by Alam, Donna
‘Quelle jour il est!’
‘Quel jour est il?’ the patient repeats in a deep baritone. And with a smirk.
Okay, pretty boy. So your French is better than mine—big whoop.
‘Oui,’ I reply with the hauteur of a Parisienne grande dame, earning me the kind of smile that makes me feel unnecessarily giddy.
‘Dimanche.’ The patient’s eyes flick briefly to the clock on the wall. ‘Non. C’est maintenant Lundi.’
I have no clue what he just said, but if he says it again, I’m climbing in the bed with him, hospital or not. Why does everything said in a French accent sound so sexy?
‘What was his answer?’
I find myself frowning as I glance the doctor’s way. How could I forget he was there?
‘He said yes. I mean, he got it right.’ Hopefully. I think? I turn to face Remy again as I contemplate how I’m barely sure what day it is myself. How is a man with a concussion expected to know in either language? ‘Did the nurse ask him how this happened?’ I enquire carefully, though he’s hardly likely to confess to being felled by a rubber dong. Not that I think I’m wholly responsible for the things that happened to him tonight.
‘He fell from a bike, as I understand.’
That makes sense, I suppose, but—
‘From a bike? Like a bicycle? Or a motorcycle?’
‘I thought he didn’t speak any English?’ The doctor points at Remy, his expression bland.
‘Actually, I was asking you. Last night there wasn’t any kind of bike or any evidence of there being a bike—wreckage or helmet—where I found him.’ Or where he found me, I suppose. As I speak, Remy’s green eyes glitter dangerously, almost as though in recognition. Maybe the word for bike is the same in English, and he’s pissed at it.
‘A motorcycle,’ the doc answers. ‘He came off at a very low speed, which would account for the lack of other injuries. He has a concussion and a small wound on his head as a result of hitting it on a metal rail, once he’d taken off his helmet, following a dizzy spell.’
‘Is the concussion from the railing?’ I ask haltingly.
‘More likely from falling from the motorcycle.’
‘Could it have been from something else?’
‘Like what?’ His gaze narrows.
‘I was just thinking,’ I reply, all wide-eyed and forced innocence. Thinking about the damage I could’ve done with the dildo and how his head might’ve met with the railing outside of my house.
Felony by dildo. Would that be a thing?
I glance at the doctor again, my brow furrowed. I’d watched a TV program recently about football players and the risks they face from concussions and traumatic brain injuries. It was pretty scary. ‘Is he going to be okay?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ My frown deepens at his terse tone. ‘How do you not know what kind of bike he owns?’
‘It must be a new hobby,’ I mumble, wondering if I’m imagining how the patient’s expression seems to become purposely blank every time the doctor looks his way. Meanwhile, he looks at me as though he’s struggling to contain his amusement.
Probably because I wear every one of my feelings on my face.
‘If you could next ask him if he knows where he is, please.’
It’s a stupid question and one that also happens to be beyond my French-speaking capabilities.
‘Ou es . . .’ where is ‘Ou es . . . vous?’ Where is you? That’s near enough, I suppose, though I try to mime the question with a flutter of my hands, hoping this might help somehow. It turns out that it does, even if he does look like he’s struggling not to laugh. But even the doctor is able to determine his eventual answer.
‘Hôpital.’
‘Very good.’ The doctor’s attention falls to his tablet again as Remy settles his head back on the pillow, his gaze seeming to drink me in. ‘Could you ask him if he remembers why he’s in the hospital?’
I clear my throat, ignoring Remy’s very eloquent expression. ‘J’ai . . . mal à la tête?’ Another middle school gem which roughly translates to: I have a headache. Yeah, I know; why would I have a headache when he’s the one with the concussion? But I don’t know how to turn the statement into a question, which is kind of a headache in itself.
At this, he launches into a litany of Frenchness that would, on any other occasion, have me kneeling at his feet. And my fingers on his zipper, possibly. But as the doctor interjects this vociferousness with a dozen questions of his own, cautioning Remy against becoming agitated, along with wondering aloud what on earth I could’ve said to upset him, I find I’m unable to speak.
