Doctor-Patient Confidentiality Box Set

by Eme Strife

  It just feels so warm and soft, and in this weather, I'll definitely take warmth and comfort over looks any day.

  Except, for some reason, I can't seem to get a certain blue-eyed doctor's looks out of my head, even though I'm really trying not to think about him.

  But then that also makes me think of the whole reason I was in his office to begin with. And then that makes me think of his wife.

  And now I feel like crap all over again.

  I breathe out an annoyed sigh, wondering why I feel so temperamental today, and I realize it's because of…well…everything, I guess.

  My stomach acting up and fucking up my singing in the process. Grandpa's upcoming memorial. Hearing Danny's name again and wondering if he'll decide to cuss me out when he shows up at said memorial the way he did at the funeral. This damn weather. And last but certainly not least, being fucking broke on top of it all.

  I breathe out another exasperated sigh, closing my eyes for a moment as I try to ignore the slight stinging sensation behind them and all the worry clouding my mind.

  I realize my butt and my tailbone are still throbbing with pain from falling earlier, but I do my best to ignore that, too.

  I plug my earphones in and allow the music to stream freely, each note and lyric filling me up like freshly made lemonade on a hot summer afternoon. The flow and rhythm of Chopin’s Étude Opus 25 fills my ears and head, replacing all my previous troubling thoughts. In this moment, nothing matters. Nothing else matters but the music.

  I slap open my composition textbook and delve in, skimming over a few chapters I'd already covered over this past weekend. I can't study without music, no matter what I'm studying. I've tried and it just doesn't work. Everything just makes so much more sense when it's accompanied by a song. I've met a lot of people who say they are visual learners. I guess that would make me an auditory learner then, if there is such a thing.

  The music makes me feel amazing, and this particular playlist is a favorite, with compositions by legends like Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, and Debussy, as well as pieces by more modern composers like Macmillan, Strassburg, and Kurtz.

  I'm so lost in the sounds and how they make me feel that I don't hear the door open or someone walk in. It's only after several moments that I register that someone else is in the room, and I look up to see Nicole mouthing something to me. I take the earphones off, and the spell is immediately broken. I'm back in the pub, back in the present, and back in my crappy reality. And the soft melodies, harmonious tunes, and smooth transitions are—to my dismay—replaced by Nicole's high-pitched whining.

  "Oh, my God, just how loud do you have that thing on?" she says, waving her hands around dramatically for emphasis with a disapproving expression on her face to match.

  "Sorry," I offer with a sheepish smile, turning my attention back to my textbook. Nicole is cool, but her voice hurts my ears. And I can really do without it right now. Unfortunately for me though, she doesn't stop talking.

  She sighs, shaking her head like a tired mother who's trying to scold their child but can't find the energy to do so. Her dark auburn hair swishes around her face, swaying in line with her motions. "You'll go deaf by the time you're fifty if you keep that up, you know."

  "Not if your voice beats me to it," I mutter the words before I can stop myself. I wince as soon as they leave my mouth, hoping to high heaven she didn't hear me.

  "What?" she says, her brows drawing close together in question.

  "Nothing," I quickly offer, getting up from the loveseat and packing the book away.

  She waves her well-manicured hand dismissively. "Whatever." She walks past me to head to her locker, and she drops something as she does.

  "Hey, you dropped this," I motion over to her before bending to pick it up from the floor. It looks like a business card, and just as I'm about to hand it to her, I see the writing on it.

  ~THE RAINBOW SEEKERS CLUB~

  BRINGING YOU THE BEST QUALITY ESCORT SERVICES IN ALL COLORS AND FLAVORS

  The contact name on it is Blue Honey, in a fancy italicized font, but I recognize the cellphone number as Nicole's.

  The realization of what it is doesn’t take long to set in.

  Oh wow…

  This is a call girl service card.

  Nicole is a…call girl?

  ***

  When I finally meet her eyes again, she has this knowing smirk on her face.

  "What? You didn't really think I'd be able to get by just working at the 'Great Ole' Mushroom', did you?" she raises her hands and gestures to the space around her to emphasize her sarcasm. "The only reason I'm still even here is 'cause I need an alibi to keep my boyfriend from being nosey, and Larry is pretty good at covering for me. I'll be over and done with this crapper soon enough."

  I'm pretty shocked by what she's telling me, and I can only manage a shrug in response. "I'm not judging."

  Okay, I'm totally judging, even though I know I have no right to. A slight but noticeable pause follows before she speaks again.

  "You should consider it, you know," she says with a smile. "I can hook it up; introduce you to the club and everything. I can even help get you started on your first gig right away if you want."

  I listen to her say the words so casually, her expression beyond nonchalant, and all I can do is look at her like another head just grew out of her neck. I adjust my glasses impulsively, pushing them up my nose as a frown takes my lips hostage.

