by Simon Wood
***
The Friday night forecast for Yosemite was grim, with no likely improvement all weekend, so camping should produce the right circumstances for what Grace intended. A nice viral pneumonia would do nicely. The virus would attack the tissue damage caused by childhood bronchitis and within twelve to thirty hours, the damage should be irreparable.
Finding a secluded spot wasn’t difficult since it was the off-season. Only one other tent and a trailer were in her allotted section of the park and parking as far away from the bathroom facilities as possible would guarantee no disturbances. Grace pitched her tent for appearances but she planned on sleeping outside of it this weekend.
By nine, it was raining, by ten it was pissing down. Grace was smiling inside her sodden sleeping bag, lying out in the open rain. “Bring it home to mama,” she said, and tried to sleep.
***
The drive home Sunday night was a bitch, it was still raining and the flu had already set in. Grace couldn’t make out whether her vision was failing due to the ill effects of the influenza or whether the wipers couldn’t keep up with the torrents of water bouncing off the windshield.
The coughing started and didn’t stop. Grace doubled up over the steering wheel and phlegm coated the fist she held to her mouth. She was coughing so hard that her eyes watered and her foot involuntarily pressed down on the gas pedal. Grace sped through the intersection unaware that the light was red or of the truck that tee-boned her jeep from the left.
Grace awoke in a hospital bed plugged into every piece of equipment the facility had to spare. A nurse said that she would get the doctor and Grace passed back into unconsciousness.
An hour later the doctor was sitting by her side with a smile and sad eyes. “Hello Grace, I hear you’re a doctor?” he said.
“Yes,” Grace said weakly.
“Well, you should understand what we did was for your own good, yes?”
“I understand,” Grace said supportively. “How long have I been here?”
“Eight days,” he said, “I kept you sedated to allow your body to heal itself.”
“And is everything okay?”
“Oh, yes. You should be on the road to recovery now,” he said.
“Why should I be on the road to recovery?” Grace asked.
“You’ve had a terrible car accident. Do you remember it?”
Grace nodded. She relayed the events leading up to the accident and the terrible chill she had caught from being out in the rain (her official story if anyone asked). The doctor listened and nodded at the appropriate times.
“So you remember being ill?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s good,” the doctor paused. “I want you to understand we had no option but to do what we did. If we hadn’t, you would have died.”
“Give it to me straight, I’m a doctor, Doc,” Grace joked, then winced at the spike of pain in her body.
“You had a viral pneumonia, not a chill, and the damage to your left lung was considerable. The onset of the influenza was extreme and quickly advanced to pneumonia. I had no option but to remove it,” the doctor said gravely.
“I understand,” Grace said, and tried to contain a smile. She had gotten just what she wanted.
“But Grace, we had to do more. When the truck sideswiped you, a steel door-reinforcing bar impaled you. We’ve had to remove a kidney as well. I am so very sorry. Is there anyone we can call?” the doctor said.
“No. No there isn’t. I would just like a moment by myself,” Grace said.
“I totally understand. I’ll check in on you later,” the doctor said, getting up.
Grace watched the doctor go but suddenly he stopped and turned. “Grace, we noticed that a number of your toes were missing. How did that happen?” he asked.
“Frostbite when I was skiing in Tahoe. I seem to be accident prone,” Grace said, relaying her second official story.
“Like I said, I’ll drop by later,” he said sadly.
She waited for him to close the door before a smile lit up her face. She couldn’t believe it, two organs for the price of one! It was fantastic; she wanted to scream her pleasure at the top of her voice. She couldn’t wait to weigh herself.
Grace had to wait another ten days before she could weigh herself. The hospital kept her until she was totally recovered from the operation and the accident. As soon as Grace was home, she was out of her clothes and on the scales. The organ removals and the controlled diet the hospital kept her on were responsible for a loss of fourteen pounds. Grace came in at a hundred and seventy-two pounds even.
