by Claire Adams
“Want to, no,” I tell her. “But you’re not my last appointment today.”
“Got another sex kitten coming in here after me, huh?”
“Yeah,” I tease, “and she’s the jealous type.”
“Oh, I’m not that worried about it,” Grace says. “I could kick her ass.”
“You know,” I tell her, trying to keep my eyes in a forward position as Grace eases me into her, “if there actually was another woman, I’m pretty sure you could.”
“Damn straight,” she says, and brings her legs back from behind me. “The towel’s in the bottom of my purse,” she tells me. “You should probably grab it.”
“Genius plan,” I tell her. “Wherever do you come up with such brilliant ideas?”
“You know,” she says, “I think I liked you better before you learned how to be sarcastic. That’s my shtick, you know.”
I make my way around the desk, shirt on, tie off, belt on, pants on and my throbbing self hanging out the front like some primitive compass.
It’s easy enough finding the towel in the bottom of Grace’s purse as there’s almost nothing else in there with the exception of her vaporizer, her keys, and a couple pairs of spare condoms to be used for any eventuality.
“Lift your butt,” I tell her, and she lifts herself a few inches off the desk.
The wood beneath her is already a little wet, but there’s not much we can do about that right now, so I just set the towel down under her.
“Actually,” I tell her as I come back around the desk, “stay like that for a minute.”
Her heels — her bare heels, that is — are on the edge of the desk, and she’s supporting her upper body with her arms.
I position myself back between her legs, and as I work myself halfway into her, I put one of my forearms under each knee, and before I lift her at all, I tell her to put her arms around my neck.
She does, and when she’s comfortable with her grip, I lift her the rest of the way off of the desk.
“Look at you getting all adventurous,” she whispers in my ear, and before I slide into her the rest of the way, she grabs the towel from the desk behind her, her other hand firm against my upper back, and she drapes it over my cock. “I figured you probably didn’t want your pants to, you know…”
“Thanks,” I tell her, and she puts her other arm back around my neck. I bring her lower body against mine, going all the way into her now.
Her chin is resting on my shoulder as she embraces me, and I’m just hoping we’re not both going to need a tie to shove in our mouths to keep quiet, as the logistics of that aren’t particularly appealing at the moment.
Her breasts are still exposed out the top of her shirt, and every so often when she leans back, I get a quick glimpse of them as they tremble from our motion.
Everything is absolutely phenomenal right up until I hear the door to the outer office; the waiting room opening up.
“Shit,” I whisper, and lift Grace off of me, setting her down softly, her feet on the floor.
She grabs the towel and she runs around the desk, putting it into her purse.
Meanwhile, I’ve got my back to the door and I’m persuading my very hard cock back into my pants, and with some more effort, into my boxers, which I don’t bother buttoning as I only have a moment to zip up my pants before-
There’s a knock on the door and it opens.
I’m sitting in my chair, my legs far enough under my desk that the bulge in my pants isn’t visible.
Grace is sitting in one of the chairs across from me, and we both look over toward the door, smiling like we’re happy to see Yuri.
“Hey, boss,” she says. “I’m back early. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I tell her.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she asks.
“No, we’re just talking,” I answer.
“You sure?” Yuri asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got part of a condom wrapper on the floor behind you,” she says, before leaving my office and closing the door.
***
Yuri’s kind enough not to say anything as Grace is leaving the office, but as soon as I’m done with my next appointment, I can’t get her to shut up about any of it.
“So, is that the kind of treatment all of your patients can expect from here on out, or just the pretty ones?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I answer. “What’s next?”
“Inpatient rounds,” she says. “So, does this mean the two of you are a couple now?”
“We haven’t really talked about it,” I tell her, “but I think that’s the way we’re both leaning, yes.”
“That’s good,” she says, “you know, if you don’t think about how bad it is.”
“What do you mean? I thought you liked Grace.”
“I do like Grace. I just don’t like seeing you try to win some kind of record for most ways to get your license revoked.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I tell her.
“Whatever you say, boss,” Yuri says, and hands me the inpatients’ charts. “Mr. Hollingsworth says his pain is coming back and Laney Michaels is scared about her radiation treatment tomorrow. Maybe you can talk to her.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Thanks.”
I glance over the files a moment and then walk out into the hall.
Mr. Hollingsworth is already maxed out on his morphine drip and there’s really not much else I can do for him. That’s not what’s got me nervous right now, though.
What has me nervous is Laney.
Although I’ve only been in this hospital for a couple of years, there’s not much left that really gets to me.
There are still things here and there that catch me off guard, like Mrs. Probst dying in my office right in the middle of our conversation, but the one thing that’s consistently hard for me to deal with is working with terminal children.
