The Evolutionist

by Rena Mason

  Even with all the craziness, the really bad nightmares don’t happen as often, and yes, they’ve been supplanted by outlandish dreams, but at least they are not horrifying. Not yet, anyway.

  Halfway home, I realize the faint sound of the bell tones hasn’t completely disappeared. They continue playing in the background inside the car, or maybe, it’s just in my ears, my mind, or all three. A lightning-fast shiver runs through me, and I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. All the hairs on my arms stick straight up. I watch them lie back down, but the chill stays with me. The imaginary frigid blue that Dr. Light filled me with earlier comes to mind. I think it’s still inside me, but it feels darker than blue and deeper than black.

  My cell phone rings loud through the car speakers, startling me. I thumb the answer button on the steering wheel.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey babe, what’re you doing?” Jon says

  “Driving home.”

  “From where?”

  “The grocery store.”

  “Turn around and head East on Sahara.”

  “What for?”

  “I called GenLabs and scheduled some blood work.”

  “Right now? Don’t you want to be there?”

  “They’re just going to draw it up then give me the results. Please, you promised you’d go. I’m also working on getting you in to see Terry Swanson, today.”

  “Isn’t that the guy you told me is a complete asshole?”

  “Yeah. He is, but he’s also the best ENT in town. Don’t make any afternoon plans just in case I get you an appointment.”

  Oh geez, it’s starting already—his need to be in full medical control. Every muscle in my body tenses.

  “Hey, you still there?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll get back to you about Dr. Swanson. Keep your cell with you. GenLabs is on the corner of Sahara and Oakey, remember?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “Bye. Love you.”

  “Bye.” My thumb hangs up before I can tell him I love him back.

  I exit the freeway and zigzag my way through streets heading north. There’s a lot of traffic and a stoplight every fifty feet along the main roads. It’s lunch hour, this will be a while.

  Parking at GenLabs is awful, too. I drive around and wait for somebody to pull out. This place does one hell of a business. I wish I’d thought of it. It’s an ingenious idea really, to have healthy patients get their lab work done here instead of in the hospital.

  Inside, the place is small. Standing room only. Sort of set up like a doctor’s office, except for the pharmacy-type window hiding the rest of the lab. I step up and tell the receptionist my name.

  “Please, move to your left and wait till you hear your name called. Stand away from the door. It swings open. There are chairs if you prefer to sit.”

  In the far corner of the room, there are four cheap plastic chairs, but they look disgusting, and I wouldn’t sit down even if they weren’t already taken. The swinging door is to the left of the window. Different technicians step out in short white lab coats and call people back.

  A young man comes through. “Mrs. Stacy Troy?” Other patients, who have been waiting longer than me, sigh in unison.

  “Yes.” I walk toward him.

  “Come with me, ma’am.”

  I suppose I am a ma’am compared to him, but it’s not earning him any points with me. He doesn’t look much older than Patrick.

  He keeps a swift stride as he rushes me down a dingy tiled hall, lit with fluorescent lights. A surreal glow clings to everything white, radiating a heavenly vibe. It must frighten the really sick patients. Hell it’s creeping me out, and those damn chimes in my head aren’t helping one bit.

  “Busy today?” I say.

  “We’re always busy, ma’am.”

  “I bet.”

  We round a corner, and he leads me down another hall, to a tiny room. There’s an old desk in the middle, the kind from grade school where the chair is welded on.

  “Have a seat there. I’ll be right back.”

  I sit down but keep my purse on my lap. I’m sure sick germs are crawling all over this place.

  The young man whips back into the room carrying a little basket filled with various items including needles, glass tubes, and a handful of paperwork. He has a pair of those clear, protective glasses resting on top of his head. Suddenly, he reminds me of the Easter Bunny—a more demented version, minus the large pink bowtie. I have a picture of Patrick when he was three, crying on the white rabbit’s lap in one of those cheesy mall portraits.

  He flips through the papers. “Looks like Dr. Troy’s ordered several tests, Mrs. Troy. Are you related?” He digs around in his basket then puts a few things on the desk: a tourniquet, a rubber ball, five glass test tubes with different color stoppers, and this plastic thing with a long needle at the end.

  Oh, and he’s a genius, too. “Yes. He’s my husband. It’s okay that he ordered the tests, right?” Because I would be more than happy to wait for a real doctor to order them.

  “Yeah, docs do it for family members all the time.”

  He yanks a pair of gloves from the basket then snaps them on, filling the air with a cloud of fine powder. “Just lay your arm out across the desk.” He wraps the tourniquet around it then places the rubber ball in the palm of my hand. “Squeeze that several times, please.” He slaps my forearm then slides the long needle into a bulging vein. One by one, he pushes the glass tubes into the plastic end where there is another needle, filling them all.

  “Jesus, that’s a lot of tubes.”

  “It’s just what the doctor ordered.” He smiles, but I give him my I’m not amused look. “Lots of blood tests,” he adds.

  “Does it look normal?”

