Jeff
Lesson 2: Satan has one dimple.
The sound of a woman rapping from behind a curtain in recovery pulls me away from my post-op report. I try to ignore it and purge the details of the procedure I just did into the microphone, but the lyrics are just familiar enough to keep pulling my attention from what I need to do. I speak louder.
“41-year-old male presents to ER for removal of retained foreign body in left foot at?—”
“I’m SO SO SO SO SO C-C-COLD,” the female rapper yells and I lose my place. I press pause on the dictation device and turn from the desk, looking around me for a free nurse or an intern, but they are all with patients. One more week of this.One more week of residency and then it’s off to my fellowship. Goodbye being the orthopedic bitch called in for every trauma. And unfortunately, goodbye Chicago, my home. But it’s only a year, and then I’ll be right back with my family, finally startingthe elusive career that’s been dangling out of reach for so long. I let out a breath, place the dictation device down beside the computer, then head toward the voice.
“I’m a popsicle—an ice cube. I’m a Klondike Bar!” She’s excited about the latter. “What would you dooooo for a Klondike Bar?” she sings.
I slide back the curtain slowly, so the patient doesn’t get scared, but the hooks clamber over each other in a messy, metallic clatter. My effort is wasted because she’s got one eye open staring up at the fluorescent bulbs lining the ceiling like she’s glimpsed straight into heaven. She doesn’t seem to register my presence, but then she speaks.
“One eye works,” she says to me, as I crane my face into view above her. “I’m a pirate. No. No. A cyclops.” She lowers her voice like she’s telling a ghost story around a campfire. “I eat sheep—and men.”
Her pupil dilates as I block out the light from above, the black soaking into the amber pool around it. She focuses on me.
“Mmmmmm, I’ll eat you. You’re tasty,” she murmurs. “Nom, Nom, Nom.”
I can’t help but smile at that. It’s been a long-ass two days since I’ve slept, and this loopy creature is a welcome reprieve from my exhausted irritability. She’s shaking again, her body’s response to the anesthesia draining from her system. I reach into the cabinet beside the monitors and grab a stack of blankets then spread them across her one by one. She figures out a way to open the other eye and watches me silently as I make my way to the foot of her bed to grab her chart.
“Devon Gallagher. 32. Female. Initial Diagnosis: Ruptured Achilles Tendon,” I read to her. Ouch. Six to twelve weeks in a boot. Poor thing.
“Poor Devon. I hope she recovers. That sounds serious,” she says. “Boring. But serious.”
I flash her a comforting smile. I could be done with my post-operative report by now, halfway out of the hospital for the first time in 48 hours, but there is something about Devon Gallagher’s lifted brows as she studies me.
“You’re Henry Cavill, aren’t you?” she whispers, then presses her lips together, waggles her brows.
I let out a laugh at the way she looks around her, as if this is some big secret she needs to keep. As if the paparazzi will jump out from behind the curtains on either side of her.
“No, I’m Dr. Harrison,” I correct.
She smiles and—holy shit. Smile doesn’t do that thing justice. Her entire drowsy face lights up. It’s like driving onto the Las Vegas strip for the first time.
“Righttttttt. Dr. Harrison,” she says, trying to wink. Both of her lids are fluttering like she’s having a seizure. “I promise I won’t tell,” she whispers. She tries to lift her arm beneath the blanket, and it slides limply off the bed.
“You broke my arm!” she yells, forgetting all about the fact that I’m Henry Cavill. She’s pissed now, her sweet doe eyes suddenly narrowed at me like I’ve thrown her puppy into a well. I put my hands up.
“Devon, your arm is not broken. Your muscles are regaining control. It’ll take some time,” I explain. I’m using my calming voice. The one I perfected during my round in pediatrics.
“My neck works,” she says proudly, twisting it back and forth. “Chest. Check. Stomach. Check. Va-gi-na. Check!”
I swallow my chuckle. Thank goodness she won’t remember this. But she’s not done. She mistakes my wide eyes for confusion and clarifies.
“You know. My peachy. My lady treasures. My box o’ love. That last one was carved into a desk at school. Anywhoooo, I’m glad that you didn’t break my undercarriage like you broke my arm. I need it—though not as much as I’d like to need it. I haven’tneeded it since—was Clinton president? No. No. I was just a wee tot then,” she says in a terrible Scottish brogue. “Good Ole’ Billy and his frisky willy. He’d probably use my vagina for me.”
I have to pull the curtain closed between us to hide my laughter.
“Where’d you go? I guess you don’t care about my vagina either. ‘I’m Henry Cavill. Blah blah. I can haveallthe vagina with my perfect jaw. Blah blah.’ Well, I’ve got news for you, buddy. This one’s special. Dusty, yes. But special. Just needs a little feather duster and voila! Good as new.”
Holy shit. This is too much. I look around for someone to share this with—anyone at all—but the only nurse in sight is bent over the computer hammering away at the keys.
“I’d probably get more booty if I let Tara and Mer put me on Timber—or if I wasn’t always home with Mom. Mom’s fault. Ultimate cock-blocker, that woman?—”
I find myself nodding in agreement, thinking of my own mother and the way she told my first girlfriend how I’d sit in my room and watch “Saved by the Bell” on repeat. Devon Gallagher keeps on yammering behind the curtain.
“And I coulda gotten laid tonight—I mean I looked smokin’—but someone roofied me and brought me to you, Henry. So, you see, the only real solution is for you to have sex with me. Let’s see if I can get this gown off?—“