Grace had negotiated with her own hospital a month’s leave of absence to recuperate. She spent her time in the gym working out and in the sauna, sweating. Her recent weight loss, even if it was by medical means, gave her the impetus to try harder to get down to her target weight. For the first time she believed she could go the distance.
When Grace’s month was up she weighed herself. She wanted to cry. All that sweating had resulted in a loss of only five pounds. She wanted her target weight and she wanted it now.
Grace went back to the hospital with a permanent rain cloud over her head and found it hard to concentrate on her work. Relaxing in the doctor’s staff room, she read about the latest advances in prosthetic limbs. The article detailed how a new generation of carbon fiber and alloy limbs were not only seventy percent lighter than a human limb but had twice the strength. The prosthetic limbs featured were legs that had been used in the disabled Olympics to great effect. Seventy percent lighter, Grace thought.
Doctor Drake burst into the room and disturbed Grace’s thoughts. “Jesus Christ, he’s done it again,” he said.
“Who?” Grace asked.
“Old man Cameron. Fucked up again. This time he’s operated on a child’s hand, but the wrong one. He’s done more damage to the healthy hand than the bad hand had in the first place. That’s it, I’m going to make sure the hospital doesn’t cover this one up. I want that butcher removed,” Drake raged.
***
Grace arrived outside Doctor Cameron’s home just after nine that night with a solution to everyone’s problems. Cameron answered the door.
“Oh hello, Grace. I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, his voice slurred.
Grace couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the stench of alcohol wafting from the old man’s direction. “Yes, I know, but I wanted to discuss something with you,” she said.
“So, it’s to be you who’s to put the boot in, is it?” Cameron wavered on the spot.
“No, I’ve come to help you. Can I come in?”
Cameron showed Grace into his living room, which looked and smelled like Cameron’s insides. Whisky bottles, empty or otherwise, littered the mantelpiece, tables and shelves like ornaments, and the stale stink of cigarette smoke clung to the walls. Grace sat down and placed the thick manila envelope on her lap and waited for Cameron to join her.
“You’ve heard about my day, I suppose?” he said.
“Yes, and I think I have a solution to your predicament,” she said.
“A solution?”
“Yes, but only if you help me to do something.”
“What?” Cameron asked eagerly.
Grace could see the desperation in his eyes. He knew he was up against the ropes and he would do anything to save his ass. This is going to work, she thought.
“I have falsified your patient’s file indicating that the hand you operated on was the correct one and the mistake was typographical. Why should a doctor as good as yourself suffer when there’s a perfectly expendable secretary to take the fall?” Grace said, handing him the file from the envelope.
Grace read Cameron’s face as the old man flicked through her handiwork. His eyes were alive with the possibility that he would get away with his error, no drunken haze clouded his judgment now. Flecks of spittle glistened on his lips. His tongue flicked across his thin mouth like a lizard preparing to snare a fly. The incompetent bastard was hers.
“I would be willing to stand up on your behalf at a tribunal, if needs be,” Grace added, tipping the balance.
Cameron turned to Grace and asked, “Why help me?”
“Because I want you to do something for me,” Grace replied.
Grace removed the magazine about the prosthetic limbs and gave it to Cameron. As he scanned the article, she explained what she wanted.
“I have prepared a case file,” Grace removed it from the envelope, “showing that after my accident I came to you about pains in my thighs. You ran an MRI and discovered that the doctors in Yosemite failed to notice fractures in both my femurs.”
Cameron stared up from the magazine article, a puzzled look plastered across his face. His booze addled brain had failed to make the leap.
Grace continued. “This has led to circulation problems in the bones, a form of vascular necrosis, and the bones are dying. After several procedures, attempts have failed to save the femurs and that means you will have to amputate both my legs six inches from the hip.”
“Are you insane? You want me to remove your legs unnecessarily?” Cameron said, stunned.
