Thank you for the flowers. I love you. I hope your day is...
Lucy interrupts me. “You guys, I need you.” Her hair is sweaty, stuck to her forehead. “All hands on deck.”
She pivots and jogs back toward exam room four, and I slip my phone back into my purse. We rush to help, and for the next twenty minutes, we’re consumed with a cardiac infarction, as a forty-year-old man with a high-stress job codes on the table.
I do compressions while Brock grabs the paddles, and the entire team acts as a unit. We’re smooth, we’re practiced, we work together with ease.
We get a pulse two minutes later, and the nurses cheer.
Brock bows. “It’s all in a day’s work, ladies,” he says, and they giggle, and I watch him flirt with all of them. He catches me looking and shoots me a sly gaze.
“I have to keep in their good graces,” he says sheepishly as we head back out to the desk.
“Must be nice to have a penis,” I tell him. “I have to rely on simply being nice.”
“Don’t be bitter,” he tells me. “Just bring them all decent coffee tomorrow. You’ll accomplish just as much. My flirting skills suck.”
I laugh and he laughs, and once again, I catch the nurses looking at us. It makes me self-conscious. We’re not doing anything wrong. It’s not like he’s flirting with me. We’re just colleagues. We commiserate together because we understand our jobs in a way no one else can. The phone rings, and he picks it up.
“This is Dr. Lane.”
He listens and punches the hold button, returning his attention to his charts.
“It’s for you.”
I feel a rush of warmth. It’s Jude. I’ve missed him today. The mere thought of this morning makes my stomach flutter, and I pick up the phone.
“Hey, babe.”
“Dr. Cabot?”
The voice is not my husband’s.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Deb Camden from USP Marion.”
My heart starts thumping. It’s the prison.
“How can I help you?” Did I just say that out loud, or did I only imagine it?
“Dr. Cabot, this is a courtesy call to inform you that your father won’t be available for visiting hours this weekend. He’s currently in the clinic, being treated for non-life-threatening wounds he sustained in a fight. After that, he’ll be in solitary for a week.”
I allow that to sink in.
“Why did you call me, instead of my sister?”
“He changed his emergency contact to you last year.”
“He did?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“Now that, I don’t know.”
“Okay. Thank you for letting me know.”
“Oh, and, ma’am?”
I pause, listening. “Yes?”
“Your father is just banged up. He’s all right, so there is no reason to worry.”
With a start, I realize that I was actually worried. Why? My father killed people, and I haven’t seen him in years.
I should feel only disdain for him.
But that’s not the case.
I shake it off and hang up.
There’s clearly something wrong with me.
6
Twelve days until Halloween
Jude
I watch the new waitress as she waits on someone else’s table.
The mom smiles back at her, but the smile is guarded, and I’m sure I know why. She’s older than Zoe, tired, and she’s let herself go with her baggy Notre Dame sweatshirt and high-waisted mom jeans.
Zoe, on the other hand, is only twentysomething with a tight-ass body. Other women probably don’t like her much, especially when she acts the way she is right now. She’s shoving her tits against her uniform top so much that the buttons are straining, and she brushes them against the husband’s arm as she bends down.
The mom glares, and Zoe ignores her.
“My name is Zoe,” she tells him in a low voice. “Whatever you need, just ask.”
She makes eye contact with the wife for long enough to see the daggers before she sashays away. I watch the husband’s gaze follow her ass, and I can’t help but smile a little bit at the drama.
Zoe is smug as she fills ketchup bottles at the side station, very confident in her sexuality. I watch her try not to look at me as she watches the husband. She maintains eye contact with him as she fills ketchup bottles and somehow manages to make it seem suggestive.
She hums as she wipes off the sticky top and hums as she slides her hand along the bottle, holding it tightly in her grasp, sliding it back and forth, back and forth in a very sexual manner.
The middle-aged guy watches her, his mouth open, and the ketchup bottle is clearly a penis, and she’s implying the penis could be his, and then it’s erupting in a red spurt and she grins triumphantly, licking her lips.
The middle-aged guy looks breathless and weak, and I roll my eyes, raising my hand to signal her.
She sashays over to me, making a huge show of walking in front of her poor other customer. The wife is fit to be tied.
“You know, you might get strangled before you even finish your shift,” I tell her, eyeing the guy’s murderous wife. Zoe laughs, a sound like tinkling glass.
“That’s okay,” she tells me, leaning toward my ear. “I like being choked. I like things very rough.”
Son of a bitch.
For some reason, that’s startling, and it actually tightens my groin, not that I’d let her know that.
“Er, charming,” I tell her wryly. “My brother, the priest, will be joining me. We’ll both have coffee to start.”
“Sure thing,” she says. “Anything you want.”
Again with the suggestive tone, and does she ever turn it off?
She pauses and turns back to me. “Oh, and, Mr. Cabot? I hope I didn’t offend you with my talk about rough sex. I just didn’t want you to knock it until you’ve tried it.”
She winks and walks away, and my heart is still pounding when Michel arrives a few minutes later.
He’s just sitting down when Zoe comes back with her coffeepot and order pad. She makes me feel uncomfortable and invigorated at once. It’s an odd combination to feel.
“What can I get for you, sailor?” she asks, and her lip is slightly curled in the way that makes it look like she’s pouting. She probably imagines it being sultry, or herself as Greta Garbo.
“I’m not a sailor,” I tell her, but I smile. “And my brother is definitely not. But I’ll take the smoked salmon and bagel.” Michel tells her he wants bacon and eggs, and she lectures him on cholesterol.
“I’ve got an in with the big guy,” Michel tells her, pointing upward. “I’m not worried about little things like heart attacks.” Zoe giggles and turns around. As she does, she accidentally steps on Artie’s paw, and the big dog growls.
Zoe flinches.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “She’s an old softy. She does sense evil, though.”
Zoe looks over her shoulder at me. “The old softy is still growling at me, so I doubt it. I’ll have to take your word on that. I’ll check on you in a while.”
Michel and I eat, and Zoe brings our check, and I realize I don’t have any money with me. I hand her my credit card.
“Can I see your driver’s license, Mr. Cabot?” she asks. “Your card isn’t signed on the back.”
I’m surprised. “Sure. Thanks for asking.”
“We can’t be too careful,” she says as she takes my outstretched license. “Scammers are everywhere.”
She examines it for a minute before handing the license back with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”
It’s not long before she saunters back to the table.
“I have to jot down your phone number, Mr. Cabot. A security measure for the credit card.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s weird. I’ve never had that happen before.”
“Yeah,” she assures me. “Amex has been doing that lately. We’re supposed to match the number against their number on file to prevent fraud.”
“That makes sense. The number on file is my cell phone.”
I sign the check. “Are we set now?”
“Yep! Have a great day.”
Michel and I pause outside the front door, chatting for a minute longer, and Artie looks in the window, growling. I tug on her leash.
“Knock it off, Artie.”
Inside, Zoe looks up at me, brushing her long hair out of her face, and smiles.
I ignore the weird sensation building in my chest. I haven’t felt it in forever, and I shouldn’t be feeling it now.