The room suddenly falls quiet, two pairs of eyes turning to me.
‘He says yes,’ I answer, my voice small. ‘He also says he has a headache.’
The man in the bed sets off laughing, laughter that turns almost immediately to a groan, and a groan that then turns to profanity.
‘Fils de putain!’ His hands clutch his head. The doctor moves closer to the man in the bed, but it’s my hand Remy squeezes as he processes the wave of pain.
‘I really don’t think you need me to translate that.’ It’s a pity really because I can translate cursing, no problem. Son of a whore, if you’re interested, though technically it’s more like everyone’s favourite; fuck.
As Remy’s grip slackens, his features relaxing as the pain dissipates, the good doctor turns to face me.
‘I’m beginning to think you don’t really speak French at all.’
‘Not a lot,’ I agree, drawing myself up to my full five-eight high heel-aided height. I cock my hip a little and begin to toy with the end of one of my dark braids, the movement making my coat gape a little at my chest. Can you say boobalicious, Doctor? ‘You might say our bond is a little less meeting of the minds, and a little more physical, if you know what I mean.’
And judging by the way he blushes, he does.
* * *
It turns out the French-Canadian nurse is available to translate for the rest of Remy’s cognitive testing, testing where Remy insists on clinging to my hand. Gone are the flirty smiles and the saucy winking. Instead, he looks to be in a serious amount of pain.
‘Are you sure he doesn’t need a scan?’ Out of the room now, I drop my purse to the nurses’ station, hurriedly shoving the can of pepper spray back as it almost rolls onto the countertop. ‘He looks like he should be in the hospital.’
‘It’s natural to be worried, but clinically, he’s fine.’ The doctor barely glances up from his pile of paperwork this time. ‘Of course, if there’s any change in his condition, you’re to contact us right away. Here.’ He passes over a leaflet. ‘Some information on what to expect. What to look out for.’
My eyes scan the text, my heart beginning to gallop quite suddenly.
Head injuries.
Concussion.
The warning signs of mild traumatic brain injuries.
‘I think he should be admitted overnight.’ He doesn’t look up, though his expression ripples with something uncomplimentary. ‘I mean it. I’m not qualified to do this.’ I say, almost waving the leaflet under his nose. ‘I can’t even keep a houseplant alive!’
‘I’m confident he’ll be fine in your care.’
Along with this reassurance, Dr Scott straightens, bestowing me with an empathetic look. You know the look; the one I swear they must teach at medical school. For the record, I don’t feel comforted.
It occurs to me that now would be the perfect time to come clean. To admit to the good doc that I’m just the good Samaritan who found Remy on the staircase, and we’re not dating. That we’re nothing more than strangers. It might be the best opportunity I get to relinquish this responsibility, even if it’d make me look insane, but I find I just can’t do it. I just want to make sure Remy is okay.
‘You just need to make sure he rests up for the next few days.’ The doctor’s voice refocuses my attention. ‘No strenuous activity. No sport, horizontal or otherwise, for at least
seven days.’
I guess I brought that on myself but find myself clutching the lapels of my coat anyway.
‘He needs to rest mentally, too. No video games or TV for forty-eight hours minimum. Reading, too. It’s all in there.’
I glance down as he taps the edge of the leaflet in my hand, attempting to mentally work out the time in Australia. I’m almost sure that Amber speaks French, and I’m sure she won’t mind explaining to Remy what he should and shouldn’t do, provided I don’t call her in the middle of the night, that is.
‘But he’ll be okay? He doesn’t need any medication?’ I want to be sure he has everything he needs before I call an Uber and have him dropped off at his hotel or whatever.
‘He’ll probably suffer from a headache for a few days, so stick to Tylenol. No ibuprofen.’
‘Okay.’ A trip to the pharmacy it is.
‘And check on him every couple of hours for the next twenty-four, especially if he’s sleeping.’
‘W-what?’
