by Claire Adams
Jenny really needs to get better with specifics.
I get up to the apartment and pop a mint in my mouth before I knock on the door.
“Just a minute!” the muffled voice from inside the apartment calls back.
And so I wait.
I wait for about five minutes before the door opens, but as soon as it has, I’m wishing I was somewhere else.
The woman standing in front of me is a few inches shorter than me, probably 5’7” or 5’8”, with long, red hair in a loose up-do, emerald eyes, and pouty lips. She’s in a chic, but understated and tight-fitting black dress, just revealing enough to titillate the senses without being risqué, but none of that bothers me.
What bothers me is that she’s been a patient of mine for a few weeks now.
“Dr. Churchill?”
“Grace?” I respond.
“Oh, this is just great,” she says and throws her arms up before turning and retreating back into the apartment.
I’m just standing in the doorway, not sure whether I should follow her in or make a mad dash for the elevator.
“You may as well come in,” she says, so I do.
The apartment is spacious and well appointed. Her chart says that she’s twenty-four.
“So, what’s up?” she asks.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“I’ve got a date coming,” she says. “If you found an aneurism or something, would you mind just letting me know and getting out of here? I haven’t been out once since my last round of chemo, and I was really looking forward to trying out this wig. It looks real, doesn’t it? Here, feel,” she says and turns her head.
I reach out and awkwardly feel her new hair, saying, “You know, I honestly wouldn’t have even known that it wasn’t yours.”
“You’re just saying that,” she says. “My hair wasn’t this long when you were treating me, and I’m not a redhead.”
“Well, people do dye their hair,” I start.
“Yeah, but their hair doesn’t usually grow six inches in a couple of weeks,” she says. “So, hurry up. Am I dying, or did you screw up the diagnosis and I actually just had some bad sushi, or what?”
“It would have to be pretty bad sushi to cause a seizure,” I laugh, but my attempt at humor isn’t appreciated.
“So, I’m dying,” she says. “That’s all right. I kind of figured that out when you started talking about ten-year survival rates. Well, thanks for stopping by to tell me, but unless there’s a solid chance I’m going to keel over at dinner, I think it’s probably for the best that you go.”
So, the good news is that she doesn’t realize that I’m her escort, but I’m in a bit of a dilemma here. I can either come up with some fake medical information to give her and then quickly show myself out, or I can be honest about why I’m here.
For the sake of my job—the day job, that is—it’s probably for the best that I try to find a third option, but I’ve got nothing.
“Why don’t I wait with you?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “He shouldn’t be long, and I’d really rather not have him walking in here to find my oncologist. Although,” she continues, “you are quite the looker, and a doctor, no less. Maybe you waiting here with me is just the kind of thing I could use to make my guy jealous. Yeah,” she decides finally, “have a seat.”
I chuckle and sit down. The laugh isn’t so much because I’m confused as it is that I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m a little scared of what’s going to happen here.
The longer I stay, the more likely it’s going to be that she figures out what’s going on. At the same time, though, I’m not doing anything illegal and I really don’t have any other way to explain my presence here.
“What time is he supposed to pick you up?” I ask, buying myself a little more time to think.
“Any minute now,” she answers. “So, why are you here?”
I guess I didn’t really buy myself that much time at all.
“I was just in the neighborhood,” I tell her. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine,” she says, but stops. “How do you know where I live? I get that you’ve got that information at the hospital or whatever, but it’s kind of weird that you’d remember it.”
“I didn’t,” I tell her. “I wrote it down.”
With that, I hand her the appointment card Jenny gave me when I went in for my paycheck this afternoon.
“Your name is Jace,” she says. “I didn’t know that.”
“Notice anything else?” I ask, hoping it’ll click for her that the name of the escort the service set her up with is on the front of the card, but she just shrugs and hands the card back.
“Nope,” she says. “You’re not just here to check up on me, though.”
“No,” I tell her, “I’m not.”
“Why, then? I didn’t think doctors here made house calls.”
“I don’t. I mean, I have, but it’s usually a special situation.”
“Seriously,” she says, “why are you here? You’re starting to freak me out.”
I hand the card back to her and ask her again if she notices anything unusual about it.
“That’s my name and address on the back,” she says. “Your name is on the front. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at.”
I’m getting cold feet about telling her, but I’ve stayed too long to simply duck out.
“I’m your date,” I tell her.
She looks up at me and then back at the card.
“Marquis Escorts,” she reads. “You’re a hooker?”
I have to laugh. “No,” I answer. “I’m an escort. Sex isn’t part of the business.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Grace says, looking down at the card. “Well, do you want a drink or something?”
She actually seems genuinely unaffected by me, her doctor—her oncologist, no less—revealing that I’m her hire-a-date for the evening.
“I should probably go,” I tell her.
“Why?” she asks. “It’s not like there’s going to be any slap-and-tickle going on and, I don’t know if you know this, but they had me pay in advance.”
