by Emilia Finn
Gloves on, pour, flush, wash, return.
The monotony of my incompetence hurts my soul. It hurts me in ways I never could have expected. So when she brings back the now wet urinal and sets it on my bedside table, her brown eyes mock me. “Need to poop? I can help you transfer.”
Rage bubbles in my blood until I feel the burn. So much rage. So much fucking anger. “No. Please leave.”
“Did you poop yesterday, Mr. Cruz?” She speaks to me like I’m three. “You need to show us regular bowel movements, otherwise we can’t discharge you. The medications in your system can make you constipated, and if left too long, could cause you a lot of damage.”
“I’ll take a shit later.” I bare my teeth until her eyes widen. “On my own.”
“O-o-o-kay.” She hustles to the end of my bed and flips open my chart. The best part of being the rookie, the baby-faced idiot, is no one expects you to get angry. So when you do, they sit the fuck up and pay attention. Bravo! I’ve found a positive to always being the joke. “Mr. Cruz.” LeAnn lowers the chart just an inch. “I need to do my job, and I care that you’re okay. So I need you to transfer to your wheelchair, and I’d rather you did it without trying to intimidate me.”
“I’m not trying to intimidate you. I’m trying to be left alone.”
“You’re in a hospital; our job is to literally see to your needs. Your chart says you’re booked in at nine for a visit from the hospital physical therapists. Doctors will make rounds at eight. You’re being discharged in twenty-four hours, which means you need to be able to transfer from bed to chair.” She glances toward the wheelchair in the far corner. “I know you don’t want it, but this is what you need to do to get out. Please don’t fight me on it.”
Dropping my chart back at the end of my bed and turning away, she leaves with none of the happiness she arrived with. That’s me now. The sucker of happiness, the thief of joy. The fucking asshole with one leg who needs help to take a shit.
Turning to the bedside table and grabbing my cell, I wade through the billion texts people still send me. They think they’ll cheer me up, like a text will replace a leg and reverse everything that’s happened. Alex says he’ll come visit around nine. No thanks. Oz says he dropped by to see my mom yesterday afternoon. I didn’t fucking tell him to do that! Libby Tate promises to come this afternoon with brownies and a shoulder to cry on. Absolutely not. Andi says nothing.
Funny; the one person in the world I expected an argument from is the only one who listens when I tell her to fuck off. She saw me in here, realized I was a freak, took her leave, and ran for the hills.
Good. I don’t want her here. I don’t want to look into her eyes ever again.
My phone remains void of any texts from a Bishop; Kane or Jay.
According to Alex, they’re both gone. Dead. While I was unconscious and being operated on, the guys I spent the last year trying to help, the brothers I considered my friends, were shot and killed. Just like that. Friends. Brothers. Decorated agents. All of it is gone, and now I sit in my own putrid rage and wish I was with them.
Die a hero. Forever remain a hero.
Kane and Jay Bishop will never be asked if they need help taking a shit.
Before any nurses can come back, before the physical therapists can come play hero, I reach up to the handle hanging over my bed and grunt when my aching stomach rejects the way my core muscles fire up. Holding my breath, I shuck my blankets off and refuse to look at my leg. Wrapped in bandages and a black brace, missing from below the knee, I don’t look at it. I don’t acknowledge it. I simply focus on the bullet hole in my gut and the bruising that stretches from my navel right around to the back of my ribs. I activate what little core strength I have left and slam my teeth against my bicep to get through the pain.
It’s like the bullet tore my stomach apart. Like it got in there with an egg beater and messed everything up just to make sure I was hurting.
Using my upper body strength and the handle, I turn on the bed until my legs dangle over the side. Blood rushes to what remains of my left leg and pulses hard enough I wonder if it’ll spray out of the bottom. Pausing, breathing, I watch my residual limb and wait for the blood. I wait to bleed out and go back to sleep.
