I rap firmly on the window, hoping to startle whoever is inside to wake up. I don’t hear anything, and peering in, I can only make out one figure, which is slumped over into the passenger seat. It does not look good. I hope whoever it is isn’t dead. Finding dead bodies is probably in my top ten least favorite parts of the job. Okay, probably top five.
I knock again, even harder and more insistently this time. Still nothing. Shit. I really don’t want to break the window.
Finally, I see a slight stir of movement, and my heart begins to pound as a hand moves toward the door on the opposite side. I look up just in time to see Morgan pacing toward me. I shoot her a look, and even several yards away, she seems to know I need some help. I start to make my way to the other side of the car as Morgan breaks out into a full-on sprint, reaching the car about the same time the door flies open.
The first thing that hits me is the odor. It’s foul, like this person hasn’t bathed in a few days, and all of those raging scent particles have been trapped inside the tight confines of this car for hours, maybe longer. I see two cans of compressed air, the kind you use to clean your computer keyboard, on the floorboard of the car, and I immediately know what we’re dealing with. A huffer.
It’s a woman, probably in her late thirties or early forties, with dyed red hair, you know that purply fake red, not a natural redhead. She’s a bit on the chunky side with pale, almost fluorescent skin and dark blue circles under her bloodshot eyes.
“Step out of the car,” Morgan states firmly as she backs away to give the woman room. I back up three paces as well. Sometimes having female cops deal with female clients is best…sometimes it’s just the opposite. You don’t really know until you try.
But we learn pretty quickly that it’s not going to work with this woman, as a string of expletives flies out of her mouth like fireworks on the Fourth of July—just as colorful too. Mother-effing this and Mother-effing that. I’m pretty sure she calls Morgan the “c” word. I don’t want to take my eyes off the woman in the middle of her raging bitchfest, but I can feel Morgan’s anger radiating off her. I know if I do steal a look at my partner, she will be absolutely fuming with red cheeks and narrowed eyes, the whole nine yards.
“Step out of the car, or we’ll be forcibly removing you,” she reiterates, her tone even more authoritative than before.
I try to play the good cop. “Things will go a lot more smoothly for you if you just cooperate and come out of the car.”
“Fuck you!” she screams at me, lunging for the door handle so she can slam the door shut.
Oh no she didn’t! Before Morgan can react, I reach into the car with both hands, trying to take the belligerent woman into custody as she wriggles under me like a fish that’s jumped out of its bowl. There’s not enough room for my partner to assist, so she moves around to the other side of the car to try coming at the woman from the other direction.
Limbs are flailing, curses are still flying. I feel like I’m trying to nail Jello to the wall as Morgan grabs the lady from behind. Then, all the sudden, I feel a sharp pain clamp down on my arm. I look down, and the damn woman has sunk her teeth into my forearm as if it is a giant juicy steak!
“What the actual hell are you doing?” I shout. “Morgan!” I think she might try to taze the woman, but I’m a little afraid that current is going to go directly into me since we’re attached. It’s like freakin’ Shark Week in here!
I try to shake her loose, but she doesn’t budge. Finally, I bring my other elbow down into the fleshy part of her thigh, causing her to cry out and release my arm. Then Morgan is able to grasp both of the woman’s hands and wrangle them into cuffs.
Still shaking my head at the fact I just got bitten by some crazy high lady in the Walmart parking lot, I back away then pull her out of the car, even though her legs are still wildly kicking and thrashing. Morgan rushes around the vehicle to help me, then we escort her to the back of Morgan’s Tahoe.
“Now I have to go back in and arrest the shoplifter,” she says, laughing. “All in a day’s work, huh?”
I’m still stunned, and my arm freaking hurts—even more now that the adrenaline is wearing off. I’m afraid to look at it.
“Did she really bite you?” She looks down at my arm, and there’s a ring on the fabric of my uniform sleeve, darkened with saliva. “Shit, Everson, you better see if she broke the skin.”
I roll up the sleeve, and sure enough, there’s a bright red ring matching the one on the material, and there are indentions from her teeth, a few of which are slightly bleeding.
