by Elle Casey
As I reach the street, a car pulls up to the curb. It’s the BMW I bought Hilary for our one-year anniversary. The door opens and she gets out, her face lighting up when she sees me standing there next to her car.
“James! Perfect timing. Can I give you a ride?”
I can’t believe she’s showing up here now. It’s either monumentally bad luck or good; at this point I can’t tell the difference. Every cab I see going by is full.
“Hilary, I talked to you about this already.” I’m looking for a cab with its light on, knowing that getting into her car would be a big mistake. I can be firm with her over the phone, but if she puts her hand in my dick it’s going to be harder, and she can be a very determined woman when she sets her mind to something.
“We can’t have a discussion like that over the phone,” she says, using her cajoling voice. “It’s too impersonal. I needed to see you, to talk to you face-to-face.”
“There’s nothing left to say.” Hope soars when I see a cab pull over across the street to drop off its passengers. Ignoring Hilary, I step in front of her car and hold out my hand, letting out the loudest whistle I know how to make.
“I have plenty to say,” she insists, her temper flaring.
I know this tone of voice well; it usually precedes things getting broken like plates or glasses.
“But I’m not interested in hearing it,” I say. Relief floods through me as I see the cabbie turning to come in my direction. He has to wait for the traffic to subside, so I put my arm down and step into the street, anticipating his arrival and my escape from Hilary’s clutches.
“You’re a bastard, James. A fucking bastard!”
I ignore her, knowing that anything I say at this point will only make things worse.
She gets back in her car at the same time the cab pulls into traffic.
I take another step out and farther down the street, giving him room to move around Hilary.
The next thing I hear over the noise of horns honking is the distinct sound of a revving BMW engine. There is no whine quite like the high performance motors under those hoods. I never feared that sound before, but as Hilary’s expression turns murderous and I catch a glimpse of it through her windshield, I do now.
Leaping back to the curb, I barely avoid being run over by the crazy bitch I almost proposed marriage to.
Horns blare and people start shouting. My cabbie is pissed she almost made him wreck his car. Bystanders are yelling that she almost hit me. For two seconds the world stops turning and everything else falls away as I stare at the woman I almost tied myself to for a lifetime. She smirks, flips me off, and then slams on the gas pedal, driving like a bat out of hell down the street, swerving to avoid hitting other cars.
The cab driver pulls in to the space she vacated. Leaning over as he opens his passenger side window, he says, “That lady almost hit you, man!”
I get into his cab and sigh heavily as I drop my head to the seat back behind me. “Williamsburg Brooklyn. Bedford Ave.”
“You know that lady?” he asks me as he pulls into traffic.
“I thought I did. Once.”
“My advice? Stay far away from that one. She’s a crazy lady.”
“You’re telling me.”
“You gotta find yourself a nice girl. A good girl. That’s what I did. Now we got three kids, all of them on the honor roll at school.”
“Good for you,” I say only half listening. My mind is swirling with sick babies, surgeries, disloyal secretaries, and nut bag ex-girlfriends.
“Used to drive my ma crazy, though. I dated all kinda bad girls. None of them tried to run me over, but I’ll bet some of them wanted to.” He chuckles at his memories. “My ma would say, ‘When are you going to settle down with a nice girl?’, and I’d say, ‘When I’m ready to settle down.’” He looks up at me in his rearview mirror briefly. “Mothers don’t get it, do they?” He goes back to watching the road. “There’s the dating kinda girl and there’s a marrying kinda girl. You don’t fool around with the marrying kind. You commit to those girls, right off the bat. Like they said in Jerry McGuire … you don’t shoplift the pootie.”
I blink a few times, not sure I heard correctly. “Shoplift what?”
“You don’t shoplift the pootie. You’re with a nice girl who loves you, you treat her right. You don’t play around. Otherwise, you’re shoplifting the pootie, and that ain’t cool.” He nods, giving me a serious look, as if he’s dispensing life lessons from the front of his cab.
