Booked for Murder

by R. J. Blain

  Dr. Mansfield sighed. “You’ve been limping for so long it will take a great deal of physical therapy to erase the limp. View it as a defensive mechanism, and you’re expecting your foot to start hurting again. You’ll be sore moving forward, and there will be days you’ll limp, but your bones are back where they belong, the muscles are healing well, and one day, you will be able to walk without wearing the boot at all. You’ll feel the weather changing in your foot for the rest of your life, and cold temperatures won’t be kind. You’ll always have to battle days where your foot is sore and aches. There’s only so much magic can do.”

  “I’m okay with that, really. I’m grateful I still have my foot.”

  “You’re just dealing with more restrictions, and you’ve been under a lot of restrictions for a long time. It’ll get better, and you’ll find physical therapy will be a lot easier for you to deal with now. You’re ready to be discharged, and the Hamptons will be here soon to pick you up. I’m even going to allow you to walk out of the hospital under the excuse of monitoring your progress. There’s a waiver you’ll have to sign acknowledging it’s your problem if you fall over.”

  “I’m going to need a cane,” I muttered.

  Dr. Mansfield stepped out into the hallway and returned with a cane in her hand, which she gave to me. “I also have a set of crutches for you just in case. You’ll just have to say goodbye to your wheelchair.”

  “Goodbye,” I replied, and I even waved at the stupid thing, which took over a corner of the room. “Too bad, so sad.”

  “I can tell you’re utterly heartbroken to be separated from your wheelchair.”

  “I’m so heartbroken I might cry. I might need a few minutes to recover from this tragedy.”

  “Well, your sarcasm is in good form. Finish signing your paperwork so I can walk you downstairs and monitor you just in case. I’m not anticipating any problems, but I’d rather be safe than sorry at this point.”

  I grabbed the papers, gave them a token skim since there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about any of it anyway, and signed, hoping I hadn’t just sold my soul to the devil—or worse, to the medical industry. “If you slid anything nefarious into the paperwork, Mrs. Hampton will probably kill me for not reading over everything carefully.”

  “You’ll find out later,” my doctor replied.

  “This is not the kind of surprise I like, but as I’m the one who opted to sign prior to reading, I will just have to face the consequences of my actions.” I offered her the clipboard with the thick stack of paperwork. “I’m ready. Freedom calls to me.”

  “And you even get to earn it through walking out of the hospital. One of those documents was the waiver to allow you to walk out rather than be wheeled out.”

  “I do not regret signing that.”

  “You say that now, but the nearest elevator is a rather long walk from here, and then you have to take a second long walk to reach the lobby.”

  “Some sacrifices are worth making. I’ll accept good food as a reward for my hard work.”

  “I’m sure you can handle feeding yourself now that you’re discharged.” Dr. Mansfield brought me a cane, a nice enough one I took a few minutes to admire it before lurching to my feet. I hesitated before resting my full weight on my right foot, anticipating the moment my body filed a serious complaint over my mistreatment.

  Nothing happened, not even a warning twinge. “Huh. That’s different.”

  “The remnant painkillers are masking any discomfort. You’ll get sore quickly, and it’ll hurt by the time we reach the elevator, I’m sure. You have to get used to walking again without pulling your stride, and that’ll take time. Pain is a reality of your situation, but while the circumstances of the shooting remain a tragedy, some good has come out of it. Just avoid any situations where your foot might be introduced to another bullet, please.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised.

  Dr. Mansfield gathered my purse, checked the room for anything that may have been missed, and grabbed the crutches from the hallway. “I’ll carry your things so all you need to worry about is watching where you walk. I should make you take the stairs, but we’re on the fifth floor. It would take you all day.”

  I frowned at the implication I couldn’t handle the steps. “That sounds like good exercise, though. You want to make sure my lungs are healthy, right?”

  “Your lungs are fine. We checked on them while we were working with your foot. You can handle everything except strenuous activities without the help of your magic. With some time, you won’t need your ability to do whatever you want, although your foot probably won’t handle a lot without pain. You’ve surprised me once, so I expect you’ll surprise me again.”

  While aware the medications had turned me into a menace convinced she’d be amputating my foot, I couldn’t resist asking, “So, when will you be chopping off my foot?”

  “I’m afraid that after review, your application for an amputation has been denied.”

  “I see your sarcasm is in good form, too.”

  “I’m still not sure which is worse: your panic upon waking from sedation or the delusions you suffer while under the influence. Just take the elevator. If you take the elevator, you can begin your quest for orange chicken faster.”

  “I can’t believe he really refused to bring me orange chicken again. Cruelty.”

  “Yes, how cruel of him. He brought you delicacies from across the takeout world for your enjoyment, and when you were throwing up every other minute, he went out every other hour to get you new soup until you could keep something down.”

  “I will never eat hospital food ever again.”

  “I’m still not sure how the pancakes were contaminated. I had them check the orange chicken to make sure it wasn’t the culprit. It really was the pancakes, and the tests proved it.”

  “Something was off about them. I would never throw up good pancakes.”