Morgan’s eyes are huge as she looks over the bite mark, then she lifts them back to my face. “You should go get that checked out.”
“We gotta get this other one first,” I remind her.
“Okay, but then you gotta get over to the hospital. Who knows what kind of diseases she has?”
Twenty minutes later, I slip back into my own Tahoe, still shaking my head. How is it these things only happen to me?
It’s been a remarkably quiet morning. Some old guy with the flu needed IV fluids. An older woman fell and broke her hip. And a baby had a fever that wouldn’t come down. The latter didn’t have insurance, so they wound up here. I’m thinking about how royally screwed up our health care system is when I see him walk through the back door to the ER, the swagger in his step just as pronounced as it was the other day when he didn’t believe I was a doctor.
I keep my head down, not wanting to make eye contact, but he sees me anyway and jogs over toward me. “Hey, Dr. Miller!”
Would a visible eyeroll be unprofessional?
“Is something wrong, Trooper Everson?” I take a deep breath and remind myself of the Hippocratic Oath.
“Hey, can you take a look at something for me?” he asks, his hazel eyes glittering.
Ugh, glittering. Why do they have to be glittering? Couldn’t they be dull? Lifeless? Full of ennui?
But no, he looks kind of—vulnerable, if I’m reading him right.
“Can you wait for a nurse? I’m—”
I was going to say I am rushing off to see a patient, but the truth is, I don’t even have anyone waiting on me. He seems to call me out on my lie when he turns his head to scan the premises. It’s deserted. No hurried squeaking of shoes on the shiny floor. No patients being wheeled through the doors. I can’t even hear any machines beeping. Damn it.
“Alright, come on,” I huff, turning toward one of the exam rooms. I barely catch the smile spreading across his face as he begins to follow me. I close the curtain behind me, then notice he has one sleeve rolled up and one down.
“What’s going on?” I wheel my stool over to him after he takes a seat on the edge of the exam table.
“Some lady just bit me.” He chuckles, thrusting his arm out toward me. “Can you believe it? My partner thought I should get it checked out.”
My brows furrow as my eyes travel down to his arm. Sure enough, there’s a bitemark and some of the teeth broke the skin a little, but the wounds are not deep. “Wow, was it a kid?” I try to imagine an adult who would bite a police officer, but the imprint is pretty wide. It looks too wide to be from a kid’s mouth.
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “Full-grown lady. Another feisty redhead.”
Another? Is he comparing me to some criminal WHO BIT HIM?
“She probably wasn’t a real redhead though,” he continues, completely unaware of my growing annoyance. I’m sure the flush burning onto my cheeks would give it away to any non-self-absorbed human, but no, Trooper Asshat is entirely clueless. “You strike me as a real redhead, but what do I know? I’d need to—”
“Does it hurt?” I ask, trying to prevent him from saying what I am afraid he’s going to say.
“Hell yes, it hurts! I just had some high-as-a-kite lady—and I use the term ‘lady’ loosely—who thinks she’s a barracuda viciously attack me!” His broad shoulders are heaving to emphasize his words, and there’s a good dose of agitation in his tone.
&
nbsp; Good, now he knows how I feel.
“So what do I need to do?” he asks, softening his voice. “Shots? Tests? Bloodwork? What?”
I grab some alcohol swabs out of the drawer behind me, and he watches me rip open the package. As soon as the liquid makes contact with his skin, he winces like a child. Where’s the tough cop now? I wonder.
“That stings!” he hisses as I rub it a little for good measure. Am I going a little harder than necessary? Maybe, but Trooper Asshat needs a bit of an attitude adjustment.
I’ve dated enough cops to know his type. He’s good looking and single. He thinks he can use his uniform to his advantage, that he can have any woman he wants. Yeah, that act worked on me a few times, but I’ve learned pretty quickly these types of cops can never be faithful. And they never want to settle down. Commitment-phobes, all of them. Why limit yourself to one woman when you can have the attention of dozens of women just by showing up in your uniform every day?
The ego on these guys is totally off the charts. And it’s all an act, right? He just flinched when I dabbed his wound with alcohol. Get real.