Laney’s scared, and what she’s afraid of is certainly a lot more significant than anything I’ve ever experienced, but nothing makes a person want to hang it up quicker than knowing a child is going to die, no matter what you do.
All anyone can really do is to try and teach them how to deal with the reality of their own death: something no 7-year-old should ever have to experience.
I’m not only nervous, but intimidated, as I know for a fact that that little girl and the dozens of others I’ve already treated, and the hundreds I’m likely to treat throughout my career, possess a level of strength and maturity I never will.
The important thing, though, is to never let the kids or their parents see that. They’ve all got enough on their minds without having to worry about the emotional state of their doctor.
I do my job no matter who the patient is, but I always try to go that extra mile for people like Laney.
My phone rings as I’m approaching Mr. Hollingsworth’s room.
It’s Yuri.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Doc, I’m sorry, but you need to come back,” she says.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Grace had a seizure in the lobby.”
Chapter Fifteen
Holding in Air
Grace
For the second time in my life, I wake up in a hospital bed with only a vague idea as to how I got here.
A low tone enters my ears, but I just ignore it, closing my eyes again.
“Did I have another seizure?” I ask the air around me.
If there’s an answer, it’s not one that I can understand.
After a while, things start to clear up a little bit more, and I am, if nothing else, able to recognize the voice in the room.
It’s Dr. Willis.
Dr. Willis, head of the trial for JH813, the experimental drug for oligodendroglioma that’s still running through my veins — the drug, that is, not the tumor; that’s thankfully stationary — is a shorter woman with flowing blonde hair and absolutely no abilit
y to form her mouth into a smile.
“Grace, can you hear me?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I groan. “What happened?”
“You had a seizure,” she says, and looks down to her clipboard. “Is this the first seizure you’ve had since your diagnosis?”
“No,” I tell her. “I had a seizure a couple of months ago, and that’s what led to my diagnosis.”
“Have you been feeling any new or worsening symptoms since the last time we’ve met?”
“Other than the seizure I apparently just had?”
She looks up, perfectly incapable of finding anything charming. “Yes,” she says. “Apart from that, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?”
“No,” I tell her. “Actually, I’ve been feeling pretty good being off the chemo.”
“You haven’t had any symptoms over the last few days that you haven’t reported?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “Where’s Jace?”
“Jace?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “Dr. Churchill.”
“I’m in charge of the trial, and while he’s been notified, I’m your primary physician at this time,” she says.
“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your job is to pump me full of a mostly untested drug and see if it’s going to help cure me or if it’s going to make me worse, and that, somehow, makes you my primary physician,” I explain.
“It’s a double-blind study,” she says. “There can’t be anything shared that might jeopardize the integrity of the trial.”
“What did he say?” I ask.
“What did who say?” she returns.
“Dr. Churchill. What did he say when you told him what happened to me?”
“I’m not the one that told him,” she says. “To be frank with you, I don’t think it’s entirely appropriate that he be involved in any part of your current treatment.”
“Who told him?” I ask, but the answer couldn’t possibly matter. “Never mind. What happens now? Are you going to take me off the drug, or do we up the dosage or what?”
“First off,” she says, “we don’t know that you’re on the real drug. As I’ve told you a few times now, both in our previous meetings and in this conversation, that this is a double-blind study. I don’t know who’s on the drug and who’s not, and if I did know, I would have to recuse myself from the trial, as it would no longer be double-blind.”
“Okay,” I tell her, “I get it. You’re a whore for procedure, but if you could just answer my question-”
“I don’t think there’s any reason that we should change our approach,” she interrupts. “You’re still new in the trial and you haven’t exhibited any new symptoms, so the best course, in my expert opinion, is to proceed as before.”
What kind of person is so in need of validation that they refer to their own opinion as “expert?”
“Is there anything we can to do help prevent further seizures?” I ask.
“No,” she answers. “Are you feeling lightheaded, nauseated?”
“No. So we’re just going to do nothing and hope it doesn’t happen again?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes, saying, “It doesn’t seem to be a result of the trial, so it’s anecdotal.”
I’m preparing myself to beat a little humanity into this misanthropic freak when the door to my room opens and Jace bursts in.
“Grace!” he exclaims, before he sees Dr. Willis standing at the foot of my bed. He turns toward her, trying to act as if nothing were amiss. “What happened with my patient?”
Dr. Willis doesn’t answer him or look over or even acknowledge his presence, she simply continues talking to me.
“We’ll run some tests, but I’m confident we’ll be able to keep you in the trial. If you start having more frequent seizures, we can revisit it, but I think one outlying incident doesn’t mean that much,” she says.
“I’d like to get a copy of any tests you run,” Jace says.
“No deal,” Dr. Willis replies. “I know you’re relatively new here, but even you should know that we’re not going to disclose any kind of information about one of our trial patients until we publish the results of the trial itself.”