“I just want to reach my target weight. And if you don’t do what I want, exactly the way I want it, then these files won’t make it to your hearing and you won’t get to keep your precious medical license. So what’s it to be, Doctor?” Grace produced a pen from her purse and offered it to the nervous looking doctor. “Now will you sign the file?”
***
When Grace awoke from the surgery a week later, she stared at the smooth bed sheets lying flat against the mattress where her legs should have been. A warm tingle of delight filled her belly and she stretched to touch the empty space. Grace had to be close now.
She lay back and saw her new legs lying on the table opposite the bed. They looked beautiful in polished black and silver, very sporty looking with their elegant levers and slender pistons. She had chosen not to have the mechanical workings covered with synthetic flesh and muscle to make them more human. Firstly, she couldn’t afford the extra weight, and secondly, she wanted people to notice, to know what she had done to achieve her target weight. Grace slipped back into a peaceful sleep, eager to try on her legs and weigh herself.
It was another ten days before she had the chance to try on her legs. Naked in her bathroom, sitting in her wheelchair, Grace slipped the false limbs over her stumps and fastened the harness the way the specialist had shown her in the hospital. Gingerly, she rose to her feet and took a few steadying steps. She examined her new self in the mirror.
The legs looked good. The shiny carbon and polished alloy looked sharp. She tottered around in a circle to look at the backs.
“No crooked seams. Not bad,” she said approvingly.
Grace caught sight of the scars where her lung and kidney had been removed. The kidney scar was small but the lung scar was larger at eight inches. Neither scar was ugly but rather dignified, much like a tattoo. Grace completed the pirouette and studied her naked front again.
“Looking good, Gracie. Now it’s show time,” she said to her reflection. For Grace, this was the moment of truth. Had it all been worth it?
With her mechanical legs she climbed onto the scales. Her grin was huge as she gazed down at the readout. She squeaked with delight, satisfaction and a hundred other emotions. The readout read one hundred and forty, Grace’s target weight, not a penny more, not a penny less.
After a few more days of recuperation and adaptation to her new legs, Grace strode proudly into the hospital. She wanted to make an entrance and boy did she do that. She wanted to give everybody the opportunity to see the new Grace. She wore the shortest skirt she had ever worn, showing off her new legs that click-clacked with every step on the tiled floor. Her crop top showed a bare midriff complete with operational scars.
Everybody stopped and stared, openmouthed in astonishment.
Get a good look boys and girls, I’m my target weight. What man can’t help but look me now? Grace thought.
POLKA DOTS
He glimpsed the girl wandering along the highway’s edge and felt that tingle again. The tingle intensified the closer he got to her. His psyche whacked up the amps in his groin. He didn’t have a choice. He had to stop.
He shot past the hitchhiker before he eased his pride and joy—a ‘78 Camaro—off the highway and onto the dirt shoulder. He swung the passenger door open and waited for her to catch up. He followed her every move in his rearview.
Seeing his offer, she took her own sweet time, not bothering to race over to open the door. She didn’t seem to fear that the offer of a ride might be available for a limited period only.
But screw it, why should he care? It gave him time to stare. She was young, eighteen maybe. He liked them young.
The pink dress, shapeless and angular with the tiniest of sleeves, would have been unflattering on most. But, on her, it told him more about her hot bod hiding underneath than if her clothes had been sprayed on. The swing of her hips nudged the stiff fabric and soft curves cried for release. The hem enticed, stopping halfway up her thigh. It only made him want to see higher.
Maybe she wasn’t a hitchhiker. She hadn’t thumbed for a ride or even paid attention to the sparse traffic. She definitely wasn’t dressed for the weather conditions. With miles of unending highway ahead and behind, he wouldn’t want to be caught out in the blazing summer heat.
Maybe that was it. Maybe she had been caught out. Maybe she had blown a piston and she needed a knight in shining armor. Maybe, he could be her knight.
As she crouched to see into his car, she shielded her eyes from the sun. Her eyes searched the interior.