“You want a Sesame Street Band-Aid?” I pull out a little cardboard box from the cabinet to the right of the sink. “Or is Batman more your style? I think Batman, am I right?” My eyes scan his face, checking if he’s as amused as I am right now.
“What’s your name, Dr. Miller?” He tries to steal a glance at the ID I wear on a lanyard around my neck. It’s flipped around so he can’t read it.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” I fire back. “What’s your name, Trooper Everson?” But I can already see by looking at the gold nameplate above his badge that it’s Christopher.
“Chris,” he answers, still studying me. “And it’s actually Corporal Everson.” He doesn’t seem angry about my Band-Aid joke. “And I am sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean to offend you. I mean, you could have taken it as a compliment.”
“A compliment?” I scoff. Yeah, okay. You didn’t believe I had like eight plus years of education but whatever. That’s hardly a compliment.
“Yeah, because I obviously thought you were younger than you actually are,” he explains. “So, let’s see, you’re probably, what, like thirty-three, thirty-four? You’ve been out of med school for four years now? Two years of residency, and this is your first real gig, right?”
I’ve been out of med school for five years, and this is my second gig, but who’s counting, right?
“What does my age have to do with this?” Is this guy a cop or just an expert at sticking his foot in his mouth?
“I just wondered if we were the same age.” A little smirk is tugging at his lips. “I’m only twenty-nine though.”
Oh, so now he’s bragging about being younger than me?
“Again, I fail to see the relevance to your visit here today,” I retort. I’ve about lost my patience with this guy, but then again, there is something electric happening in the space between us. He’s clearly flirting with me, and my body is responding. I want him to go and to stay all at the same time. It’s maddening, the conflict brewing inside me.
“What do I need to do about my arm?” he questions, a serious expression replacing the playful smile.
I want that smile back.
Wait, no. NO, no, no. Not even a little bit yes. It’s a hard no.
“I think you’ll be fine,” I assure him. “If you start foaming at the mouth or something, come back in, okay?”
“Like maybe she gave me rabies?” He suddenly looks downright terrified.
I can’t help but laugh. For a tough guy, he’s not very good at hiding his emotions.
I just shake my head, laughing at him. “I’m sure she didn’t give you rabies. But if it swells up or starts to look infected, or if you start running a fever, let us know. You can ice it and take over-the-counter pain medicine if you need to.”
The worried look dissolves as a mischievous grin takes its place. “So you never told me your name or whether or not you’re a natural redhead. I’ll let the age thing slide.” He takes the Batman Band-Aid from my hand and presses it down over the bite. Or half of it, anyway. “Looks like I need one more.” His hazel eyes lift to mine, and once we connect, he gives me a smoldering look, one of clear and desperate flirtation.
Damn it, I can’t believe he is hitting on me! What a royal jerk. Living up to his Trooper Asshat nickname for sure.
I hand him another Band-Aid, then turn my back to him before opening the chart I’ve been carrying around. I busy myself making notes, willing my eyes to stay on the paper and not trail back at him. “Have a good day, Chris,” I dismiss him. “And be careful out there.”
He doesn’t say another word. I feel the energy in the room shift when I suspect he’s left, and sure enough, when I finally allow myself to glance back, he’s gone.
Four
Let me just preface this by saying I’m not overly fond of big groups of women. I haven’t figured out if it’s because I’m intimidated by them, or they’re intimidated by me. Or maybe it’s because I’m a tomboy through and through, and I just don’t get all the pretense that comes with such a high concentration of estrogen. Suffice it to say, the dress fitting with Sonnet’s group of bridesmaids was not high on my list of things to look forward to.
But, I do love Sonnet, so I find a parking place along the Avenue and affix a happy smile to my lips. Stepping out of my car, I hear the waves crashing on the beach only a block away. The wind has picked up this morning, blowing my copper red hair in my face and making it stick to my lip gloss. I never wear lip gloss, of course, but I did make a little bit of an effort to gussy myself up for this bevy of bridesmaids.