  “Your blood? Yeah, I guess. I mean it doesn’t look anemic or anything. Sometimes that makes the blood look orange. It’s not too thick or thin. Your husband will be able to tell you more when he gets the results.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “He’ll have them before the end of the day.”

  “That fast?”

  “Oh, yeah. We crank ‘em out.” He puts a wad of gauze over the needle then pulls it out of my arm. “Press firm for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  He comes back and pulls a piece of tape tautly over the gauze. “Keep that on for about an hour. Then you can take it off. And here’s your copy of the paperwork. Just bring it up to the window on your way out, thanks.” He grabs his little basket and whisks away.

  I maneuver myself out of the desk then head back down the hall. After getting through the insurance paperwork and payment thirty minutes later, I finally get to leave. Hungry and lightheaded, I head to the nearest grocery store and buy a few things, including a sandwich I devour in the car still parked in the lot.

  I’m cleaning up the mess of crumbs and my cell rings again. Ugh…it’s Jon. I debate for a few seconds whether or not to pick it up.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “I got you an appointment with Dr. Swanson, but you’ve got to be there in an hour.”

  “What! What about Patrick? It’s almost pick-up—”

  “I’ll call the school and leave a message that you might be a little late.”

  “This is bullshit! I’ve got groceries in the car.”

  “Calm down. You promised. You’ve got a few minutes to bring them home. And Pat will be fine. He can hang out in the library and do his homework till you’re done. Did you make it to GenLabs?”

  “Yes. And where is Dr. Swanson’s office?”

  “It’s in the medical building directly across from Red Rock Hospital. You’ll find his suite number on the wall next to the elevators.”

  “Fine, I better get going, and don’t forget to call the school.”

  “I’ll do it as soon as we hang up.”

  “That would be now.” This time I’m f
ully aware I thumb the button and hang up on him. I’m sure it was on purpose last time, too, but a little more subconscious than now.

  I scrunch up the sandwich paper and toss it out the window into a trash can, then round the parking lot and head home.

  As I’m waiting for the gate to open, Toni, the neighbor from across the street, pulls up behind me and taps her horn. I wave back at her, then pull up the driveway, grab the bag of groceries from the passenger’s seat and head into the garage.

  “Hey Stacy,” Toni yells from the curb.

  I turn around and she’s parked along the bottom of the driveway, waving her arm at me through the open car window.

  “Hi Toni,” I holler down. “Give me a sec to throw this stuff in the fridge.”

  Christ, there goes my pit stop. I turn back around, sigh deep, and roll my eyes Cally-style. Then I open up the garage refrigerator and toss the bag on a shelf. They’re just some fresh herbs for the turkey, but still, I would like to keep them refrigerated. It’s late fall and nearly seventy-six degrees outside, which means eighty plus in the garage, and ninety in my car if it’s parked in the sun. They definitely would have wilted in there.

  I grab a bottle of water then walk down the driveway to Toni.

  “Hi Stacy, haven’t seen you out in a while. How have you been?”

  “Good. Busy. My parents are coming for Thanksgiving.”

  “Yeah, my grandparents will be visiting for a week. I just wanted to let you know that I took a census for the neighborhood Christmas party, and it looks like the evening of the seventeenth will work for nearly everybody.”

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks for doing that. I’ll get the invitations out around the first.”

  “Do you need any help with the food?”

  “No. I’ve decided to have it catered.”

  “By who?”

  “Rosemary.”

  “If you do it through Tiesto’s, I might be able to get you a deal. I know the owners.”

  “No, that’s okay. But thanks. Jon prefers Rosemary.”

  “Oh—what about decorations?”

  “Decorations?”

  “Yeah, the table set up and stuff like that?”

  “I’ll just have my holiday decorator do it when he plans the outside, it’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, well, if you need any help, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks again, but I’ve got to go. I’m running late for an appointment.”

  “Don’t let me keep you. Bye.” She circles around to her own driveway.

  I get back into the car and pull away. The dash and seats are warm, but my inner core remains a solid block of ice. On the outside, I feel toasty, irritated, and I can’t get those fucking tones out of my head. The phone rings as I’m putting the windows down.

  What now!

  It’s Cally.

  “Hi Sweetie,” she says. “Dinner tomorrow night at Chopsteaks, seven o’clock. We’ve got a VIP table, so don’t say no.”

  “Uh…I don’t know. Let me ask Jon.”

  “I need the answer by tonight. I’m sure he’ll be up for it.”

  “You’re right, but let me double check, okay. I’ll call you later.”

  “Bye.”

  I slide my thumb over the hang up button. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” I squeeze the steering wheel.

  “Hello…Stacy? You there? It’s Tara.”

  Crap, she must have been holding on the other line. “Hi, Tara, sorry about that.”

  “No problem. Everything okay? I just wanted to give you a heads up. Cally might be calling you for a dinner invite tomorrow night at Chopsteaks.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s got a VIP table. Anthony and I were supposed to go, but he’s got some important meeting he’s stuck with.”

  “Well, thanks for the warning.”

  “You should do it. The food is good.”

  “I’ll think about it. Right now, I’ve got to go. Enjoy the holiday. I’ll call you after Thanksgiving.”

