He nods, sets his hand gently on my wrist. “Good. Do you know what day it is?”
I tell him, respond to his question about the year, the approximate time. He looks so different now, his face placid, his body curled into a protective posture at my feet, though he only touches me in that one spot, one warm hand on my wrist, two fingers touching the soft inside of it.Taking my pulse,I realize, but he presses on withhis questions.
“Do you know howyou got here?”
I can’t help but smirk. “Well. It started with this jar,” I say, but my mouth flattens when he looks up at me, quick and concerned. “No—no, I mean, sorry. That was a joke. I got here because I was making an inadequate, ill-considered apology in your driveway. And I guess I fainted.”
“All right. Is it okay with you if I check you over a bit?”
“I think I’m fine,” I say, scooting forward a bit in the chair. “I didn’t eat today, and I—I think I wasa bit nervous.”
If he weren’t sitting so close, I don’t think I’d catch the slight crinkle of tension in the corners of his eyes, maybe something like remorse. But that’s ridiculous; it’s not him who has to feel remorseful. “I’m sure you’re fine,” he says, andGod. I bet he is really good at his job—calm and careful, no sense of panicked urgency. “But I really do need to check you over.”
I offer a weak nod, and he quietly sets to work. First, he takes my blood pressure, reads it off to me, tells me it looks good. When he removes a stethoscope from the bag, I stiffen, thinking there’ll be a moment where he has to try to get into my dress somehow, but he seems to know. “Just going to listen over your clothes, all right?” he says, and I nod again. I watch him from beneath my lashes as he does it, his eyes lowered, his face serious. After a minute, he tips his chin down, says, “Sounds good.” Then he takes out a small, flat, egg-shaped device, a digital screen on the front. “I’m going to prick your finger. A little pinch. It’s going to tell me what your blood sugar is.”
I don’t like needles, of any kind, and it probably shows, because where he’s taken my hand, he squeezes gently and says, “Look only at me.” That would probably work in normal circumstances, because he’s so good looking, and so calm, sogoodat this. But this isn’t normal; ten minutes ago he looked like he’d buy tickets to my public humiliation.
It’s a little pinch, like he says, but he frowns down at the screen. “Fifty. Tell me whenyou ate last?”
“Last night, at dinner. Around seven p.m.”
“Can you rememberwhat you had?”
“Um—a small salad. A piece of chocolate for dessert.”
“You don’t eat breakfast?” His voice has changed now, not quite hostile, but not quite the soothing, softened offerings of before.
“I do eat breakfast. Usually. But—it’s like I said. I was a little nervous. I drank a cup of tea. I should’ve had something. Irealize that.”
He stands, turns his back toward me, and walks down the hall, to where I can see glimpses of a kitchen—a line of oak cabinets, an almond-colored refrigerator. I can hear him moving around in there, and while he does, I scan the room, which is similar in aesthetic to this pink chair, and those lace curtains—feminine, old fashioned, and very, very lived in. I wonder whether Aiden actually lives here, or if he’s only staying here. If Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary have moved, maybe he’s checking in onthe place, or—
He comes back in, a glass in one hand and a small glass bowl in the other. He crouches back in front of me, hands me the water. “Are you sick toyour stomach?”
I shake my head. “No, I think maybe I was, but because of the heat out there. Ifeel okay now.”
“Have a few sips of this, but go slow.” While I drink, he pulls a plastic honey bear bottle from his back pocket, squeezes a bit into the glass bowl, and then takes a small spoon from his other pocket.
“Those aren’t part of your regular supplies, I take it?” I ask, between sips of the cool water. Already I feel better, physically. It’s only the incredibly awkward emotions I need to be treated for now.
“No,” he says. “Got this from the kitchen. I’d like you to take a spoonful or two of this honey. I know it’s sweet, but it’ll help the immediate issue with your blood sugar.”
“I really am okay.” I set my hands on the armrest, readying myself to leave.
His voice is forceful, gruff again when he replies. “This is bare minimum what you’re going to do for me before you go. Or I’ll call the squad.”
Itake the honey.
He backs away from me for this, leans against the jamb of the open front door, arms crossed again, and watches me closely. The honey makes my teeth ache, and I have to set a hand over my mouth so I can discreetly lick at my lower lip, sticky with it. But within seconds I feel oddly restored, not quite normal but almost so. “I think I’ll go,” I say, standing slowly, expecting a head rush that doesn’t come. “Obviously I am very grateful for your help. And very sorry to have inconvenienced you more.”
“It’ll be more of an inconvenience if you walk out of here and faint again, and then I get sued for not ensuring you got standard of care.”
I know, of course, what he means—Willis-Hanawalt does medical malpractice too, and a paramedic could get sued for negligence. He’s made contact with me, a patient, and I did not deny treatment, and technically, he should have to turn over care to a person of equal or higher qualification. But I want out of here so bad that my mind is ahead of these rules. I spot a phone on the coffee table and gesture to it. “Is this yours?”
He nods, and I pick it up, walking it over to him and holding it out. “Turn on your video camera.” When he makes no move to take it, I swipe a finger across the screen, see the menu of apps. “You should have a password on this,” I mumble, opening the camera and flipping the screen so it points at me. I back up, extending my arm so my face fills it, happy enough that I at least seem to have color in my cheeks. I use my thumb to press Record.
“I, Zoe Ferris, assert that I fainted outside the property at 631 Old Crescent Road in Barden, Virginia. I was treated at the scene by paramedic Aiden O’Leary. I was informed of my condition. I understand that there are possible medical consequences for not seeking additional medical treatment. At this time I am refusing further medical advice and/or transport to a medical facility by the aforementioned paramedic.” I hit the Record button again, stopping the video, then open the file and make sure the time and date were saved before handing it back to him.“Okay?” I say.
Something has shifted in the way he looks at me, something speculative and interested. Less like I’m a pile of dog shit, and more like I’m some odd, nonthreatening species of insect he’s never seen before. “Why did you reallycome?” he asks.