It’s the offseason at the beach and most assuredly my favorite time of year. I’d much rather be on my bike, but it’s not quite warm enough for that yet. Any day where you can find a parking space close to the boardwalk in Rehoboth Beach is an amazing day. My beautiful little seaside town almost looks deserted today, but it’s early yet. I’m sure some locals will venture down here during the day.
I push into the bridal shop on one of the side streets, but not before taking a moment to admire the beautiful ivory lace gown in the window. With my height and statuesque figure, I think I could pull off a trumpet shape like that. Who am I kidding though? There will be no wedding bells in my future. My mother lamented as soon as I started med school that I was choosing an MD over an MRS, but I’ve never regretted my decision. If I ever do fall in love and get married, my husband will just have to deal with the fact that being a doctor is my lifelong dream, and no one is going to stand in the way of it.
Sonnet is standing beside the counter talking to an older African American lady with gray hair swept up into a French roll. Beside her is a tall, slender, incredibly animated white man and a woman a little older than me who also has red hair, but hers is a deeper auburn. “Hello?” I interject when I come within a few paces of them.
“Brynne!” Sonnet exclaims, whipping around so fast, her long, dark ponytail swishes against her. “This is Liz, the owner of Beach Brides, and this is my wedding coordinator and neighbor, Ken. And this is my bridesmaid, Claire Reilly. Everyone else should be here shortly.”
I shake hands and smile graciously at all my new acquaintances. I do recognize Claire, now that I hear her name. I’ve heard Sonnet talk about a “Claire” before, but I didn’t put two and two together that it was Claire Reilly, who is a bit of a local celebrity around here. She is an author and used to write a column for The New York Times. Last summer, she and her husband produced a musical here in Rehoboth at the concert venue owned by Sonnet’s fiancé Drew.
As I’m standing there, the perfect picture of social awkwardness, the door chimes again and in walks two more women. One is shorter and heavyset with pale skin, dark hair and beautifully symmetrical features. She looks familiar, but I can’t seem to place her. She’s followed by a middle-aged lady with strawberry blonde hair (how can Sonnet have so many redheaded friends? It’s
like Ginger Con 2018 up in here!) and kind of a Mom Look going on, wearing high-waisted jeans and a cardigan. Though maybe high-waisted jeans are in again, I don’t know. I don’t keep up with fashion trends at all. They’d probably all give me funny looks if they knew I was wearing an old Guns N’ Roses concert tee under my sweater.
“Hey, ladies!” Sonnet gushes and backs up to include everyone in the circle we’ve formed near the counter. “Claire, Brynne, this is Karen Peterson, whom I used to work with at Wallop’s Island, and this is Lindy Larson, who teaches with me at Delmarva Academy. We’re just waiting on one more person, my former roommate from when I lived down in Virginia. She’s not exactly known for her punctuality, Liz, so maybe we should go ahead and get started?”
Liz nods and smiles, then disappears into a back room while we all stand around trying to make small talk.
“You’re Dr. Miller, right?” Lindy questions as she turns to face me.
I nod, hoping my cheeks aren’t going to blush. I take a deep breath and concentrate on cool thoughts. I really wish my skin didn’t do that.
“We’ve met in the ER,” she explains. “My parents are sort of frequent fliers.” She has a sheepish grin on her face.
“Oh, the Larsons! Frank and Betty!” Oh yes, now I know why she looked familiar. “You brought me goodies a few weeks ago. Thank you so much!”
Yeah, this really is a small town.
Liz returns with several plastic-covered dresses slung over her arm. “Let me get you set up in the fitting rooms. I can do three at a time.” She nods her head toward three doors along the wall at the back of the spacious showroom.
We start to follow her back, but my eyes immediately catch on the racks and racks of white, cream, ivory, and every other shade of off-white you can imagine along the righthand side of the store. In the middle are circular racks that are color-themed. There’s one with red gowns, one with pinks, one with purples, one with greens, and one with blues. Then there’s a rack with black, silver and gold. It’s a sumptuous feast for my eyes, dazzling them with exquisite beading, sequins, and lush fabrics. It’s all a stark contrast to the drab colors, fabrics and finishes I’m accustomed to seeing in my line of work. I mean, can you think of anything more unflattering than a hospital gown?
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