What schedule? My current “schedule” consisted of hiding out at my parents’ house, being force-fed lamb-and-lentil stew, and being ignored by my boyfriend. If that was what you could call Will Zartman.
“As it happens,” Gellert continued, “bumping it up is preferable from a medical point of view as well. Every day might be critical if the foreign object, meaning the bullet, really is shifting. Monday’s the earliest I can get the hospital facilities booked at Sibley. And the cameraman is on board for then, too.”
“Did you say the cameraman?”
“Ah.” Gellert had the decency to sound embarrassed. “I did explain already, it’s quite unusual that someone with your specific injury would survive—nay, thrive—into adulthood. A few of my peers started blogging about you last week, when the Journal-Constitution article went live. You haven’t seen the posts?”
No, I had not.
“Everyone’s hoping you’ll consent to having the operation filmed. For teaching purposes. You’re something of a celebrity in neurology circles.”
“I’m ‘something of a celebrity in neurology circles.’ ” Into my head popped an unpleasant image, a circle of erasable-pen-wielding geeks, thick spectacles sliding down slickly pimpled noses, salivating to watch my neck being sliced open.
“For what it’s worth, Dr. Zartman is in agreement. Both that we should film the surgery, and that we should proceed as soon as possible.”
My breath caught. “When did you speak with Dr. Zartman?”
“This morning. We conferred before I called you.”
So Will was alive and well and conferring about my surgical options. Just not taking my calls.
“I’ll have my nurse follow up with you. She can explain the pre-op protocol. In a nutshell, we can give you Vicodin if you’re in pain. But no food, no Advil, no other anti-inflammatories after six p.m. on Sunday. I’m writing you a prescription right now.”
“Thanks. And, um, did you ever find my chart? Did they find that guy who broke in?”
“Negative. Don’t worry, we’ve reconstructed your chart. Everything’s in order. And I can’t figure out what that intruder business was all about. Guy didn’t seem to take a damn thing.”
For several minutes after we hung up I sat still, imagining those impossibly blue eyes boring down on the clean, white prescription pad. Then his hands, the hyperactive fingers, darting across the paper, twirling, weaving like spiders. A lot about my present circumstances frightened me. But for some reason I felt safe in those hands.
Thirty-one
* * *
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 25, 2013
Calling me the worst shot ever to pull a trigger at the Chantilly Rifle and Revolver Range is an exaggeration, but I was probably the worst shot they’d seen in a very long time.
The gun range was half an hour’s drive straight west. You took the Key Bridge across the Potomac River into northern Virginia, got on I-66, and kept going. The building was ugly, its low-slung, yellow stucco facade set across a busy road from a strip mall. Plastic letters stuck to the glass doors spelled out OPEN TO THE PUBLIC and NO LOADED GUNS! Inside it was clean and quiet. Guns of every shape and size were laid out in glass display cases. On the walls hung framed posters. One showed a middle-aged man aiming a pistol at the camera, beneath an invitation: Stop by for a few SHOTS after work—bring your friends along for a different kind of happy hour! Or, my personal favorite: Anger management issues? Relationship problems? Try our therapeutic solution. This was accompanied by a photo of a woman firing at a human silhouette. She had ignored the red target marked on the chest, but fifteen bullet holes were pierced clean through the crotch.
Learning to shoot was surprisingly cheap. Ten dollars per person, per lane, per hour. Paper targets cost a dollar, same again to rent the mandatory ear and eye protection. You could try out as many handguns as you wanted for $10. Hell, you could rent an AK-47 for $19 for the entire day.
Tony marched up to the counter, explained that I was a beginner and that I wanted to learn to use a handgun.
“Never handled firearms before?” asked the woman. A name tag identified her as Irene. Her skin was bad and her black hair hung in an unflattering bowl cut, but—from what I could see of her jeans behind the counter—she had a fantastic figure.
“Never,” I confirmed.
“You looking for a revolver or a semiautomatic?”
“What’s the difference?”
She and Tony exchanged glances. “Why don’t you try ’em both out, see what you like. Personally, I love me a revolver. Just as accurate, won’t jam on you.” She took out a gun, spun it open to demonstrate it wasn’t loaded, laid it on the counter. “Is this for carrying in your purse or keeping in your nightstand? Picking the right gun’s all about trade-offs.”
I glanced down at my purse, a black Chanel clutch that I’d bought in Paris years ago. It had taken months to pay it off on my credit card, and it was barely big enough to fit my car keys and a lipstick. “Nightstand, I guess.”
“So you could go with a bigger gun. Less kickback.”
“Wouldn’t a bigger gun have more kickback?”
“I knew you’d ask that.” She smiled sweetly. “Beginners always do. But think about it. You fire the same bullet from a big gun and a small one, the bigger one’s gonna absorb more of the recoil. Basic physics. Let me get you two set up. I’m not busy, it’s quiet as a church in here today.”
Irene strung a target halfway down the firing range. She showed me how to hold a gun, how to load it, how to aim. Easy. The target had a blue bull’s-eye and a helpful Shooter Tutor. If your shots were going wide to the left, it told you to adjust your trigger finger. If they all went low, you were anticipating recoil. And so on. But the only thing consistent about my performance was that every shot missed, by a mile.