“Yeah, sure.” I’m just trying to get him to shut up at this point. I’ll destroy my kidneys if I take another Advil.
“You got yourself a nice girl?” he asks.
Visions of a crazy woman in a gypsy skirt dance in my mind. “No.”
“I’ll bet you’ve never had a nice girl before. Am I right?” He grins at me.
I close my eyes and try to forget where I am for a little while. “Maybe,” I finally say. Honestly, I can’t remember ever begin attracted to a woman and thinking to myself what a nice girl she is. I’ve always admired the way her ass filled out a pair of jeans or thought about how much I wanted to dive into her cleavage. Any woman who seemed interesting from the neck up always felt like trouble to me.
Maybe Hilary was right when she accused me of being bad at commitment. Before I could have cared less, but as I race to the aid of my sister and our sick niece, I’m starting to wonder if I should care more. Or even a lot.
Chapter Forty-Six
TWO DAYS LATER I’M IN my office with decisions to make. Big ones. After taking a day off to help Jana with the baby and realizing that neither of us is in a position to be making major decisions for Cassie without something legal to back us up, it’s become clear that being the nice guy is only going to hurt us more in the long run.
“I hate the idea of just taking her away from Jeremy so … legally. So in your face,” Jana says.
I’m in my office, talking to her using my landline, expecting Veronica to come in at any moment to let me know about my next patient. I see her name on my list as the next appointment, but I don’t recognize it. Shay Dee? Who is that? Is that even a person?
“I know you do, and so do I, but we don’t have a choice at this point. We’re lucky Cassie didn’t need to be hospitalized. If she had been, I’m not sure my credentials would have been enough to help us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that while I’m allowed a certain amount of leeway, I’m not a pediatrician. I can’t be her treating doctor and that means I can’t be given access to her records or her treatment. And since you aren’t her legal guardian, neither can you. If she got seriously ill or injured, it would be … complicated. And not in a good way.”
Jana sighs. “Okay, fine. I understand everything you’re saying and I agree, but only because it’s what Cassie needs.” She pauses. “Jeremy’s going to be pissed.”
“Then Jeremy can get off his drunk ass and start being a father,” I say, angry that we’re both feeling guilty about a problem he’s caused.
“I’m going to hang up before you say something you’ll regret,” she says. There is no censure in her voice, just extreme fatigue. And after seeing what she goes through with Cassie for twenty-four hours, I can fully understand why.
“Get some sleep. I’ll email Robinson and get him moving forward on that paperwork.”
“But don’t we need Jeremy’s signature?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it.” I’m picturing a private detective following his drunk trail around Manhattan.
“Okay. Love you. Thanks for all your help.”
“Love you too. Thank you for everything you’re doing for Jeremy and Cassie.”
She hangs up without another word and as soon as the line goes dead, my door opens.
“Your next appointment is here,” Veronica says. She looks nervous.
I motion for her to close the door. Once we’re alone, I frown. “Who is this person, Shay Dee?”
&
nbsp; Veronica comes in and leans over, whispering even though no one can hear us outside this room. “She’s a rap star. Her manager called on Monday and set up the appointment.”
“Have you ever heard of her before?”
Veronica shakes her head. “No. And I googled her and there’s nothing about her online either. I think she’s a new star, about to hit it big.” She looks excited about this fact.
“Do we know who referred her?”
“No.”
I’m not happy with that answer because I’ve specifically instructed Veronica to gather that data with every new patient. “I’ll be out in a minute. Please make sure she has something to drink if she wants it.”
“Already taken care of,” she says, smiling before she leaves me.
I stand up and check my teeth in the small mirror that hangs next to my door. Time for a haircut, I think as I open the door and step out into the waiting room.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. A young girl with the loudest outfit I’ve ever seen is waiting for me, a giant plastic purse under her arm. If I were to describe her look for a magazine, I’d coin the term grunge tranny. I study her face carefully to see if she’s already had some work done. It’s then that I get the impression that I’ve seen her somewhere before.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“YOU!” SHE SAYS, POINTING AT me.