“Need a ride?” he asked.
Wrinkling her nose, she replied, “Not really.”
She’s cool, he thought. Yes sir, she’s cool.
“I’m offering one.” He flashed his smile, the deal clincher smile.
She thought about the offer for a moment. The smile worked again. “Okay,” she replied.
She slid into the passenger seat and closed the door. The pink dress wasn’t just pink, but polka-dotted with red spots. The material was stiff and creased in all the wrong places. She made the best of a bad job, smoothing out the wrinkles.
He squashed the gas pedal into the carpet and the Camaro leapt forward. He hadn’t meant to pull away so fast but the tingle made him. He had to get a grip. He needed something to let him know who was in control. Idly, he let his left arm drop between the gap between his door and the seat. His fingertips grazed the blade and the tingle took its rightful place under his command.
She gazed at sun-baked nothingness out of the window, although she didn’t seem interested in the world flashing past. Her attitude dripped apathy. She didn’t seem to care about anything. But he would make her care.
“Don’t you wear a seatbelt?” he asked.
She turned and examined the belt stretched across his chest. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t.”
Her gaze returned to the open window—end of subject.
Well, if she didn’t want to talk, fine. He wasn’t a big one for conversation anyway. He was quite happy to continue staring.
Hot wind funneled through the window, blow-drying her hazelnut hair. He imagined it would have a glossy shine to it, if shampooed and conditioned. The wind lifted her hair and he noticed errant strands glued to her neck by sweat. So she was cool, but not that cool.
His gaze descended to her slender arms and delicate hands that graced them, both reddened by the sun. She took care of her fingernails. Definitely manicured. Each one was perfectly sculpted and painted crimson.
The dress was a tease. The inflexible material was so stiff it creased into awkward shapes that disobeyed her figure. Through the short sleeves he caught the profile of her breast—small yet firm and unencumbered by a bra. His mouth would fit it nicely.
Perfection continued with her legs. Neither skinny nor muscled, but perfectl
y defined, every inch had just the right balance of muscle and flesh. Shoulder dirt blackened her feet and the spaces between her toes. Grime clogged her toenails. She had been walking some time. Her soles had to be tough, though. He was no tenderfoot, but he knew he couldn’t have walked barefoot out there.
The tattoo was provocative, thrilling. A red rose bloomed on the side of her left calf and its thorny stem curled around her ankle, ending on the top of her foot. She had mutilated her perfect skin permanently, but it had enhanced her beauty. It added to her mystery. The mystery he would unlock with the tingle and his blade.
She caught him staring at her tattoo. She was neither appalled nor flattered. She viewed him without emotion like a scientist carrying out a routine experiment.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Rose,” she replied.
It seemed appropriate.
“I’m Jed.” He offered a hand.
She looked at his outstretched hand and didn’t take it.
Fine, fine, he thought, she wants to play it that way, then that’s fine and dandy. He was a big boy; he could take it—no biggie. But she wouldn’t be so aloof later.
The tingle took a lap of honor through his loins. But it wasn’t a clean tingle. It was tainted. He reached down and stroked the blade again. This time too hard, its edge dug into his thumb, drawing blood. But the tingle backed down.
“Where ya heading?” he asked, keeping things moving.
She shrugged.
“Is anyone expecting you?”
She shook her head.
He licked his lips. Life was throwing him a party. This didn’t happen. If she was as apathetic as she was making out and she had no trail, no one was missing her and no one was expecting her. He could have his fun and he wouldn’t have to be careful.
The tingle ripped through him. His heart skipped a beat and he caught his breath. The tingle had been thinking it too. Murder!
Rose studied his spasm with fleeting interest.
Murder would move him up a league. He had stuck rigidly to a formula. He had raped at knifepoint. He and the tingle got a kick out of seeing the nightmare play out on each poor bitch's face. And nobody went home without a cut or three. He shouldn’t be the only one with a souvenir from the encounter.
