by Claire Adams
She sets the cap on the side of my tub and takes what really seems too large to call “her hit.”
When she comes back up, smoke is coming out of her nose in little ringlets, and I’m really not expecting it when she grabs the back of my head, presses her lips against mine and breathes the smoke into me.
It happens so fast and I’m already pretty baked, so by the time I really process what just happened, she’s already back on her feet, checking her hair in the mirror.
“You’re the only patient today,” she says. “It’s Sunday. Besides, I called Dr. Churchill, and he knows we’re hanging out.”
“What just happened?”
“It’s called shotgunning,” Yuri answers. “Oh shit, I didn’t even bother asking you if you were cool like that. I promise, I wasn’t trying to get fresh with you. I just noticed that your eyes were still pretty clear, and I don’t know about you, but MRI machines freak me right the fuck out, and I figured you could use a little extra to get you through the procedure.”
“The test,” I correct, and we both start laughing.
Yeah, I think I’ll be nice and calm when it comes time to have my brain bombarded by the magnetic field.
“Shit,” she says, looking at her phone.
“Wh-” I start, but before I can get the “at” out, Yuri’s grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet.
“We’re running late,” she says, “and I don’t know when the next open slot with the MRI is going to be.”
I don’t have time to respond, as she’s now dragging me out of the apartment. It’s all I can do to grab my purse and keys on the way. Yuri doesn’t bother stopping, so it’s quite the feat.
When we get outside, she sprays us both with about half her spritz bottle, and I’m coughing when the cab pulls up.
Yuri does the talking, which is just as well because that last hit is really starting to get on top of me.
We show up at the hospital either three hours or fourteen seconds later — I can’t be completely sure which — and as soon as Yuri pays the driver, she opens her door, and just like she had back at my apartment, she grabs my wrist and is pulling me out of the cab.
I’m jogging, trying to keep up with her, but we somehow manage to get into Dr. Churchill’s office when the big hand is touching the 12.
The doc is in his office proper, but he sees us come in. He’s on his way out to greet us, but he’s not even to the door to the waiting room when he stops and plugs his nose.
“Yuri, for fuck’s sake,” he says. “How many times have I told you to go easy on the perfume?”
“It’s not perfume,” she corrects, still gripping my wrist, “it’s spritz.”
“Whatever,” he says. “Seriously, is there anything you can do about that?”
“They don’t let me into the doctor’s locker rooms anymore, so it’s not like I can just jump in the shower,” she says, then turns to me. “Long story,” she mutters and releases her grip, seemingly for no other reason than to give me a “get going” pat on the rear.
I’m seriously starting to get some mixed signals from her, but what’s even more on my mind is the fact that we didn’t bother with eye drops, and I can feel the dryness of my eyes.
“Are you ready to go?” he asks.
“Why is it that you always like to be there during tests?” I ask.
“Call it a control thing,” he says. “If I’m there, I can tell the radiologist to take thinner or thicker cuts as needed. I swear, they have no instinct for it at all.”
I’m not sure if I respond or not, but we’re walking down what I’m sure at one point was a familiar hallway, though I don’t remember it being so eventful.
About 30 feet ahead of us is an older woman trying to corral six children into one of the rooms, while just a little farther down the way is a teenager endlessly combing his fingers through his hair.
That gravity bong stuff is bananas.
After an indeterminate amount of time, I’m in a small room, changing into a hospital gown.
When I come back out, Jace directs me to the MRI and I lie down.
I’ve never been claustrophobic, but I think Yuri must have gotten into my head, because I’m closing my eyes, not quite ready to be scanned.
“All right,” Jace’s voice comes tinny through the intercom, “just stay still and we should have you out of there in no time.”
“All right,” I answer, and the MRI springs to life.
The only real difficulty I’m having once the test starts is trying not to laugh. I guess I wasn’t having secondhand claustrophobia, after all.
When the test is over and I’m slid back out, I just lie there, waiting for Jace to tell me what to do next.
Before long, I’m back in that little room, changing back into my spritz-drenched clothes.
Jace tells me to head back up to his office, so I start on my way, though I have to make a quick call to Yuri to get back to more familiar territory. Once I get near the elevators, it all starts coming back to me.
When I get to the office, I’m smacked in the face with the smell of Yuri’s spritz. Apparently, she decided to “freshen up” a bit more while I was gone.
“What do you think?” she asks after I sit down in my customary spot.
“About what?”
“About Dr. Churchill?” she asks.
“He seems like a good doctor,” I tell her.
“That’s not what I meant, but I think you know that. I think he likes you.”
“He’s in a relationship with what’s-her-skank,” I answer.
She smiles politely at my attempt at cleverness, but shakes her head. “One of these days, he’s finally going to grow a pair of balls and he’s going to leave her,” she says. “I think you two would make a cute couple.”
Suddenly, I’m very self-conscious.