‘Don’t worry. It sounds dramatic, but it’s standard protocol for a concussion.’
‘So I should . . . do what?’
‘He should be observed for the next twenty-four hours. Check on him while he’s sleeping.’
‘So he can’t be left alone?’
‘That’s usually the nature of observation. Is that going to be an issue?’
His tone brims with judgment, and my mind is a riot of thoughts—
I can’t have a stranger stay with me, not even if he is as hot as Hades.
I have work later today, so I won’t be in any fit state to “observe” him.
I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow!
Still, I find myself answering anyway.
‘No. Of course. It’s the least I can do for him.’
4
Rose
It’s the least I can do for him. You know, other than save his hide after he frightened me half to death in the early hours of this morning.
I suppose also the least I can do for him after spending hours in the hospital, hours when I could’ve been sleeping.
And also the least I can do for him when I’ll (most probably) lose my job when I call in sick tonight in order to “observe” him.
At least he’s pretty to observe.
Urgh!
But it might not come to that, I tell myself. Surely, he has someplace to go—a home or a hotel? I’ll just take him to my apartment, and once Amber is awake in a few hours, I’ll call her and get her to speak to him. Once she stops laughing, that is. Or maybe shouting.
It’s not so crazy, is it? Taking him home, I mean. I did the exact same thing for that mangey Poodle a couple of weeks ago; I took him to the animal hospital, got him patched up and cleaned, then took him to my home until I found him a forever home.
At least Remy won’t need worming or a flea bath.
I study his profile in the Uber on the way back to my place. His eyes are closed, and his head tipped back on the headrest. He appears to be asleep, which is convenient because I can’t help but stare at the arch of his brow and high slant of his cheekbone. Or the way his long lashes make shadowy half-moons against his skin. He may not be cute or fluffy, but I still have the urge to reach out and touch him. I blame the other kind of animal magnetism. The very male kind. His large hands rest on his broad thighs, the flat planes of his stomach barely concealed by the hideous pink and yellow aloha shirt he’s now wearing. His bloodstained T-shirt was cut from him while unconscious, and this was the only thing the nurse could find that fit because the man is kind of large.
Maybe I should’ve anticipated he’d feel the weight of my attention, yet I’m still shocked when his eyes flicker open, and he turns to face me.
‘Ça va bien?’ I find myself stuttering. Are you well?
‘Bof,’ comes his deep reply, accompanied by a small smile and an even smaller shrug.
I’m unprepared for this response as an answer. Ça va bien or ça va mal; good and not so good, I wouldn’t be staring at him like this because what the hell is bof? I know what boffing is—sex—but that didn’t seem like a suggestion or an offer.
Which kind of seems like a shame.
‘This is awkward, right?’ I glance across at him when he flashes me the kind of smile that speaks of bedrooms and sighs and unspoken promises, almost as though he’d plucked the thoughts right out of my head. With a jolt, I tear my gaze from his, realising it’s only awkward when I remember how long it’s been since I last had sex. I’m suddenly very aware of the part of my body just south of my belt.
‘This is . . . not good,’ I find myself whispering. I slide Remy another look, noting how his eyes rise slowly from where I appear to be flashing a little thigh.
‘Pardon,’ he murmurs, though his gaze bears no hint of that apology.
I am so not sure what to make of that look but as the Uber pulls to a stop, I find myself stuttering, ‘L-look, we’re here.’
I don’t think I’ve ever gotten out of a car so fast, and while I’ve bitched and moaned about the number of stairs up to my front door since I moved in, I take them almost at a run. Key in the lock, I virtually stumble through the door, dropping my bag to the thrift store console table, covering the purple penis which a moment ago stood erect and proud. For once, I’m pleased the thermostat is on the fritz because it’s the perfect excuse to keep my coat on. Especially when I consider I’m still wearing my god-awful uniform.