“Me. Yes. I’m Doctor Oliver.” I reach my hand out to take hers and smile, hoping to ease us past this very uncomfortable greeting. I can’t tell if the weird feelings are a result of her get-up or the fact that I can’t place her exactly.
Where have I seen her before? Online? On television? Whoever did her lip injections needs to be sued, that’s for sure. She looks like she’s got hives.
I smile. “And you must be … Shay, is that right?”
She nods. “Shay Dee, thass me. Thass my name.” She takes my hand in a loose grip, but looks around me into my office, like she can’t wait to get in there.
I look at Veronica and give her the signal to be on the alert. We do this when I think I’m about to be dealing with an overly emotional patient.
“After you,” I say, gesturing for her to go in before me.
Her skirt is riding up high on her waist and she’s trying to push it down from the front. I turn around to shut the door and give her a few moments to get herself together. I hear rustling behind me as she moves her clothing around.
She takes a seat across from mine and checks out my diplomas as I move around the desk. This is standard procedure for any new patient, so I give her time to absorb it all while I take a seat.
“So, what brings you here today, Miss Dee?” I say as soon as her attention is back in my direction.
Her face goes blank for a few seconds. Then she bursts out with, “You married?”
I wasn’t expecting that, but I act like it’s a completely normal first question from a patient to her new doctor. “No, I’m single. But let’s talk about you…”
“Ever been engaged, maybe?”
I could swear she just lost her street-smart accent, but before I can say anything, she jumps back in.
“Yo, you know, like almost with a ball and chain.”
I open my mouth to respond but am interrupted when she starts choking.
I jump to my feet, wondering if I’m about to use the Heimlich. “Are you okay?”
She puts one hand up like a stop sign as she holds her neck with the other. Her voice is hoarse.
“Yeah, yeah, just got my gum stuck in my throat.” She lets her neck go and sits straighter, her voice back to normal. “So, you were saying…?”
This is the most ridiculous question and answer session I’ve ever been a party to. I need to find a way to derail it. I remain on my feet, sensing that I need to be ready for anything. I don’t trust this Shay Dee person. Shay Dee, indeed.
“Are you married?” I ask, hoping the turn-around will make her uncomfortable enough to change the subject.
“Why? You interested?”
She gives me the craziest look, and I start to feel a little unsafe. My hand drifts over to the desk drawer that houses my weapon.
She starts waving her hand back and forth in between us, making me think one of us must have very bad breath.
As if she’s read my mind, she stops with the waving, her hand freezing in midair. She immediately drops it into her lap.
“Just jokin’,” she says. “I’m taken. But let’s get back to the conversation. You have a fiancée recently? Lost one, maybe?”
Oh my god, is she a stalker? Someone sent here by Hilary? A spy? Hilary can’t get me to talk to her so she sends some deranged rapper in here to try and communicate on her behalf? How twisted can a woman get?
My temper grows very short. “Miss Dee, I think I’d prefer to keep the conversation about your reason for being here. What is it that I can do for you?”
She sighs long and deep. Then she takes off her hat and her sunglasses. Leaning over, she spits a wad of something into my trashcan at the side of my desk.
It’s then that I finally recognize her.
Chapter Forty-Eight
“YOU!” MY LEGS TURN TO jelly and I fall to my seat, but then when I realize how vulnerable that makes me, I stand again. “Your name’s not Shay, it’s … Betty!”
She holds up her hands in front of her. “Easy, there, Helen, don’t worry. I came here for a reason other than to be plowed over by you again.”
She grabs her pink plastic purse and reaches inside.
My survival instincts go into overdrive. I refuse to be taken down by a demented gypsy having an allergic reaction to polyester clothing.