  “Still, I’m sorry. The last thing you needed was rancid pancakes making a mess of things. In good news, it did trigger an evaluation of the food here. While the meals the hospital serves aren’t precisely appealing for the most part, it’s supposed to be healthy. While you’d likely make it down the stairs, please use the elevator.”

  “The stairs are a lot of work anyway.” Armed with my cane, I limped in the direction of the elevator, and after I made it a few steps without incident, I did my best to put my weight on my right foot properly.

  Everything about my stride felt wrong after so long limping, and halfway down the hall, I shot accusatory glares at my doctor. “Are you sure this is right?”

  “Physical therapy will help. Just try to avoid limping as much as possible, and if you experience any significant pain, give me a call. It’s going to feel strange for you for a while, especially as you’re so used to being unable to walk without significant pain. Your habits will be completely disrupted, but you’ll adapt quickly. For the next few days, try to take it easy, rest, and practice walking without pulling your stride. Your next appointment will be at my clinic in a week.”

  “And the appointment won’t be to amputate it, right?” I teased.

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  Bradley waited for me in the hospital’s lobby, and he smiled when he spotted me. “How do you like your new medical boot?”

  I regarded the contraption, leaning on my cane while I caught my breath from the hike across the hospital. “Apparently, I’ve trained myself to limp, and I can’t seem to stop limping despite my currently painless state. This is rather frustrating, but Dr. Mansfield promised she’d beat it out of me in the next few months.”

  “I didn’t say I’d beat her, precisely,” my doctor added, crossing the lobby to shake hands with Bradley and handing him my oversized purse and crutches. “The prescriptions she needs for the next two weeks are in her purse, so you’ll want to pick them up on your way home. I’ve called them into the pharmacy, and the pharmacy’s address is with the prescription slips. Feed the woman oran
ge chicken before she cries. She even limited her complaints to sad sighs. Her medical file has a recommendation for the drug cocktail she should be given when reversing sedation to limit the odds of her suffering through a panic attack, so the next time she’s in for a procedure, you might even be able to be with her, although you’ll have to leave if you start undergoing anxiety. Please see a therapist about it, Mr. Hampton.”

  “I made an appointment with one for both Janette and I, and apparently, we get to do one session that is individual, and one where we’re together, as there are rules about how therapists operate. But as my anxiety is linked with her, we get to do some sessions together.”

  I somehow resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re a pain in my ass, Bradley Hampton. Where’s Ren?”

  “He’s waiting in the car with Ajani. We’re going to your mother’s house, and I figured you’d want to see your cat, who is very unhappy you’re missing. She’s been crying and looking for you. I make a poor alternative.”

  I smiled. “My fluffy demoness actually misses me?”

  “She really does. So, you get to sit in the back with me while we comfort your cat. We’ll pick up some orange chicken for you to snack on while we head to your parents’ place. I’ll fill you in on everything you’ve missed, too.”

  “That sounds good.” I turned to my doctor, shifted my cane to my left hand, and shook with her. “Thank you for not amputating my foot, Dr. Mansfield.”

  “You’re welcome. Thank you for putting so much on the line to help others. Without you, there’d be two people dead right now instead of just one. That reminds me. Her name is Agatha, and she would love to meet you so she can thank you personally. Can I give her your phone number?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied. I’d met a few of the patients who’d survived because of my work in the ER, and I’d always left the meetings reminded of why I’d put in all the work I had. “I’d like that. It’ll be a few days. Give her Bradley’s number, too—he can play my secretary for the next few weeks.”

  “Does that earn me a day of visitation rights with your cat?” he asked.

  “Only one. I need some orange chicken, Bradley. They tried to give me pancakes this morning again. I refused.”

  “That’s my cue, Dr. Mansfield. I better feed her since it seems she skipped breakfast.”

  “After the last pancake incident, I fully understand why she would rather starve than risk another bout of food poisoning. Take care, Janette. Call me if there are any problems. Do daily checks of your blood for the next week, and if you detect any of that hot, slimy, greasy feeling you dislike so much, call me immediately. The exsanguinator who helped said it’s uncommon, but sometimes a remnant amount replicates in the bloodstream after a few weeks.”

  “I will,” I promised. The last thing I wanted or needed was yet another stint with that drug. Once outside of the hospital, I’d have a chat with everyone about the substance, why Senator Maybelle was on it—and if there were any evidence Senator Godrin was also taking it.

  After a final farewell dance with my doctor, Bradley led me out of the lobby, pointing across the parking lot. “In bad news, he’s parked all the way over there. We’d already gotten the lecture from Dr. Mansfield we were to make you walk around on your foot to get you used to walking again. The crutches are only if your foot is hurting or you’re particularly fatigued. You can’t heal without exercise.”

  “Orange chicken, Bradley.”

  “I see you are ready for lunch.”

  “Absolutely. Feed me, please. I’m hungry. Please tell me that you didn’t bring the sports car. I can’t do the sports car today.” I’d probably see it and start crying. Thanks to the medications, I’d suffered through several such outbursts, which Dr. Mansfield had promised would stop in a few days.

  “It’s the luxuriously spacious family car with plenty of room even in the back for you to stretch out and relax. Why can’t you do the sports car today?”

