthorized medications, no drugs, no jewelry, no weapons, and absolutely no gum.”
It’s ironic that on a list with weapons, nudity, and drugs, chewing gum seems to be the biggest offender.
“The only other thing I need is the name and number of the person who will be taking you home from surgery.”
“Bruce Willis,” I answer, and her fingers stop suddenly on the keyboard. She looks above her wire-rimmed glasses and her eyes meet mine, and there is some serious annoyance behind them.
“And Frank Sinatra is coming back from the dead to take me to dinner after work,” she retorts sharply. “Who is picking you up today?”
“I’m actually serious,” I respond quickly, timidly offering a shrug and smile while silently cursing my dad for having the same name as a Hollywood action hero. “My dad’s name is Bruce Willis.”
She furrows her brow. “Your dad’s name is Bruce Willis?”
“It is.”
Harriet stares at me so hard, I actually consider breaking and telling her my dad’s name is something else. But, like…it is Bruce Willis. What am I supposed to do here?!
Sweat dots my brow, and the clock strikes noon and I put my hand to my pistol.
Okay, not really, but it does get really intense for a few seconds, and I start to feel a little steamy under my poorly planned polyester shirt.
But the showdown finally ends with a heavy sigh and a jerk of the chin from my opponent.
I scurry to a seat in the corner where I alternate between pretending to read a magazine and staring uncomfortably at my black Converse until a nurse calls me toward the back. I do not look in Harriet’s direction.
“Mabel Willis, we’re ready for you.”
I nod and set down the Cosmopolitan magazine in my hands on the communal coffee table and follow the blonde’s lead.
She looks to be close to my age, her name tag reads Sara, and her teeth are so white I start to have flashbacks of that Friends episode where Ross gets his teeth bleached.
“Once we get you settled in, the surgery itself shouldn’t take more than an hour.” The nurse smiles, and the room brightens. Literally brightens. The whiteness of her teeth defies logic, and they appear to emit their own light source.
“Well, that’s good news, I guess.”
“Go ahead and take a seat right there,” she says as she points to the dentist chair in the center of the room before heading to the counter and washing her hands at the sink.
The plastic leather of the chair squeaks and groans as I slide my yoga-pants-covered ass into place. Another blond, female nurse steps into the room to assist Sara.
The two women rummage around in the cabinets and drawers surrounding the sink until they’re content with their medical loot, and then move to
ward me.
For the second time since my arrival to this office, instructions fly at me like dicks in a dildo factory.
“First, we’re going to take your vitals.”
“Then, we’re going to start an IV.”
“We need the IV so we can sedate you for the surgery.”
“Do you have any allergies?” Sara asks, but it takes me too long to answer for her liking. So, she asks again. “Mabel, do you have any allergies?”
Holy hell. “Um…no.”
Her responding smile nearly blinds me. “Fabulous.”
Fabulous? That’s an odd word to come out of a medical professional’s mouth…
Molly, the other nurse, scrubs at my right arm with something that smells like alcohol, and Sara takes my left arm and wraps a blood pressure cuff around it.
Holy crap, they’re coming at me from all angles.
“It’s just going to be a little stick, okay?” she asks, but she gives me zero time to respond.
No countdown. No warning. No time is apparently being wasted today at this medical practice. Taking teeth is our name, and fast is our game.
Without preamble, Molly shoves a sharp needle into my arm, and the pain is so instant, so intense, I damn near levitate off the dentist chair.
“Holy flapjacks!” The words shoot from my mouth, and I have to bite my lip so I don’t start screaming out in pain.
Is she starting my IV with a shiv?
“Sorry about that. I’ll be done in…” I’m expecting her sentence to actually finish with something like in a jiff, but instead, it trails off into nothingness. Panic sets in immediately.
“You’ll be done in…?” Soon? For the love of everything, tell me you’ll be done soon.
“Hmm…” Molly mutters to herself while she fiddles around with the needle that’s still in my arm.
To the left, to the left. To the right, to the right.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to reenact the Electric Slide with a needle dancing around inside my arm. It’s not even that fun of a dance at weddings, but at least then there’s alcohol!
Jiminy Cricket! I yell in my head as Molly rotates the needle again.
“Sara,” Molly whispers, making weird eyes down at me and then back up again. Feeling like a third wheel at my own goddamn surgery date, I decide to just shut my eyes while these bitches do whatever it is they’re doing.
“Yeah?” Sara responds.
“Does this look right?”
“Uh…” Sara pauses. “Yeah, I think so?”
I think so? Holy shit.
“I guess I’ll just hook it up to the fluids to see,” Molly responds, and I feel a small tug and pull on my arm.
“Oh my God,” Sara says a little too loud, and my eyes pop open. “I think you put it in her artery instead of her vein.”
Wait…what?
I glance down at my arm and follow the blood-red path of IV tubing until it reaches the bag of fluids hanging above me. I know zip about medical shit, but I’ve watched every single episode of Grey’s Anatomy, and I’m pretty sure, unless you’re getting a fucking blood transfusion, IV tubing shouldn’t have blood inside it. Nor should it be filling the IV fluid bag.
The room turns to chaos in a matter of seconds.
“Shit,” Sara mumbles and quickly yanks the IV out of my arm and holds pressure. The blood-stained IV fluid shoots out of the tubing and onto the floor, and Molly scrambles around for gauze pads and God only knows what else.