  "What?" she says, giving me another disapproving look. I can't stop myself from arching my brow in response. I can't believe this chick is actually proposing I whore myself out for cash.

  And, more than that, I can't believe that she seems to be shocked that I'm offended by the suggestion.

  She sighs, seeming to read through both my expression and silence. "Look, all I'm saying is you're a gorgeous girl. Lots of guys wanna be in the company of gorgeous girls. And more than a few are quite happy to pay a pretty penny to do it. It's charity work if you really think about it, Ramona."

  Riiiight. Being an escort is totally for charity. I totally hear ya, Nicole.

  Gosh, is she serious?! Her nonchalance has me floored at the moment, and honestly, there's not much I can say to her right now without coming off rude. So I decide to leave it at, "Thanks, but I'm good. I'm gonna head in, my shift's about to start."

  I extend my hand again to give her her card back. She takes it, giving me another smile before she starts to walk away.

  "In case you change your mind, you have my number," she calls out cheerily, waving the card above her head just before she exits the back door.

  I can't stop myself from wincing at her voice, grateful for the silence she leaves behind her.

  I chuckle, shaking my head as I remember her words.

  ‘You'll go deaf by the time you're fifty if you keep that up, you know’.

  But then my laughter dies almost immediately, vaporizing into nothing as renewed anxiety takes its place.

  I shove my bag into my locker before I head into the main area, sighing as the thoughts of my health and that of my mother come rushing back to the forefront of my mind.

  If I'll even make it to fifty, that is.

  ***

  I flip the light switch on and I'm immediately greeted by the sight of my living room; a small, confined space full of utter chaos.

  There are books and old newspapers scattered everywhere, littered all over the floor and the counter and the sofa, and there's an ever-growing pile of plastic bottles in the kitchen corner that I should have taken out to recycling over a month ago. It's messy as hell, to say the least, and a perfect reflection of my current state of mind.

  I just stand in the open doorway for a few seconds, feeling weak as I regard the disorganized space and knowing good and well that nothing about it will be changing anytime soon. At least not for the better. Not with the way I'm feeling right now.

  I lock the door and lean on it for a moment, closing my eyes as I try to decompress fr
om the day. I try to shut everything out, just for a moment, but I can't even seem to manage that. I can't stop worrying. My mind adamantly refuses to take a break, constantly racing with thoughts of everything, past and present. It's almost as if it's become a separate being, no longer part and parcel of me, doing whatever it wants whenever it wants to. It also seems pretty hell-bent on making me miserable, refusing to yield even as I feel the faint, tell-tale throbs that warn of an oncoming headache.

  I let out an exhausted sigh—something I seemed to be doing a lot today. I attempt to push myself off the door, and it's such a miserable attempt that I end up leaning back on it in a tired slump.

  Another sigh.

  I can't even muster the strength to move my body off the damn door, much less to my bedroom.

  At least it's nice and toasty in here. The heating is exceptional, despite how old the apartment complex is, and that's one thing I'm incredibly grateful for during winter here. Honestly, the apartment was a godsend considering how expensive it is to live alone on this side of town and relatively close to campus without being stark in the middle of it.

  I definitely lucked out with this place. Most landlords charge twice or three times what I pay for my apartment, but Henry's a pretty cool guy, and just happens to be a huge fan of my grandfather's early music, so he cut my rent in half on the condition that I'd get him limited edition and exclusive copies to all his albums and other musical collaborations. Plus, I'm sure he appreciated it when I referred Trixie here the year after I moved in.

  He has a thing for her, and has for some time now, although she won't give him the time of day because she can't seem to look past Bill for even a second. She's been stuck on him for so long and I'm afraid she's only going to get hurt in the end. The fact that they're best friends only makes it ten times worse.

  And speaking of Bill, I wonder if he's confronted Gina about his suspicions yet. Knowing him, he won't. He won't even so much as allude to it when he's with her. I feel bad for him. I feel bad for Trixie. Fuck, I feel bad for myself! I sigh tiredly as I continue to lean against the hollow door, feeling utterly shitty for all of us.

  Several moments later, my phone starts vibrating, forcing me out of my innate pity-party. I fish the device out of my bag as it continues to buzz, getting louder and louder as it does. I feel unusually irritated by the sound. It's like a really annoying bumblebee that won't leave you alone.

  I pick up as soon as the phone's in my grasp, frowning slightly as I notice the 'Unknown Caller' display on the screen.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, Muffin," I hear in response.

  I recognize the voice immediately. "Gran?" I ask, my brows drawing closer to each other in question. "Why is your number showing up as unknown?"

  "Oh, I'm using Theodore's home phone. I think he has it set up to be private or something. You know I don't know how these things work," she admonishes, and I can almost picture her waving her hand in a show of nonchalance to go with her I-can't-be-bothered-to-explain tone.