But of course it doesn’t come. I’m not given that escape. So I stretch dangerously far over the edge of the bed and snag one of the crutches the nurses left in here yesterday. My head whooshes with dizziness. I haven’t been fully upright since before I was brought in here, so the blood moves around in my brain, in my body, and when the stars clear from my eyes, I maneuver the crutch under my left arm and slide off the bed until my right foot touches the floor.
My body screams in pain. My stomach. My missing leg. My left thigh, where the second bullet hacked at the muscle. Tears surge to the surface and make my eyes itch, but they don’t spill over. They won’t. I refuse to accept that weakness when I have so many others.
Gaining my balance, however shaky it is, I let go of the bed and reach out for the second crutch. Fear races through my blood in the single second it takes to grab it and bring it under my arm. Fear of falling. Fear of the staples in my leg bursting open. Fear of being stuck on the floor and powerless to get up again.
I watch my closed door and hold my breath, like they can hear my heart and will run in at any moment. Blood throbs in my leg, it throbs against the bandaging and hurts so much my stomach rolls.
Working the crutches under weak arms, I take a shaky step toward the corner. Then a second. I move slower than a turtle, shakier than a dead leaf in the wind, but I move, and what feels like a lifetime later, arrive at the wheelchair. I balance on my leg and one crutch, set the other against the wall, then I move the wheelchair so the handles touch the wall. I’ll be damned if I came all this way just for the fucker to roll away when I’m trying to sit.
Breathing through the pain, and knowing with dread I’ll have to make the trip all over again soon to get back to my bed, I turn and lower into what will be my seat for the rest of my life.
A wheelchair.
I’m a wheelchair user like all the geriatric folks in my mom’s home.
Left to rot, and waiting to die.
When LeAnn traipses into my room an hour later with her fake cheer and bouncy steps, and stops with a gasp at my empty bed, I wait for her eyes, then I nod. “I transferred.”
6
Andi
Piggie Ties
Ninja hisses from the pet carrier that sits by my leg. I drove in to the vet this morning, made my appointment, begged for an extra-large dog cage to bring her back in, and now we sit in the waiting room with frayed nerves and only a few claw marks on my arms.
Ninja didn’t come easily, and I have battle scars to prove it, but now we’re here, and while Nacho sits in her little pouch on my side, Ninja’s growling promises another round of retribution just as soon as I close my eyes tonight.
She’s so angry I would drag her ass to this undignified place, but I’m doing the responsible thing. I’m making sure Riley doesn’t come home to a messy house or a dead cat, so if I end up with a thousand scratches, so be it.
I’ll take them, and I’ll take another million if it makes his life just that little bit easier.
“Miss Conner?” A man I now dub Doctor McHotty steps into the waiting room and smiles in a way the younger me might have tossed my panties for. He’s got a GQ Magazine look going on; short hair on the back and sides, with a little bit extra on top so hair gel looks good, short stubble on his jaw, and thick arms that stretch his white coat. He wears a blue dress shirt and pleated slacks beneath his doctor coat, but the clincher is the little piggies on his tie.
He has baby pigs on his tie! And yet, my panties remain intact.
Standing, I lift my pig and Riley’s cat, and step forward. “That’s me.”
McHotty flashes a charming grin and makes the whore in me sigh. I went ahead and caught feelings for a man who no longer wants me, and now this man wearing a piggie tie will
go to waste.
Oblivious to my thoughts, he follows me in to the examination room and closes the door while I heft Ninja’s cage up to the little table. “Thanks for seeing us on short notice.”
“It’s okay, Miss Conner. I don’t recognize your name; you’re new to town?”
“You can call me Andi.” I accept his hand when he offers. “And no. I don’t even live here, but I’m cat-sitting, and I think she might have broken her tail.”
He grimaces and steps back. Folding a little lower and peeking into the cage, his demeanor changes in an instant. “Ninja?” He checks his paperwork. “This is Ninja? Officer Cruz’s cat?”
“Yeah. Riley’s my pal, but he’s not feeling so well right now. I think Ninja was climbing the blinds and fell, but she won’t really let me get a good look.”