“Yeah, but he’s my doctor, and that’s kind of weird for me,” I tell her.
“I don’t see why,” she says. “As long as all he’s doing is running scans and giving you prescriptions, what’s the harm?”
I’m sure there’s an easy answer to that, but right now, I’m having a little trouble getting past the statement that he likes me.
“He is very attractive,” I concede, “but I really think it would be way too complicated to make any kind of move on him right now.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I get a little nosy sometimes when I’m baked.”
On the word “baked,” the door to the waiting room opens and Jace walks in, saying, “Grace, would you like to step into my office for a moment?”
“Sure,” I answer, and I follow him into his office.
He pulls up his computer and finds my file. For a minute, he’s looking at different shots of the inside of my head.
Finally, he says, “Well, in comparing your scan today with the earlier one, it looks like your oligodendroglioma hasn’t grown. That’s the good news.”
“What’s the bad news?” I ask.
“Well, the fact that you’re having the symptoms you’re having,” he says. “How severe did you say they were?”
“I don’t know that I’d call them severe,” I tell him. “It’s a little freaky when my mind goes blank on me, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
He rubs his chin, and I can hear that invigorating sound of his fingers moving over light stubble.
“Well,” he says, “it doesn’t look like you’re in any immediate danger, but I would like to take another scan in a couple of weeks. It’s best to keep an eye on these things. And if you notice your symptoms getting any worse, do let me know.”
“That’s it?” I ask. “After all the nonsense of the last few days, it’s just ‘come back and we’ll see if your tumor’s going to kill you ahead of schedule?’”
“There’s not much else to do,” he says. “How are you doing with your medication?”
“Oh, right now, I’m feeling fucking spectacular,” I tell him.
He smiles, and with a chuckle, h
e says, “I meant the chemo. You’re almost done with this round, isn’t that correct?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of hit or miss on whether I feel up to getting out of bed, but the other medication does seem to be helping with that.”
“Are you having any nausea, vomiting, diarrhea?”
That line of questioning right there is precisely the reason I don’t think things with Jace would work out so well, even were he to drop his baggage at the gate.
“A little of one and three,” I tell him. “I haven’t puked, though.”
“That’s good,” he says. “What about body aches? How’s your appetite?”
“Depends on how long it’s been since I’ve imbibed,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “the word ‘imbibed’ actually means to drink, but that’s neither here nor there. Have you noticed any weight loss?”
“A bit,” I tell him, “but not as much as I was expecting. You see people with cancer, and they always look totally emaciated.”
“Well, I think the fact that the cannabis seems to be helping your appetite is helping with that,” he says. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, “I do actually have a couple.”
“Okay,” he says. “What’s on your mind?”
“What kind of nimrod do you have to be to make up with a woman who cheats on you the day that you figure it all out?”
That may not be the kind of question he was referring to.
“Excuse me?”
“It just seems to me like you’re selling yourself short,” I tell him. “I mean, you’re quite the dish, and I’d bet that you’ve even got some money stashed in the mattress. What’s keeping you with someone like that?”
“You know,” he says, “I think that while we’re in the office, it’d probably be for the best that we keep it professional.”
“Ah,” I answer and pull out my phone. I find the number and wait for an answer.
“Marquis Escorts,” the voice answers.
“Yeah, this is Grace Miller. I’ve used your service a few times before, and I was wondering if my usual gentleman would be free this evening, say maybe in an hour or so?” I ask.
Jace makes a noise that’s closer to a growl than anything, but he doesn’t say or do anything while I’m making my second appointment of the day with him.
When I hang up, he finally says, “You do know that you could just ask me if I’ll stop over, and it’d save you a lot of money.”
“Yeah,” I answer, “but if I did that and the wandering saline container called your other office to see what you were up to, you’d get in trouble.”
“They don’t give out that kind of — let’s just talk about it later,” he says. “For now, as your doctor, I’d say just let me know if you notice any new or worsening symptoms, and we’ll go from there. As for now, I don’t think it’s going to be necessary to adjust your medication, but do let me know if things get any worse and we can make a change as needed.”
“All right,” I answer.
I get up and make my way to the door, opening it just in time to hear the sound of his pager echoing through his office and waiting room.
Chapter Eight
Finding My Inner Douchebag
Jace
I run home before going over to Grace’s. It’s a little ridiculous that she actually made an appointment with my service while I was sitting across the desk from her, but it’s good to have an excuse to leave the house.
Melissa didn’t protest last night when I told her I felt more comfortable sleeping on the couch. Tonight, those roles are going to be reversed.
I’m headed over to Grace’s apartment now, and I’m really battling myself on what to do here.
The truth is that I like her.
She’s a patient, and I’m not unsympathetic to that fact, but she reminds me of someone I haven’t seen in a long time, someone I’m trying to get back in touch with.
Grace is challenging and spontaneous. Even with the specter looming over her, she’s still hanging onto her ability to take things into her own hands.
