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“I need Aislin,” I say to my mother.
“Aislin is a drunken slut,” she replies, without looking up from her laptop.
This is diplomatic for her.
I decide to change the subject. “What are you working on?”
With effort, she pulls her gaze from the screen. “Fluff. A vanity project for one of the biochems.”
“Fluff?”
“Educational software. Project 88715.”
“Catchy. The kids’ll eat that up.”
“Mm-hmm.” She returns to her screen.
“Aislin is not a slut,” I say. I don’t deny the drunken part. “She’s been in a steady relationship for months. Anyway, she’s my friend. I miss her.”
“Talk to the masseuse,” my mother says. She glares at Luna. “Who are you? Talk to my daughter.”
I feel the tremor go through Luna. Luna is probably fifty years old, a very nice Haitian woman. I like Luna. She doesn’t hurt me as much as the various other physical therapists.
Luna has six kids. Two are in college and one is a real estate broker in San Rafael.
Number of things I have in common with Luna? Zero.
“I want my friends,” I say.
“Pfff. Friends, plural?” my mother asks. “Since when do you have friends, plural? You have one friend and she’s a drunken slut.”
“I’m lonely. There aren’t even any other patients. The only one around who’s my age is Solo.”
“You haven’t talked to him, have you?” my mother asks, feigning a casual tone. Casual, like warm and fuzzy, is not part of her emotional repertoire.
“No,” I lie, wondering why she cares.
Actually, I’ve seen him every day since my arrival, passing by my room with studied indifference. He only spoke once, to tell me that he called Aislin and told her not to worry about me.
His eyes are disturbingly blue.
Against my better judgment I ask, “Who is Solo, anyway? And why is he here?”
My mother ignores me. She has different Ignore settings, and this one means she’s hiding something. She thinks she is inscrutable, and maybe she is, to her minions, but I’ve had seventeen years to deconstruct her poker face.
Before I can press her to answer, Dr. Anderson strides purposefully into the room. He always strides purposefully, although he doesn’t seem to have much purpose, what with me being his sole patient.
“How’s the leg?” he asks.
“The Leg is bored,” I answer. “The Leg wants to know why it can’t go home and recover.”
“You’ve been here three days, Evening! Are you insane?” my mother cries.
“I should leave,” Luna says meekly, half-question, half-hope.
“Stay,” my mother commands. “Calm her down.”
“I don’t need to be calmed down. I need Aislin. I need something to do.”