  “Dr. Mansfield showed me a picture of her new car, which is a little sporty, and I cried. I had a drug-induced meltdown. If you show me a sporty car, I will likely suffer through another meltdown, and I’m done with random fits of crying, except I’m really not. The medications suck. I’m on some sort of painkiller, and I still have other medications lingering in my bloodstream. My prescriptions should be okay. They’re antibiotics and painkillers, and not the kind that turn me stupid.”

  “Ah, I see. So, we should just ignore if you start to cry for any reason?”

  “Yes, please. It should stop in a few days.”

  “I’ll make sure everyone knows.”

  Huh. That had gone easier than I thought it would. “Thank you. Lead the way at a meander, because I tried to shuffle at faster than a meander in the hospital and almost fell on my face. I meander right now.” I sighed. “Habitual limping means I can’t go faster than a meander without my legs becoming confused. I almost cried over that, but Dr. Mansfield reminded me I was going to get orange chicken, and it seems I am so desperate for orange chicken it can stop me from crying. I’m a lot ashamed of that.”

  “Don’t be. I’m trying to figure out how to eat it without it killing me, because I tasted it. It is delicious but lethal at the same time.”

  “Please tell me you haven’t been trying it.”

  “I’ve been trying it,” he admitted. “I ask them to put a single piece in a sauce container so I can try to conquer it. Every time I go in, I get an assortment of horribly spicy but wonderful samples. I actually paid an extra twenty last time I was there because he gave me a sampler of everything with remotely any spice to it.”

  I laughed. “Has it gotten any better?”

  “I need to buy stock in lactose-free milk, but I was able to eat three whole samples before I needed a drink.”

  “Well done!”

  Bradley led me to his new car and opened the back door for me, where my cat’s carrier waited in the middle. I slid in, buckled up, and opened the top zipper enough I could slide my hand inside. Bradley closed the door and circled the car, choosing to sit in the back rather than take the more comfortable front passenger seat.

  My cat pounced, scolding me with a single, gentle nip before marking my hand as her territory. Rather than risk petting her back, I went for her chin, as she usually permitted a good chin scratch without mauling me for daring to touch Her Fluffy Demonic Highness.

  Ajani purred.

  “You’re looking good,” Ren said, twisting around in the driver’s seat. “We have a date at your parents’ place in a few hours for dinner, but do you need anything while we’re still in town?”

  “Orange chicken.”

  He chuckled. “Already on the schedule. Unless you need something non-clothes related from your apartment, I took Bradley over and cleared it out, and with some assistance from his mother, we did all of your laundry. We were supervised, so nothing was damaged, and his mother confiscated certain items and did those herself. Something about women, secrets, and not spoiling special surprises.”

  “You emptied my closet, didn’t you?”

  “We really did. To be honest, the instant we got everything into the Hampton residence, Mrs. Hampton took over, had us wash everything us rough, crude men could handle without incident, and took care of the rest herself. Your reward boots are, unfortunately, being replaced with the same ones except a better size for you. You, apparently, have monster calves, so the boots wouldn’t be comfortable for you. She found the manufacturer, got your accurate calf size, and had them remade. They’ll be ready in six months.”

  “How did she get my accurate calf size?”

  “She measured you while you were sleeping and conferred with Dr. Mansfield.”

  Damn. “My reward boots are the wrong size?”

  “Don’t cry,” Bradley ordered. “You still have your reward boots, they’re just going to be even newer but otherwise identical. You still have your old pair, too, they just won’t fit.”

  “You made sure they�
�d fit?”

  I thought that was worth crying over, as it’d been so long since I had someone anticipate the little things in life I might need. It’d been me, myself, and I plus Ajani for so long I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to feel. Even with co-workers who would have helped, I’d never asked—and no one had ever really offered.

  I had myself to blame for that. I’d worked too hard to be self-reliant.

  “And that’s how you make certain she cries,” Ren complained, reaching to the passenger seat, snagging a box of tissues, and handing them to me. “We were warned to bring tissues. I have two more boxes where that one came from. If you want to cry, think about the orange chicken I’m about to go get for you, and we ordered a special present from the restaurant just for you.”

  “What present?”

  “Several jars of the sauce to tide you over until we come back to Manhattan. I called, explained you were being released from the hospital, and would be in the country for a while. They are putting together a care package for you. There will be soup, because you’re sick and need soup. A lot of soup. I think they’re trying to fill the trunk with the entire restaurant, truth be told. So, be ready for that. But the important thing is, you will have your orange chicken sauce, extra spicy, just for you.”

  “And you’re telling me not to make her cry,” Bradley complained. “That’s definitely going to make her cry.”

  It did, and I took the box of tissues, as I’d surely need the entire damned thing.

  The orange chicken did me in, and I passed out so hard someone carried me to my parent’s couch without waking me, and it took the enticing aroma of beef roast to lure me back to consciousness. In a half-asleep daze, I followed the plate of food all the way to the dining room before comprehending my mother had resorted to tricks from when I’d been a toddler to get me to do what she wanted.

  Whatever. Her tricks led to my stomach’s happiness. I mumbled the obligatory thanks, waged a war with my utensils until I remembered how they worked, and began the important work of eating.