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"Better get that call to the doc over with, too," Ricky said. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but Larry's one of those guys who thinks he's talking on a tin can instead of a shining example of modern technology."
I chuckled. "True."
"Call the doctor. Tell her you're fine so she doesn't worry."
He was right. I also had a niggling feeling I shouldn't put it off. Just to get it over with, I suppose. So I phoned and I told her I was doing all right, no ill effects after the fever.
"Are you seeing someone in Chicago?" she asked. "A doctor, I mean."
&n
bsp; "No, I'm not sure what my plans are right now, but if I decide to stay in Cainsville, I'll be transferring to you, if that's all right."
"It is. I'll just need your medical files." When I hesitated, she said, "No rush, of course. If you decide to transfer, you can provide me with your doctor's information and I'll arrange everything. We'll need your express permission, but I can handle the rest."
I said yes, that would be fine, thanked her, and hung up. Then I lay there, staring at the phone, deep in thought.
After my first "breakup" with Gabriel, he'd apologized by obtaining my pre-adoption medical files for me. Except there had been a mix-up, and the files my former doctor sent had belonged to a girl with spina bifida. His office was still hunting for my proper records.
"Everything okay?" Ricky asked.
As he sat up, he set his phone on the bed. On the screen, I saw what looked like an artist's rendition of the sun and moon from my boar's tusk.
I reached for his phone. "Is that the tattoo--?"
He plucked it from my hand and turned the screen off. "Later. What happened with the doctor?"
"It's not important. Let's see that art."
He held the phone behind his back. "It's not going to help you forget whatever's bugging you. And whatever's bugging you is important. So we're going to talk about that."
I looked at him. "You always do the right thing, don't you?"
"I'm pretty sure I spend most of my life not doing the right thing."
"That isn't what I mean." I shifted onto my knees, my face rising to his. "With me. You know the right thing to do. Always."
"That's because I know you. Always."
I leaned forward and kissed him, and when our lips met, I smelled forest and rain, I felt the delicious chill of a night wind and heard the pounding of hooves. I felt a boy lifting me onto a horse, swinging me up behind him, me huddling against his back, basking in the warmth of him, hearing his laugh and grinning in return, holding him tight, never wanting to let go. Feeling loved and understood and at peace, that perfect bond with someone who knew me, always.
I kissed Ricky, and I whispered, "I love you," and he said, "That's all I want," and in my mind I heard All I ever wanted as he lowered me onto the bed.
--
Afterward, lying in bed, catching our breath, I told Ricky about the medical records mix-up.
"Okay," he said. "Excuse my ignorance, because it's not a condition I'm familiar with, but there's no way you could have been this girl, right? That you got adopted by your parents and, with their money, they were able to get it fixed? Maybe quietly, so no one knew you ever had it?"
"According to the doctor, no. I'm not familiar with spina bifida, either, so . . ."
He already had his phone in hand, searching on a browser.
"So, I could have done that," I said.
"No reason to at the time," he said. "But now it seems like you want to know more."
He skimmed the page, then passed it to me. It said that spina bifida is a congenital defect in which the neural tube covering the spinal cord doesn't fully form in utero. The girl with my alleged medical records had a severe form, which would have led to lifelong mobility issues. If I were that girl, I'd be in a wheelchair.