“Okay, no problem.” He bravely opens the cage and pulls my hissing nemesis out. McHotty doesn’t flinch. He’s not scared of the cat with a bad attitude. He only pulls her out and sets the cage on the floor. Holding her collar with one hand, and running the other over her back, her fur stands on end while he studies her large body. “Sure looks broken, huh?” His brows narrow as he studies her. “We’ll get some X-rays to make sure, but I don’t think this is too serious. Does she have incontinence?”
I shake my head. “She used the litter box fine last night.”
“And she’s eating?”
“Yeah, but not in front of me. She’s shy, so I left a tray of dinner out for her last night. I went out for an hour, and when I got home, it was all gone.”
“Good.” He touches her tail and makes no reaction when her hisses turn to flat out warning howls. “I don’t think there’s nerve damage. This might be a wait-and-watch thing. We’ll get X-rays just to make sure, but I suspect this will just be a bandage job while she heals herself.”
“Umm…” Nervously, I slide my hand into my bag and scratch Nacho’s ears. “How much will X-rays cost?”
He waves me off. “Nothing for Ninja. We treat all emergency personnel pets for free.” His eyes meet mine. “We appreciate what our first responders do in this town, and though you say Cruz isn’t feeling so well…” He shrugs. “Well, this is a small town. I know what you’re not saying, so this won’t cost anything. But could you please send my best whenever you think it’s appropriate? Let Officer Cruz know we’re thinking of him and praying for his recovery.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever pass that message on, but I don’t tell him that. Instead, I nod and breathe a little easier that today won’t be as expensive as I expected. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re so welcome.” He picks Ninja up and turns toward the door. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll take her back for about twenty, get the scans, and we’ll be back. We’ll know right away what we’re dealing with, but I don’t think it’s too serious.”
“Okay.” Backing up to the wall, I cross my ankles and open the pouch so Nacho can get fresh air. I think she’s a little too comfortable being carried around, too happy to be babied, but I can’t find it in myself to mind, and I enjoy the sense of responsibility she rewards me with, so I don’t do anything to discourage her sloth-like behavior. For the first time in my life, I’ve decided to put someone else ahead of my own selfish needs. My pig needs a hug, Riley’s cat needs a vet, and Riley needs a safe home to come back to. So those are the things I do, instead of sleep in till ten like my body wants me to, or drink my tenth coffee of the day.
Or, sigh, flirt with McHotty.
Pulling Nacho out of the bag and smiling at her playful snorts, I set her on the floor to sniff around and explore the billion animals that visited this office before her. Her toes clip-clip-clip against the laminate floor. She trots toward a shelf displaying the different kinds of heartworm treatment for dogs, then sits back on her haunches and stares at a poster of a horse’s insides.
McHotty treats animals from mice right up to horses. Who the hell would bring a mouse to a vet?
Pulling my cell out when his twenty minutes turns to twenty-five, I scroll my social media profiles, make sure my text queue is empty – it’s not; Mia’s having a conniption – and check the group chat I’ve found myself added to overnight and two hundred messages I can’t possibly catch up on.
Flipping to the internet browser, I hold my breath and type LBKA into the search bar.
It took me only a moment in that hospital room to catalog most of Riley’s situation: left leg, below-the-knee, amputation. I’ve had enough time with guys like Timmy through work that what pops up on the internet doesn’t shock me, but I’ve never known an amputee so close to their surgery date.
They come to me to help regain strength, to learn how to walk with confidence, to find muscles they never knew they had. They don’t come to me while the staples remain, so I learn something new when I scroll through an article, and it mentions amputees won’t shower or bathe for the first few weeks after surgery. Their incision is to remain completely dry, so they wash with wipes and make do until they can get something better.
I learn that there are machines that can help with phantom pains, should Riley suffer from those, and if that doesn’t help, we could try mirror therapy. I make plans for Riley’s future despite the fact he asked me to take a leap, and I promise myself I’ll watch closely, because there’s no way in hell he’ll tell me he’s in pain.
At the thirty minute mark, McHotty steps back into the room with a dopey cat and slides her into the cage with a rueful grin. “Sorry. She wouldn’t keep still, so I had to relax her a little.”