“I’m sure we could find someone else to stand in for me,” I tell her. “Being your doctor, I don’t really think it’s appropriate to-”
“To what?” she asks. “Sell yourself for money to a patient?”
“I don’t sell myself for money,” I explain. “I sell portions of my time and my presence for money.”
“Wow, that’s got to be the most conceited way you could have put that,” she responds. “Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”
“That’s all right,” I tell her.
“So, what got you into prostitution? Is it the whole anatomy thing?”
“First off, I’m not a prostitute. Second, what do you mean ‘anatomy thing?’”
“Well,” she says, “I would imagine that you see a remarkably high amount of disgusting things in your work. It would make sense for you to want to remind yourself that the human body isn’t all tumors and cancer.”
“Where did you want to go tonight?” I ask, trying to change the subject, as she doesn’t seem too inclined to let me bow out of this gracefully.
“I was going to have you take me out to an upscale bar around Tribeca, but I really don’t think it’d be such a good thing for us to be seen out in public together,” she answers. “It’d be fine for me, but isn’t this the sort of thing that doctors lose their licenses over?”
“I don’t know that I’d lose my license,” I tell her, “but yeah, it probably wouldn’t be great for my career if we get recognized out on the town doing whiskey shots.”
“Whiskey?” she asks. “You’re a sick, sick man. I’m making you a vodka tonic.”
With that, she’s out of her seat and in her kitchen.
So, what do I do now?
I’ve always worried that I’d run into someone I know from work whi
le out with a woman who’s not Melissa. It never crossed my mind, though, that I’d knock on a door and a patient would be on the other side of it.
While being seen with another woman might not be the best thing to happen to me, being seen with a patient in a social context, especially one wearing a slinky dress topped with a necklace whose ruby pendant falls right at the top of her-
“Here’s your drink,” Grace says.
“Aren’t you going to have anything?” I ask.
“I don’t drink,” she says. “I’ve heard it can kill brain cells and, from what I can tell, I need as many healthy ones as I can get.”
“How are you doing with your treatment, by the way? I know we’re scheduled for a checkup-”
“Oh,” she interrupts, “I’d really rather not talk about that right now.”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“I don’t know,” she says, “anything that takes my mind off the fact that I hired my oncologist to take me out on a night on the town, thus calling into question not only his credentials, but the fact that even when I try to pay for a date, I just end up with someone I’d have trouble seeing myself spending the night with.”
“Well, as your doctor,” I start. I’m not surprised when she interrupts.
“Oh, I know the ethical concerns,” she says. “Still, here you are. So, what are we to do with an evening that has so clearly gotten off on the wrong foot?”
“I was hoping you might have an answer to that question,” I tell her.
“Well,” she says, “since you’re here already, I did have one treatment question for you.”
“What’s that?”
“How long after a round of chemo do I have to wait before I can have sex?” she asks, and I take a long drink of my vodka tonic.
“In a case like yours,” I answer, trying to put on the doctor hat and ignore how brazenly uncomfortable this situation is, “while I would recommend waiting until after a round is over, there shouldn’t be too much to worry about, so long as you’re feeling up to it.”
“So, if someone were to — how do I put this — stick his thing in me, it wouldn’t immediately fall off or anything?” she asks.
I chuckle nervously. “No,” I tell her. “The main concerns that one might have depends a lot on how the chemo is administered, what the dosage is, and whether or not you practice safe sex, specifically with a condom. I would recommend waiting at least a couple of days just to be on the safe side, but — I’m sorry, why are you laughing?”
She smiles. “I guess I’m just amused at the way this night has turned out. I had hoped the topic of sex would come up under a very different context, but it’s good to have the information all the same.”
“You do know that most credible escort services prohibit their employees from having sex with clients, right?” I ask.
“I guess I was just hoping yours was a less-than-credible service,” she says. “How’s your drink?”
“It’s fine, thank you,” I answer. “You do know that nothing can happen between-”
“Shh…” she interrupts. “I know that you’re my doctor and I know where that line is, although I must say you do look rather handsome in your suit. You do clean up very well.”
“Thanks?”
“You’re welcome,” she says. “So, how long have you been a gigolo?”
“You know, I’ve never really been fond of that term,” I answer. “It doesn’t paint a pretty picture.”
“I was going to use the phrase man whore, but you did make it pretty clear that you’re not a prostitute.”
She’s toying with me and who could blame her?
In a sense, to her, I’m representative of the oligodendroglioma in her brain. Her reaction toward me right now, if I had to guess, is her way of trying to regain some sense of control over her situation.
I’m fine taking the hit.
Speaking of taking hits…
“You don’t mind if I light up, do you?” she asks, retrieving a small, square box from under her coffee table. “After all, you did prescribe it to me.”
“I probably shouldn’t be in the room if you do,” I tell her. “Contact high and all that.”
