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“You have to take this slowly, Evening,” Dr. Anderson intones. He has perfect teeth and the graying temples of a Just For Men model. “This kind of recovery is measured in months, not days.”
“I’m missing the end of the school year.” I am starting to feel quite sorry for myself. “I have homework, tests. Oh crap, my bio exam is Tuesday! And my Life Drawing project is half my semester grade.”
“You can’t draw,” my mother says. “Your fingers are crushed. Your arm’s a mess.” She pauses, mentally thumbing through her What Mothers Are Supposed To Know file. “She is right-handed, isn’t she?” she asks Dr. Anderson.
He nods discreetly.
“At least can I have my laptop? I can type with my left hand.”
My mother glances at her own laptop.
She is having an inspiration. You can practically see the giant lightbulb throbbing over her head.
“Evening, I have just the project for you! Something to keep you thoroughly occupied.”
“I don’t want a project. I want to spend a couple of hours with Aislin. I want you to send a car for her and bring her here.”
Luna has moved to my lower back, and seriously, my desire to fight with my mother—even if it is a respite from boredom—is diminishing with each deep, healing stroke.
“It involves genetics.” My mother sets aside her computer and comes to my bedside. “You love genetics. I would even pay you to do it.”
“Pay me?”
“Why not? I’d have to pay someone else to test it. What do you want? A hundred dollars? A thousand?”
My mother, ladies and gentlemen: one of America’s preeminent businesswomen. Not a clue as to what a dollar is.
“I want ten thousand dollars,” I say.
Dr. Anderson nods his approval.
“Is that a good number?” my mother asks. She turns the question over to Luna. “Is that a good number?”
“Ma’am, I don’t—”
“Whatever,” my mother snaps. She makes a brusque gesture with her hand. “The point is
, I have something that will keep you busy.”
“Aislin will keep me busy. That’s my price: Aislin. You can keep the money.”
She taps her freshly tended nails. French manicures, twice a week. Five tiny crescent moons dance on my bed rail.
She sighs.
Dr. Anderson examines a smudge on his stethoscope.
“One visit,” my mother says at last. “I’ll have security search her. If she has any drugs or booze on her, I’ll confiscate them and have security rough her up.”
I assume that’s bluster.
Then I look at her again, at my mother, and I’m not so sure it is. This is a woman with a billion-dollar company. This building is big enough to house what amounts to a small hospital among many, many other things.
Can my mother actually have people beaten up?
Maybe. Maybe she can.
She smiles to show she doesn’t mean it. The smile convinces me that she can.
