The guy in the suit lowers down into this ridiculously small metal folding chair and rakes a hand over his short cut. “I was asking you if you knew anything about Peter Olafson’s insurance settlement?”
“Oh that. Why would I give a shit?”
The nice doctor whose name is a flower of some sort pokes her head between the curtain and asks, “What can I do for you?”
“Headache.” I point to a poster of pain levels, the second frowny-face from the top.
“That’s me.” I close my eyes and moan. When I put my hand to the back of my head, there’s a lump the size of an orange, maybe a grapefruit.
The nice woman puts a soft cool hand on my forehead, then holds my wrist while looking at a watch. “Until we clear the drugs from your system, I can’t give you anything. What if I get you an icepack? Would that be okay?”
No, it’s not okay. Nothing is okay, nor will it ever be again. My dead husband has come back to life like some zombie-apocalypse movie.
Suddenly, what they’ve been saying registers. “Drugs? What drugs?”
“Fentanyl. And alcohol.”
“Oh my God. I would never. I swear.”This is so fucked up.“I don’t do drugs. Why can’t I remember what happened?” I sit up, the room spins, and I lean over the bed, ready to puke.
The doctor quickly hands me a pan, just in case. “Don’t fret. After we move you upstairs, you’ll be able to rest, and I bet you’ll start to recall more.” She checks my chart, grabs a pen from behind her ear, and scribbles.
Then, she looks up and pats my hand. “We’ll take you up the employee elevator to avoid the crowd.”
Crowd?
Moaning, I close my eyes. I’d gotten used to not having paparazzi around, watching my every move, waiting for me to screw up.
“Eyes up here.” The doctor shines a tiny flashlight into my eyes. “By the way, a young man who claims to be your brother is demanding to see you but to be honest, he doesn’t look much like you. Dark eyes, dark hair, tats, beard?”
I smile at her description. “That’s Sam. He’s my half-brother. I’ve been texting him since I woke up. He must be worried sick.”
“Just a second. I’ll have someone fetch him.” She turns to a young man in green scrubs, describes my brother, then squats to look in a cabinet, hopefully for my ice.
While she’s still here, I need to enlist her help. “Can you tell Mr. Sexy-suit he’s fired. I keep trying but he won’t go.”
For the first time, the doctor frowns as she stands and shakes a bag marked cool-pak. It feels awesome as she slides it between my head and the pillow.
“Mr. Quinn is here on account of me. I’m the one who called him.”
My cheeks heat because I guess I insulted her. “But I can’t afford him.”
The tall lawyer stands and glares. “Him is standing right here, by the way.”
The doctor pushes him back down into the chair, “I got this. Have you heard of CJ Quinn?”
“New York’s darling quarterback? Of course. I have amnesia, not brain damage.”
“Well, Andy here, is his brother and a really nice guy. He got me out of a jam and didn’t charge a dime. Hun, you need some help if you’re going to stay clear of jail. The police are itching to arrest you.”
Before I can reply, my brother’s voice saves the day.
“Knock knock?” Sam is known for the worst jokes on the planet and despite the throbbing in my head, I grin.
“Who’s there?”
“Kurt?”
“Kurt who?”