  “Do you guys have big plans? Both of our families are coming in, but there’s plenty of room at the table if you’d like to join us.”

  “That’s really sweet Tara, thanks, but my parents will be here.”

  “Well, if you change your mind just give me a call. You know your folks are more than welcome to join us, too.”

  “Okay, thanks again. Bye.” I hang up before she can say anything else.

  The tones, the calls, these appointments, everything—I’m ready to scream, speed up, drive into a wall.

  An icy chill grips my chest. It slowly spreads through me in rippled waves of blue. Over the music playing in my head, I hear Dr. Light’s voice telling me to be calm and relax. I take in a deep breath and exhale. For a split second, I swear I see a white puff of air come out of my mouth, the way it does when it’s frigid out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Feeling a restrained sense of calm, I drive safely and head north on Town Center Drive. After the third roundabout, I turn off toward Red Rock Hospital Road.

  The medical offices building looks exactly like the hospital. They’re both vertical rectangles, built with bricks in varied shades of sienna. Everything looks the same in Summerlin. By code, all buildings must be constructed to mimic the surrounding desertscape. Also by law, no billboards are permitted. To skirt this, some idiot genius created billboard trucks. They drive around with pictures of half-naked women on them and phone numbers made up with as many sixty-nines that they can fit in. It’s ludicrous. The only place allowed to have a huge lit marquee in Summerlin is the Red Rock Casino, and that was all politics.

  It’s later in the day, so there is a skeleton crew left for office staff. Up front, I see only one receptionist, and she looks like she’s had a rough day. Her hair must have been up in a bun at some point, but most of it has fallen out around her shoulders. Several pens are stuck through what is left of the bun at different angles, making it look like an old space satellite.

  “Hi, I’m Stacy Troy—here to see Dr. Swanson.”

  “Dr. Swanson’s gone, you’ll have to reschedule, but there’s an order for a CAT scan. Come around and I’ll get you ready.”

  “Are you the only one here?”

  “Yeah, just call me secretary, slash, nurse, Dr. Betty.”

  “Sorry you had to stay.”

  “I’ve got to be here anyway, might as well keep busy.”

  I nonchalantly glance at the badge hanging around her neck, and her name really is Betty. She leads me to a small exam room with a short metal sitting stool and a paper-padded table. “You can leave your bra and panties on, but take off all your clothes and jewelry. Here’s a patient gown for you. Put it on backwards and tie it up front. They’ll be shooting your head mostly, but it’s important you’re comfortable.”

  “They?” She makes it sound as though I’ll be up against a firing squad.

  “Yeah, the CT & MRI techs on the first floor.”

  I remember seeing the sign on my way in. This is turning into a perpetual disaster. I never should have given Jon any medical leeway. As soon as Betty leaves, I get out of my clothes and into the gown. She comes back a few minutes later and lightly taps on the door.

  “Come in,” I say.

  She walks in and opens a cabinet underneath the sink. “You can put your purse in here.”

  I hesitate, unsure I want to put my couture Dior in there, but she seems pretty intent.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “It’ll be safe.”

  I’m more concerned about the bag than what’s inside. I place my purse away from the pipes, in a spot that looks relatively clean. Then Betty closes the cabinet door. “Now follow me,” she says, as she walks back up to the reception area. “Here are the orders. Give these to the gal at the front desk. I’ll see you in about an hour.”

  “An hour?”

  “Sometimes longer. I don’t know how busy they are down there today.”

  Furious now and wanting to send Jon a hate text, I pat around
for my cell phone.

  “You left your phone in your purse, I hope,” she says.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “You can’t get a good signal down there with all those machines going, anyway.” She opens the door for me. “Go back to the elevators. First floor, you can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble on my way out.

  I look over the orders and can barely make out the word head. Possibly the word sinus. Wow, Dr. Swanson’s handwriting is atrocious. I’m amazed anything right gets done without some sort of verbal affirmation as to what it is he actually wants. But I suppose his staff is used to it.

  The bell rings when I get to the first floor like a loud note and off-key compared to the quiet symphony that continues to play in my dark mental recesses. If I were to listen carefully to the music of my subconscious mind and could understand what it means, then maybe hearing it all the time wouldn’t be so bad. I’m not sure, but what I do know, is that if this continues, it is going to push me past that brink I’ve been clinging to these past few months. I have to ignore the tones and wait—or give up and go insane.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  I look up out of a haze and focus. I’m staring at this young girl with dark wavy hair. She is cute, too, with a soft cocoa tan, most likely of Hispanic descent. Why am I here, again? Oh! She must be the gal up front, Betty told me to give the orders to. I like her already though, I’m pretty sure she called me miss.

  “Hi. Sorry. Stacy Troy.”

  “Are those your orders?”

  “Yes.” I hand her the papers.

  “Go ahead and have a seat, one of the techs will be out in a moment.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turn around and there’s an entire waiting room of no less than twenty people behind me. How did I miss that? I sit down at the first empty seat and reach out to pick up a magazine.