“Suit yourself,” she says and stuffs a glass pipe. “Keep your seat,” she says. “I’ll take it in the other room. My tolerance is still pretty low, so I won’t be long.”
“All right,” I tell her, and she walks out of the room.
Okay, my theory before: if she was just trying to befuddle me to empower herself in an otherwise helpless situation, I’m not sure this is the way she’d go about doing it.
But what do I know? I’m not that kind of doctor.
I pull out my phone and send a quick message to Melissa, telling her that I’m going to be home early.
I don’t have any concrete reason as to why, but I’m getting the feeling that Grace doesn’t have that many people she feels she can talk to about what’s going on.
Maybe she’s just acting out; maybe it’s a personality change from the oligodendroglioma. Regardless, while I don’t see myself staying too much longer, I no longer feel the need to just cut and run.
It’s less than a minute from the time I heard the door to the other room shut and the time I hear it open again.
“You weren’t kidding,” I tell her.
“What?”
“Your tolerance must really be low if you’re out and back that quick.”
“I’m not a stoner,” she says. “So, let’s talk.”
“All right,” I respond. “What would you like to talk about?”
She sits down on the couch next to me and pats my knee, saying, “So, what’s it like being a streetwalker? Does it pay well?”
Chapter Three
The Five-Letter Word
Grace
“It was your doctor?” Margaret asks in a loud voice.
“Be cool, Mags, damn,” I respond. “Yeah, it was my doctor. Nothing happened. If anything, I’d say he was more freaked out by the situation than I was.”
“So, you two didn’t end up, you know…”
“Did I permit him to storm the gates of my Bastille?” I ask.
“I have no idea what that means, but the way you ask makes me think I want to say yes,” she answers.
“No,” I tell her. “We just talked for a while.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Yeah,” I scoff, “I’ve got an appointment at his office this Thursday.”
“You’re not keeping him as your doctor,” she protests.
“Why not?” I ask. “Neither of us planned for what happened and what he does in his personal time is really none of my business.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps, “you like him!”
“Will you stop?” I ask. “What the hell are we, teenagers?”
“Isn’t he married?”
“How would you know if he was?”
“I wouldn’t,” she says, “but it stands to reason that a handsome doctor would have to be married.”
“It’s not like when we were younger,” I tell her. “Doctors aren’t the pinnacle of the quest for dick anymore.”
“You talk like a sailor, you know that?”
“Have you ever heard a sailor talk?” I return.
“No,” she answers.
“Trust me, they don’t talk like that,” I tell her. “Besides, doctors get paid shit nowadays with all the malpractice insurance and all that shit. If you’re looking for someone in the medical field, go with someone who works for a drug company or an insurance company. Sure, they’re generally scum, but they’re the ones with all the money and power.”
“My father works for a drug company,” Mags says, missing the point.
“Whatever. But yeah, thanks for setting me up with the one male escort that not only didn’t, but never would turn my one into a zero.”
“If that’s some new kind of dirty talk,” she says, “you’re really going to have to let me borrow
the dictionary because I don’t have a clue-”
“Never mind,” I interrupt. “So, John’s really staying on?”
Along with being my friend, Mags is also my secretary. She likes to be called a personal assistant, but the way her face goes that shade of you-bastard-pink every time I use the “s” word, I find it difficult to refer to her as anything else.
“Yeah,” she says. “At least, until we know how the new fall lineup’s going to pan out.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I tell her. “Wasn’t he being forced out because of something or another?”
“That’s the scuttlebutt,” she says, “but it looks like he’s not too worried about it anymore.”
“Scuttlebutt?” I ask. “And you’re telling me that my terminology is opaque.”
Really, I just said that last part in hopes that she doesn’t know the word and would give her classic fake grin and wide eye expression that she thinks, for some reason, isn’t a billboard every time she doesn’t know a word.
There it is.
“Opaque means that something is difficult or impossible to see through. In this case, it could be said to mean that it’s simply unclear,” I explain and wait for the series of too-quick head nods and assertions that she does, in fact, know what the word means.
“I know what it means,” she says, and I’m wondering how she’s managed to stave off whiplash this long.
“What do I have after lunch?” I ask.
She pulls her planner from her purse and looks through it.
“It looks like you’ve got a teeth cleaning at four,” she says.
I’m waiting to hear what else I have, but it’s been a growing trend that there’s not much what else to have.
“Seriously?” I ask. “We were moving forward with Ainsley and the board. Are you really telling me that there’s nothing else on the schedule?”
“Oh, you’re right,” she says, tapping the page of her planner with her finger. “Your mother called and wanted to make sure that you haven’t quit your job and started doing porn. She told me that she’d call back around two o’clock.”
“Ah, Mom,” I yawn. “I really do have to figure out a way to get her to lose my number.”
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Mitch, one of my boss’s bosses says, approaching our table.