Frowning, I lower to meet her sleepy eyes. “What did you do to her? She’s okay, right?”
“She’s fine, just a little sedation. She’ll sleep a couple hours, then she’ll be back to normal.” Without missing a beat, he scoops Nacho from the floor and holds her up to stare into her eyes. “You’ll bring this one in for her annuals, won’t you?”
“Umm…”
“I don’t have any pigs on my books, and yours is adorable.” He lowers her when she starts to squeak in a way that says she’ll take a shit in his coffee if he doesn’t let her down. Passing her across the examination table, he watches me slide her back into the dark bag. “I’d really like to see her when she’s due.”
“Have you ever worked on a pig before?”
“In practice or theory?”
“Practice! You can’t use my pig as a guinea pig.”
He chuckles and picks Ninja’s carrier up from the table. Walking toward the door, he gestures me ahead. “I’m not going to operate on her, Miss Conner. I just want to watch her grow. Ninja’s going to be fine, by the way.”
“You got the scans?”
“Eventually.” Smiling, he sets the carrier down by the reception desk and leans like we’re here to chit chat. “I’ve wrapped her tail, but there’s not much else to be done.”
“Pain medication?”
“Nope. Just let it heal. Leave the bandage on for a week or two. Her tail will always have a weird bend in it now, because the alternative is to break it again and set it straight.”
I recoil with a scrunched nose. “No, I don’t like that.”
“Exactly. Just let her heal; she’d already started on her own.”
“So when Riley gets home and asks…?”
“Tell him she’ll be as good as new before you know it, so there’s no need to panic.”
“Okay.” Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a set of car keys and heft the heavy cage up. “I appreciate you seeing us today. Truly.” I give a shy smile and back away.
McHotty raps his knuckles against the wooden desk and startles his receptionist. “No problem. I look forward to seeing Officer Cruz back on his feet.” His face colors when his words register in his brain. “You know what I mean.”
I smile. “I know what you mean. It’s okay, you’ll know just as soon as it happens; you’ll hear me cheering him on.”
Moving through the heavy glass door and back into fresh air, I take my first
deep breath since stepping into the place that stinks of wet dogs. I love dogs. They’re cute and love to impress their humans, but I don’t think I could work in a place that smells like that day in, day out.
McHotty’s receptionist must really have the hots for the guy to tolerate the smell.
Gently setting Ninja on the back seat and pulling the seatbelt around to keep the carrier secure – because I’m responsible now – I move around to the driver’s side and set Nacho’s satchel on the passenger seat. Pulling out and heading home, I reverse the process, bring the satchel back over my shoulder, unsnap Ninja’s belt, and lug her carrier inside. I place it in Riley’s closet, open the carrier door, then walk away and leave her be.
Ninja will come out when she’s ready.
Heading into the hallway, I move into the laundry room and smile at two litter boxes. Ninja’s and Nacho’s. I don’t know if pets should share. I don’t know that they would even if they could, so I have two, and I move Ninja’s into the hall so she can still have access to it. Setting Nacho on a little bed I picked up while at the store yesterday, I pat her ears and grin at her pleasure-filled purr. “I have to go for a drive, but I can’t bring you, so you stay here and sleep, then when I get home, we’ll eat dinner and watch trashy TV.”
Instead of staying put, she bounds from her bed and does a butt wiggle like she didn’t hear the part where I said she can’t come with me. I’ve had her on my body almost around the clock since I brought her home from the shelter. Hospitals, planes, cabs, Tiffany’s while I window shopped and ate my feelings because Riley wasn’t calling. But she can’t come today. I don’t have a choice.
Five minutes after walking into Riley’s home, I close the laundry door and walk out again minus a cat and a pig. I slide into the car and head back in the direction I just came; Lakeview. I’m going to meet the woman Riley speaks so highly of, the momma in the momma’s boy relationship, the matriarch who – according to sources – hasn’t been to visit him in the hospital, nor could she give enough of a shit to visit his house and care for his cat.