Circus music plays inside my head, and blood loss aids in the hallucination of an elephant or two on my chest.
“Sorry about that, Mabel,” Sara says and grabs more IV supplies, which I can only assume will be used on my opposite arm.
Surely, the first arm is momentarily out of blood.
“Sometimes these things happen with IVs, but we’ll get you all set here in a few minutes.”
Freaking Bruce and freaking Groupon. After this, I am done with questionable discounts on retail.
I mean, what’s next? Is a monkey with cymbals going to bounce into the room to remove my tooth?
Fuck, I hope not.
Dear God, it’s me. Maybe. Please get me out of this surgery alive.
“Not going to lie,” I whisper past the nausea that is now creeping its way up my throat. “I’m not feeling so hot right now.”
“Oh dear.” Sara’s eyes go wide when she makes eye contact with me. “You look a little pale.”
I’d say that’s par for the course at this point.
“Just take some deep breaths,” Molly encourages like she knows what she’s doing. She talks a good game compared to her actual skills. “Once we get a fresh IV in you, we’ll give you some medicine to make you feel better.”
My eyes turn to saucers. “You’re going to do another IV?”
“This one will work,” Molly responds with confidence that is truly mind-blowing after the serious fuckup she’s still trying to clean up. “Just close your eyes and try to relax. This will all be over soon.”
“I just have one request.”
“And what’s that, sweetie?”
“Please don’t kill me.”
Both nurses chortle like I’m joking, but I’m not.
Seriously, God, please don’t let them kill me.
“Time to wake up, Maybe,” someone whispers into my ear, but they sound like they are talking underwater.
I open my eyes, and everything is blurry and fogged.
I take several blinks, but nothing clears up.
Am I alive?
“Hello?” I ask into the blurred void of my surroundings. “Is anyone there?”
“I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”
I try to figure out where the voice is coming from, but all I can see is a dark blob with blond hair. And Good Lord, it’s terrifying.
“It’s time to go home,” the voice says again, but this time, the blob is gone and a bright white light fills my view.
Oh shit. Is that the light?
The “you just kicked the bucket, and now it’s time to cross over to the other side” light?
Ah, fuck. I knew it! I knew this shit was going to go sideways!
Those damn nurses killed me, and I’ll never even get the chance to yell at them for it! It’s not like they’ll get punished. Bruce is way too cheap to hire a lawyer to initiate a medical malpractice lawsuit. Plus, there’s probably some fine print in that Groupon that prevents it.
“Here’s your phone and your belongings,” the voice says and sets a bag in my lap.
As if I need my phone now.
I mean, AT&T has always given me pretty great service, but I doubt their cellular networks are good enough that I’m able to browse Instagram in the afterlife.
“He’s going to be here any minute. You can just relax your eyes for a bit, okay?”
He? As in God? God is coming to get me now?
Who would’ve thought He even has the time to meet and greet every new arrival?
Consider me impressed.
Also, though, slightly panicked too. I know He created me, but I would prefer to meet Him when I’ve had time to put on some damn makeup or fix my hair.
But the fatigue that apparently comes with death keeps my ass firmly planted in whatever place it currently resides. So, I just let my eyes fall closed and wait for God to come pick me up.
Surely, he’ll understand that death by Groupon surgery isn’t the easiest to bounce back from.
Something vibrates in my hands, and I pry my eyes open to find a plastic bag in my lap and a cell phone flashing with something on the screen.
Whose phone is this?
Is this my phone?
Or, like, my heaven-allocated phone?
I inspect it with clumsy fingers, but eventually, I figure out it’s mine.
Is this like prison? I get one phone call or text message before God gets here?
I shrug and figure it’s worth a shot.
It takes
a serious effort to see past the light—which, by the way, is even brighter than I imagined—and takes forever for me to unlock the damn thing. But once I do, I start scrolling through my missed text messages while a Neil Diamond revival concert starts to filter into my ears.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was alive and my dear old dad was playing DJ, but like the voice said, God is coming and momma is about to head to her final home.
When I tap to open the text message inbox, I find a few missed text messages from my mom and another one from Evan.
Man, they’re going to be so sad when they find out the news.
Evan: I hope you don’t lose too much blood today. LOL. But seriously, let me know how everything goes.
Looks like that rat bastard will be eating his words when he finds out I lost a death-worthy amount of blood…
I somehow manage to pull up my contacts and try to figure out who my last and final text message should go to.
I scroll through the list, but when I reach one name in particular, I stop.
Holy hot fudge, Milo Ives.
I want to fuck him. Well, wanted to fuck him.
This dead-ass virgin can’t fuck no more.
I wish I could’ve touched his penis, though.
I bet it’s a beautiful penis. Like a beautiful painting of a penis, but without the paint. Just the penis. The whole penis. Not just the tip of it.
If I’d known I was going to take my last breath in a dentist chair during a minor surgery, I wouldn’t have been such a chickenshit the other day at the shop.
I would’ve told him who I was, and then said something smooth like, “I got the feels for you, baby.”
Well, smooth but classy and sophisticated too.
Like, Shakespeare kind of words…
“Good day, dear sir gentleman. It is I, Maybe. Doth thou enjoying the day?”
Yes, something exactly like that for sure, but even gooder.
More gooder?
Betterer?