Jace holds his tongue.
“So, just so I’m clear on this: you’re not going to actually do anything about the fact I just had another seizure, huh?” I ask.
“I have other patients to deal with,” Dr. Willis says, and before I have time to ask her any more questions or call her a cunt, she’s out of the room.
Once the door’s closed behind her, Jace is at the side of my bed, holding my hand.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I’m still a little out of it, but I’ll be all right. You on the other hand have really got to do some work on your poker face. If I didn’t know any better, I would start to think that something was going on between you and me.”
“You’re a strange woman,” he tells me, “but you have a point. I’m sorry. I was just worried about you.”
“Funny how you didn’t seem so worried about me the first time we met. I’d just had a seizure then, too. I think you want some of this,” I say and squeeze my boobs, “don’t ya?”
“They are pretty remarkable.”
“Well, I think we should probably wait until I’m out of this hospital bed before any copulation takes place,” I tell him. “Then again, you’re the doctor.”
He laughs. “I think you’re going to be fine,” he says.
“Glad to hear it,” I tell him, but I’m getting tired. Something about having a seizure just takes it right out of a person. “I hope you don’t mind, but I think I’m going to power down for a little while. It’s been a long day. I had to go to the doctor where we conducted a procedure I’m pretty sure isn’t in the AMA guidelines, and then I apparently fell down somewhere and danced like it was 1999, so I’m kind of beat.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “I’ll check in on you when I can. If I’m not here when they’re getting ready to discharge you, let me know and I’ll make sure either Yuri or I can give you a lift home.”
“Thanks, sexy doctor man,” I mumble.
If he says anything else, I’m asleep before I hear it.
***
“I really don’t think we should be doing this,” Jace says, looking up at me from 10 feet below.
“Yeah, you said that last time,” I tell him. “Are you coming up, or am I going to have to enjoy this view by myself?”
He just stands there, so I keep climbing.
It’s about 3 o’clock in the morning and I’m climbing the metal-rung ladder welded to the side of the old, broken-down Ferris wheel.
What Jace is so worried about is the fact that it’s only been about 36 hours since I was lying in that hospital bed after having my second seizure.
What I’m not telling him is that I’m terrified of heights. Up until my diagnosis, I was perfectly content to remain acrophobic, but something about having my lifespan significantly shortened made me want to change that.
In fact, if I could die without any remaining fears, that would be spectacular.
The fear of death, now that’s going to be a particularly relevant one, but I think it’s best to tackle one thing at a time.
I’m about halfway up and my heart is pounding so hard, I’m a little nervous it’s going to affect my equilibrium. Naturally, it doesn’t, but that hardly makes my anxiety go away.
Below me, I can hear the metal clang, clang, clanging of Jace as he begins to follow me up the ladder.
I’m committed now, if I wasn’t before, but that’s kind of the point.
When I was in college, I was usually the one standing at the bottom of the Ferris wheel to make sure that no security guards came by, but it was only an honorary position, achieved by the fact that I was the only one there with breasts, and I wasn’t afraid to show them.
When I reach the top of the ladder, I
freeze.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but in order to get into one of the Ferris wheel’s cars, I’m going to have to just climb up and into it.
It doesn’t make sense that there would be some magical, rail-enclosed platform, but that’s more along the lines of what I’d told myself to expect.
Jace catches up to me before long — apparently, heights aren’t such a big deal for him — but I can’t move or speak. I can hardly breathe.
“Are you all right up there?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m just trying to figure out the best way to go about this.”
“Take your time,” he says, and I wonder if he can see me shaking from where he is below me. “We can go back down if you want. I think you’ve proven that you can do this.”
For whatever reason, that statement is all the motivation I need to take a step up to the next rung and lean forward, one hand still on the top rung, the other hand on the car sitting at the top of the wheel.
I know these cars lock if you roll them too far either forward or backward, but it doesn’t seem like that knowledge is going to help me here.
I take another step up the ladder, making sure to lean as far forward as I possibly can, and my body from breasts up is over the car.
There’s no choice now, so I let go of the top rung of the ladder and grab the enclosing rail at the front of the car, which immediately swings open a bit.
The guys hadn’t mentioned that when they came down.
There are a few empty beer cans in the car and what I’m pretty sure was some kind of smoking device, although it doesn’t look like it was something to be used with pot — I’m starting to get familiar with those by now.
I take another step up and I’m starting to realize that leaning as far forward as I am, while it certainly seemed like a good idea in theory, is going to lead me to falling into the car. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a problem, but with the metal bar at the front swinging open freely, chances are I’d end up falling out the front of the car.
The good news, I guess, is that that would save me tens, possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills.
Not worth it.
My only real option is to steady myself as best I can and straighten myself up so I can simply step into the car.