It’s inspiring, really.
That said, she scares the shit out of me.
She’s successful, but that’s not the source of my intimidation. It’s that she’s so true to herself, and for the last few years, I’ve been wondering when or if I’m ever going to remember what that feels like.
Tonight, though, I think I’ve taken my first step in that direction.
I get to the apartment and knock on Grace’s door. From inside, I can hear her calling out, “It’s unlocked!”
Turning the knob, I’m just curious as to where tonight’s going to lead.
I walk into the apartment and close the door before making my way into the living room.
“Where are you?” I call.
“In the bedroom,” she replies. “I’m still getting dressed.”
“Need a hand?” I ask, testing the waters to see if I can still pull off facetious and charming.
“I think two would be better,” she calls back, “but I’m almost done.”
So, off to a good start.
Why the hell am I so nervous?
Grace comes into the living room, wearing a black tank top and a pair of jeans.
“You look nice,” I tell her. “Kind of like an 80s metal chick with better hair.”
“Thanks,” she says. “It helps being able to change it out on a whim. So, do you know where we’re going tonight, stud?”
“Now you’re talking like an 80s metal chick,” I laugh. “No, where are we going?”
“You,” she starts, taking graceful steps in what must be at least three-inch spikes, “are going to take me to the amusement park.”
“The amusement park?” I ask. “I didn’t know we had any of those around here.”
“I’m sure we’ll find one,” she says.
“All right, but we’d better get going. Otherwise, it’s going to be closed.”
“That’s kind of the point,” she says.
“In that case,” I tell her, trying to bury my fear of breaking in anywhere, “we should probably give it a little bit longer.”
“Oh, we’re going to make a couple of stops on the way. I hope you don’t mind,” she says, “but I have to talk to a man about a semi-hostile takeover of a lesser known TV station in the Midwest.”
“Sounds exciting,” I mock. “Seriously, though, where are we going?”
“I’m completely serious. I was just going to have you take me to a park so you could go down on me on the swing set, but I’ve got to do a little work tonight.”
“You know,” I tell her, “I never know if you’re serious when you say stuff like that.”
“Yeah, me either,” she says. “You’ll get used to it.”
I’m sure I will.
Tonight, Grace had requested that I pick her up in my car, so I did. Melissa looked at me funny when I grabbed my car keys, but she didn’t say anything. My bet is that she’s going to try to use this as ammunition for our next argument, but right now, I couldn’t care less.
I haven’t left her. I haven’t kicked her out. I don’t even know if I’m actually done with the relationship, but as for right now, today, I do know that I’m not going to let her hold me hostage in my role as her lesser man.
Grace and I get to my car, and I hold her door as she gets in.
I walk around to the other side, and as I’m getting into my seat and buckling the belt, Grace says, “This is a nice car. How many old ladies with older money did you have to sweep off their feet to afford something like this?”
“I lost count a while ago.”
We’re on the road and everything’s going well. There’s good banter, even though I’m overthinking it to the point of absurdity.
“You’re going to have to tell me where I’m going,” I say.
“Just follow the sultry sounds of the computerized voice,” she says, pulling up the GPS on her phone.
“You don’t know where it is?”
“I do,” she says, “but this way we can carry on a conversation. You know, I should tell you that I generally prefer my hire-a-skanks to be more intelligent than what you’re bringing to the table.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter.
The sad thing is that I don’t know what else to say.
Ever since she booked my services back in the office, I’ve had this utopian idea of what tonight was going to be: we were going to throw off the fetters of convention — or at least, I was going to take a good crack at it — and I was going to rediscover my lost youth.
Okay, I’m only 27, but when you’ve lived a much more sedate version of your own life for any significant amount of time, any chance to get back to not caring so much about complete bullshit is the kind of thing you jerk off thinking about in the shower.
The computerized voice says, “Your destination is on the left,” and I’m actually starting to sweat.
I’m dropping the ball here.
Sure, Grace really isn’t saying anything either, but I think she’s just trying to see if I’m actually capable of unwinding.
“I’ll be back in a little bit,” she says. “I would tell you to come up, but I don’t want you to have to see my work persona.”
“What’s the difference between your work persona and your normal, everyday self?” I ask, hoping for some common, more boring ground.
“It’s about the same as my everyday persona, but there’s a lot more talk about markets and acquisitions and sweeps week and that sort of thing. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m just another businesswoman,” she says, adjusting her dark purple wig in the mirror.
“Not much chance of that,” I tell her. “I’ll find a spot to park and I’ll text you its location.”
“My hero,” she says, and gets out of the car.
I find the entrance to the parking garage and park in an open spot and text the space number to Grace.
The one thing I hadn’t counted on with tonight was the waiting.
Ever since I found that video, I’ve done my best to keep my mind occupied. When I don’t, invariably, I end up watching it again or trying to think through how I’m going to get my content life with Melissa back.