  I feel my forehead furrowing with more concern. "Theodore? Why are you over at his house this late? Are you alright?" I realize I'm starting to sound a bit panicked. I try to suppress it, but I'm pretty sure I'm failing.

  "Oh, I'm fine, dear," she says. "I accidentally dropped my phone in the sink this morning and it got all wet and wouldn't even turn on afterwards. Theodore put it in some raw rice. He says it'll make it work again. I don't know about all that technology voodoo but I'm taking his word for it and using his home phone in the meantime."

  I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

  "I was just calling to ask," she continues, "would you prefer pecan or key lime pie for the day after tomorrow?"

  I'm a bit surprised by the question, and that feeling quickly transitions to painful nostalgia.

  "Gran…," I breathe out another sigh before continuing in a little above a whisper. "You don't have to make pie for Sunday, you know that."

  "Ramona Georgette Gallo," she huffs adamantly, "if there's one thing you and your grandfather ever agreed on, it's that we need pie on every occasion."

  I smile at hearing that, her words mimicking those of her late husband. I want to laugh but I realize I can't. My throat is starting to feel tight and the smile that manages to form on my lips is accompanied with a burning sensation in my chest. I realize I'm getting choked up. I blink back tears behind my glasses as memories swim through my head.

  When I was ten, my grandfather had been the one who first told me the usual saying, "When life throws lemons at you, you make lemonade." At that age I thought it was such a neat and clever saying.

  But then I'd asked him, my face all scrunched up and serious as I'd cocked my head to the side in question the way a typically curious child would, "What if life throws limes at you instead?"

  He'd full on laughed at that, in his typical cheery and boisterous laugh. Even now, the memory of his infectious laughter makes my chest burn even more as I long to hear it.

  He'd simply replied with the biggest smile on his face, "Well, you make key lime pie with them, of course!"

  Needless to say, key lime pie has been a tradition in our family ever since. It’s also my comfort food.

  Gran had wanted to switch it up every now and again with pecan pie or something else, just to break what she'd considered 'unrepentant monotony', because if it was left to me and my grandpa, we'd have key lime pie every single day of the year. Gran agrees that tradition is great and all, but insists that variety is the spice of life, so we'd agreed— all but reluctantly—to have pecan pie sometimes as well. He's only been gone a year and I can't believe how much I miss him.

  "Alright, Gran," I say once I can finally manage to speak again. "Key lime pie it is."

  She chuckles, almost as if she was expecting the answer, and I can hear pained undertones in her chuckle as well. This is going to be really hard—for the both of us, but especially for her.

  This was a person she had been with since she was nineteen years old. She's seventy-two now, and the man she had spent pretty much all her life with is no longer in it. I can't even begin to imagine what that kind of void feels like, and to be honest, I'm pretty determined to never find out.

  "Do you need me to bring anything?" I ask.

  "No, I've got everything covered, Muffin," she says, as I pretty much expect her to. She never asks for help of any sort from me, or accepts any whenever I offer. She always wants to be the one taking care of me and never the other way around. Especially after what happened with my father.

  I think she feels guilty about it, even though she shouldn't, but I'm not about to argue with her tonight.

  "Okay. 'Night, Gran,” I say finally. “See you tomorrow."

  "Goodnight, my dear. Make sure you drive safely, you hear me?" she says adamantly.

  I can't help but smile at her over-protectiveness. "Yes, Gran."

  Silence fills my apartment once more as she hangs up. There's nothing but the light humming of the heater in the background and the signature buzzing of the refrigerator.

  I figure I'll check on Trixie before I turn in, dialing her number right after Gran hangs up. It goes directly to voicemail. I contemplate heading up to her apartment, but I really don't feel like climbing two flights of stairs right now, and I especially don't feel like going back out into this shitty cold weather, either. Plus, I guess it is late and I don't want to wake her up if she's already asleep.

  I try Bill's phone and get the same result. It's pretty unusual for him to have his phone switched off, and being the nerdy tech he is, he never lets it die. I'm not really sure what to think. I decide to just shoot Trixie a quick text, even though I realize I'm running really low on those right now.

  hey, call me w/n u c this. been worried abt u.

  I stuff my phone back into my bag, leaning my head against the door and sighing once more. I really hope she's okay. I hope they both are.

  ***

  Even though my legs currently feel like they have t
he fortitude of straws, they somehow manage to carry me off into my bedroom. I absently kick my boots off my feet as I put my hair up into a 'pineapple'; a practice that my night-time routine has dictated for the last decade or so of my life.

  I change into my pajamas with far more effort than I think a person should require to change clothes. Twenty minutes later, I'm lying in my bed with freshly brushed teeth, an empty bladder, and the world's warmest blanket wrapped snuggly around me. I grab my phone from my purse once more, ready to plug it in to charge, and just as I'm about to, a thought occurs to me.