“You feelin’ alright?” Rose asks.
Even Pink Scrubs rips her gaze away from the hot resident to look at me. Dr. Obnoxious rubs the five o’clock shadow along his jaw like he’s trying to take off a layer of skin. His eyes are dark pools of night.
They’re all looking at me, and I realize I haven’t said anything since my bumbling curse. I’m just standing here gaping at them like I’m losing it. Which I probably am. I’m clearly hallucinating.
I mumble something about getting back to my mom and flee as quickly as I can. It’s only after I’ve closed the door to Mom’s room that I realize it happened again, the last time he looked at me. For those few seconds, it was like time stood still—which is the most cliché metaphor in existence, but the only way I can think of to describe it.
Obviously, something else is going on. Most likely scenario: I’m losing my marbles. I definitely can’t rule it out. Ex-dad Jerky Jeremy always liked to point out that the women in my family were crazy. I took it as a metaphor—a degrading metaphor—but a metaphor, nonetheless. But maybe…
Hysterical laughter spills out of me as I sink down on the couch and take a long sip of my drink. Clearly, the lack of sleep is getting to me. Or… it could have been a prank? That’s a more palatable possibility, right?
I bet doctors pull pranks to keep themselves entertained all the time. I’m sure I gave them exactly what they wanted, standing there with my mouth hanging open like a dying fish. They’re probably laughing about it right now.
Thankfully, the residents rotate. Don’t they?
Hopefully, I’ll never see Dr. Obnoxiously Hot again.
Chapter Four
Islide my finger along the well-worn pages as I read aloud, the sound of the machines monitoring Mom serving as an irritating backdrop to the story.
“There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why—when it did not seem worthwhile to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihi?—”
“What the hell are you reading?” Mom croaks. She pushes herself up in the hospital bed and glares at me. “I asked you to read me a romance novel.”
On bad days, she sleeps and moans. On good days, she wants distraction but can’t enjoy it because she’s too uncomfortable. I guess today is going to be a good day. An awake day. Those are harder—though I covet them.
“It is a romance,”kind of, “a classic of 19th-centuryfeminism.” She gives me a blank look. “The Awakening, by Kate Chopin?” Her expression doesn’t change. I take a breath and rub at the corner of the page. “I thought you’d like it.”
“I’m sure I would if I lived in the 19th-century. But I don’t. And I’m dying. So, I’ll take my feminism with a bit more happily ever after, thank you very much.”
She picks up the paperback on the rolling table next to the bed and tosses it to me. It lands at the edge of the bed, teeters for a second, and tumbles to the floor.
“You’re not dying,” I mumble, bending over to pick up the book.
“Read that one. It’s better.”
I’m sure it’s not, but I won’t argue with my mother about what makes a book good. Objectively, I know more on the topic, having spent thousands of dollars learning it. I have a bachelor’s in literature and an almost complete master’s in creative writing. Which reminds me I still haven’t written this week’s pages for Dr. Paatel. At this rate, it’ll be a miracle if I finish my MFA program on time, and I can’t afford another year. I’ll have to work on the pages as soon as Mom falls asleep again.
Mom looks at me with an expectant twitch. “You gonna read or not?”
I want to say no. The cover of the book spotlights a muscular man—shirtless, of course—embracing a woman who looks like she’s about to orgasm just froma hug. The edge of the cover hosts exaggerated reviews about the book’s greatness.
“A harrowing tale.”
“Jump between the pages of this sexy...”
I stop reading and lift an eyebrow at the woman who raised me. She crosses her arms over her chest and glares back, as if to say,‘Are you going to deny a dying woman?’
She’s not dying. I won’t let her. But she has a point. I can’t exactly say no to her when she’s in pain and this will make her happy. I get it. Nothing beats a good distraction when the world is crumbling around you.
Mom started reading romance novels when Jeremy left. When Kane broke up with me, I became obsessed with spin class, sometimes going to multiple classes a day. We all look for distraction in different ways. I can’t deny her this small pleasure.
I start at the beginning, even though she has a bookmark two chapters in. If I’m going to read a book, I’m going to read the whole thing.“Visiting a stranger’s home in the middle of nowhere, especially alone, isn’t a good idea. Not that I’m particularly known for good ideas.”
The first chapter surprises me. The character has a clear motivation, the situation is interesting, and the writing isn’t horrible.
By the end of the third chapter, I have to admit to myself that I’m enjoying it. It’s definitely not literary, and it’s a bit heavy-handed and melodramatic in places, but it’s better than some of the submissions mypeers read in class. Heck, it’s probably better than some of the pages I’ve submitted for review.