“No!” I yank my desk drawer open and pull out my .45. No way am I letting her get the drop on me. I know the damage bullets can do, and if she’s got a gun in there, I’m not going to be the one with a hole ripped into his organs. I’m going to shoot first and ask questions later. I point my pistol at her shoulder, the meaty part where it wouldn’t kill her if I hit it but would definitely stop her from coming after me with her weapon.
“Oh my god!” Her voice is shrill. “What the fuck is your problem?!” She kicks out so hard, it sends her chair backwards with her still in it. Her purse opens and all of its contents fly out, landing like hail around her head and chest.
When she finally comes to a rest on her back in the middle of my floor, there’s a tampon in her eye, papers folded up on her neck and tissues in her hair next to her head
She grabs the tissues and holds them up above her. “This is why I’m here, you freak!” she yells.
I lean over to see her better, bringing the gun with me so she won’t get any funny ideas. She could still have a weapon in that bag. Hell, she could have a small village in that thing; it’s enormous.
I look at what she’s holding up, not sure I understand. “You came to show me a dirty tissue?”
She must be an escapee from the psyche ward. It’s the only explanation for her behavior. I can’t believe I’ve been haunted by visions of someone who I thought might be one of those nice girls the cabbie was talking about, but who instead is obviously insane. I should never ever trust my instincts about women again. They’re obviously broken.
“How can a person as stupid as you are possibly be a doctor?” she asks. She sounds angry.
“You don’t have a gun?” Having her point tissues at me instead of a nine millimeter is a little bit of a let down. Did I read that wrong? Was she really here to show me something stupid and not kill me? Talk about an overreaction. Now I’m worried about losing my license to practice medicine.
“No, I don’t have a gun. What do I look like? A criminal?”
I take in her ridiculous outfit and plastic purse, along with the hat and the swollen lips. She looks like a drugged out amateur tranny reject from the wrong side of the tracks. Now I’m not worried about my license anymore. I acted completely rationally. Anyone in my shoes would have moved to defend himself.
>
“Do you want me to be honest?” I ask.
She sighs. “No. Lie to me.”
I do a quick re-evaluation. Now that I know she’s not here to kill me and I can see the real girl underneath the costume, I realize she doesn’t look as dangerous as I originally thought. “You look … mostly harmless.”
She tries to get up, but it’s a struggle. She rolls sideways and the chair goes too. Her personal items fall to the floor like droppings left behind by a goat.
She ends up on her hands and knees, and I have to look away before my imagination has me there behind her with my pants down. How she can be sexy even with all that stuff on, I have no idea, but it is what it is.
She brings my attention back with a loud thump. Her purse is now on my desk, in all its shiny pink glory. She’s looking at the wall behind me, the ceiling, and the floor … anywhere but at me. It’s obvious she’s uncomfortable, and my heart goes out to her. Anyone who would wear that outfit just to see me must be desperate.
“So … that’s quite a get-up you’re wearing,” I say as a form of peace offering.
“Shut up.” She grabs the wad of tissues she held up before and unwraps something from it. An item spills out onto my desk blotter. She turns around to get her chair back on its feet so she can sit down.
I stare at the thing she brought for me to see, and my heart pounds painfully behind my ribs.
What. The. Fuck.
Recognition dawns. It’s that goddamn ring!
“What in the hell is that doing here?” I’m furious that this bad luck omen has followed me all the way from that fucking fountain to here at my place of work, my sanctuary from all that craziness. I have a security system, goddammit! How did this happen?!
“I found it.” She’s the picture of innocence.
I’m so pissed, I can’t think of what to say. Obviously she’s trying to be a good samaritan, returning a lost article, but she doesn’t understand; I don’t want this fucking thing. It’s a giant, expensive, painful reminder of how lost I am, how screwed up my world is, how empty my existence is, how I’ve gotten it wrong more often than I’ve gotten it right. I need to move on from this life, but this ring won’t let me!
