He doesn’t have to ask twice. I click off my phone and head for the exit.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Jenna says when I call from the car to let her know.
“I hope so.”
“You are. Let him do his job, and then we’ll take care of the rest, okay?”
“Okay,” I reply stiffly, then hang up.
I want to believe her, want to face the truth, then walk on faith. But the rails are shaky when you’re hopping from one fast-moving train to another.
I wait in the examining room for Dr. Rob to materialize. About five minutes later, he walks through the door.
“Dr. Kellan,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand.
“Thanks so much for fitting me in, Doctor. I really do appreciate it.”
He waves it off and smiles. “Not a problem. Adam’s a great guy.”
Adam is vindictive and evil.
“I’m happy to help a colleague and friend of his.” Rob pulls up a chair and sits across from me. “So what can I do for you today?”
“I think Adam might have explained a little about my situation.” I shift my weight. “I had a car accident several days ago.”
“How many days, exactly?” He moves his gaze to the mending bruise over my eye.
“Five. I hit my head on the side window first, then the steering wheel.”
“I assume you’re still having symptoms.”
I give him the same ones I told Adam about. I have to play this down. If news gets around that I’m losing time and seeing things, it will be a prescription for disaster. I’ve already created havoc at home; I don’t need to add more by losing my job and causing financial problems. My goal today is to get the MRI and see if it reveals brain damage from the accident, then hopefully, through the process of elimination, rule out heredity as a precipitator for all the abnormal things I’ve been seeing and hearing.
“You waited a while to see me,” he says.
“Yes.” I nod. “At first the effects seemed mild enough not to worry.”
“And now?”
“Now they’re persisting, so I just want to be sure there’s nothing more serious going on. Not that I suspect there is. It’s more of a precautionary measure. You know, peace of mind.”
Rob is studying me. There’s something uncomfortable about it.
He doesn’t believe you.
“I’d like you to run an MRI,” I say, too brusquely, and realize I’m fidgeting with my hands.
He doesn’t comment. The more he observes me, the more anxious I’m getting. The doctor shines a penlight into my eyes and tells me to look off to one side. “Any other problems?”
“No.”
He clicks off the light and steps back. “Did you suffer any loss of consciousness after the accident?”
“Very briefly.”
“How briefly?”
“Seconds. No more than a minute.”
That seems to give him visible concern. He runs a few tests to check my balance, coordination, and reflexes.
He’s not going to green-light the MRI.
“Well, I don’t see anything that might indicate neurological dama—”
“I’d still like to have the imaging test done.”
“—However,” he continues with a patient smile, “since you’re still having symptoms, it’s not a bad idea to go ahead and get the MRI done. I’ll send the order to your insurance company for approv—”
“I’d like to have it today. I’ll pay out-of-pocket.”
“Okay, but—”
“I’d like to do it now, please.”
Rob pauses, his expression wandering into doubtfulness.
“It’s just that I have a lot going on at work in the next few days,” I say, trying to appease him with a smile. “My wife is very worried about this, so the sooner, the better. It would really help me out.”
Rob blinks a few times, nods, but doesn’t speak.
He’s going to report you.
He’s going to tell them you’re stark raving mad.
44
I lie flat on my back under the MRI’s main coil, surrounded by a plastic tube, the molded ceiling just inches from my face. My head rests on something masquerading as a pillow, wafer-thin, the size, shape, and feel of a baking pan. Beneath me is a cold slab—the only thing separating me from it is a sliver of a sheet that makes my skin itch. In this confined space, with arms pinned so close to my sides, I couldn’t scratch even if I wanted to. I hold in my hand a rubber ball. The technician told me to squeeze it if I feel frightened or need help, and that will signal her. Clamped to my head is a pair of headphones with music intended to make me relax.
It’s not working.
I’ve never had an MRI. I didn’t realize how unnerving the experience is. I don’t like it here, want out, but this is very important. So I remain imprisoned within this plastic cave.
The violins swell through my headphones.
“Helloooo . . . ,” I say to no one, hearing my voice fall flat.
“Yes? Is something wrong?” The technician’s voice booms through my headphones.
I clear my throat. “Just checking to see if we’re ready to get this started.”
“A few more minutes,” Speaker Voice grants with a mix of assurance and diplomatic irritation.
I keep waiting.
I’ve got no idea what Rob told them in order to get me in so quickly, but my sense is that he conveyed there was some sort of emergency because, while strapping me in, the tech kept assuring, “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be okay.”
I’m not so sure about that.
The machine lets out a series of resounding, mechanized clicks, rattling me from my thoughts.
Speaker Voice says, “We’re ready to start now. Still doing all right in there?”
I don’t recall ever stating that I was, but I tell her yes.
“Great. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be okay.”
I wish she’d stop saying that.
“Just remember, you have the rubber ball if you need anything.”
“Fuck the rubber ball!”
It’s that voice again, the one that won’t leave my head and keeps wandering out through my mouth.
“Excuse me?” she says.