Wrapping my coat tighter, I stamp my feet a little as I dig through my purse for my phone when I realise why it’s so arctic in here. Remy hasn’t followed me in and is standing at the still open door. In our very short acquaintance, I’ve seen this man semiconscious and vulnerable, watched him bear pain with stoicism while insistent on opening the Uber door for me. He’s also, I think, behaved a little naughtily. But as he stands on the threshold of my little apartment, he looks hesitant. Something tells me this is a state of being that’s unfamiliar to him.
‘Please, come in.’ Along with the invitation, I gesture for him to enter.
‘Merci.’
We get by the next thirty minutes almost as though we’re playing a game of charades.
‘You can hang your jacket up here.’ Point to the coatrack.
‘Or you can keep it on. I know, it’s cold in here.’ Rub my arms. ‘But it’ll warm up soon.’
‘The bathroom is through here.’ Nope, not touching that one.
‘Can I get you something to eat?’ Cram an invisible sandwich between my teeth.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ Mimes a dainty cup and saucer, then sips like the queen.
The last is how we find ourselves sitting opposite each other at my tiny kitchen table as I watch Remy try not to grimace at the taste of the coffee I’ve just put in front of him.
‘It’s pretty terrible, huh? Not like anything you’d get in Paris, for sure.’ I pull a face as I gesture to my own cup. ‘Bleurgh.’
‘Non. C’est bien.’ Bringing the cup to his lips, he makes a sound of appreciation, the almost sexual noise echoing through the small room. Or maybe that’s just my imagination playing tricks on me, pleasantly twisting my insides.
The man is just being polite, not trying to turn me on.
‘Your mother must’ve raised you right,’ I murmur into my cup, mostly to hide my pink face. ‘Because this coffee is anything other than bien.’ Which means good, I know. ‘In fact, this coffee is nothing but bein’ terrible.’ I spring from my chair, dumping the contents of my cup down the sink, my gaze on the grey sky beyond the window. ‘Something else terrible is the fact that I’ve lived in this apartment for over a year, yet you’re the first man I’ve ever had here. Well, not had here exactly.’ Gripping the edge of the sink, I drop my head before I remember Remy’s grasp of English is almost non-existent. ‘I haven’t had anyone anywhere in quite some time,’ I find myself adding unnecessarily along with a little giggle. It must be exhaustion, even if it feels almost cathartic to be able
to speak without the need to moderate or censor my words.
‘In fact, I haven’t had that pleasure in over a year. Can you believe that? This year has been all work and no pleasure. Well, other than the pleasure I’ve brought to myself. And I’m sure I don’t need to explain what I mean when I say that. Or maybe I wouldn’t if you understood what I was saying.’
I press my lips together to halt my sudden stream of stupidness, but to no avail.
‘Not that we’d be talking about that kind of stuff if you at all understood what I was saying. Oh, but that’s not why I was carrying that thing in my bag, by the way, if you even remember that, which I truly hope you don’t. Either way, I’m truly sorry for my actions, but you shouldn’t creep up on a girl.’
I look over my shoulder to where Remy’s expression remains unchanged.
‘Even if you do look like you know the way around a woman’s body, feather duster or not.
‘Is there anything you want to say?’ I turn to face him, pressing my back against the sink. ‘No sense in me being the only idiot here today. Go right ahead, say what you’re thinking.’
He blinks as though coming back to the moment. ‘Je suis désolé . . . I’m sorry. I was trying to work out why I would need a feather duster.’ His resultant smile could be best described as enigmatic. It just adds to my curiosity. And damn, I wish I spoke French right now.
‘It’s good, right?’ I find myself announcing. ‘Whatever you say is between you and the Lord!’
‘Je ne pense pas que le bon Seigneur . . . I don’t think the good Lord is ready to hear me confess my thoughts right now.’
‘See?’ I find my hands in the air, my smile probably a little manic. ‘How easy was that? I have no idea what you just said. You can say whatever you like, and I wouldn’t even be able to guess!’
His fingers unfurl from around the cup on the table in front of him, and he leans back, hooking an elbow around the back of the wooden chair, the picture of manliness and ease. He seems to take up so much space in the room quite suddenly. Am I imagining the change in the atmosphere?