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“So you’re an artist,” Solo says.
“She’s a patient,” my mother answers, “and she needs to rest.”
“Right.” Solo starts to hand her my phone.
“No,” I say quickly. “Would you check for messages first? The password’s 0123.”
“Impenetrable.” Solo scans my mail. “Aislin wants to know ‘WTF are you dead or what OMG please please please call.’”
“Didn’t you call her?” I ask my mother. “She must be so—”
“I’ve been a little busy, dear,” my mother says crisply. “I’ll have someone give her a call, let her know you’re all right.”
I can tell she’s planning to forget to remember. “Would you do it?” I ask Solo. I don’t know why him exactly, except that he’s still holding my phone.
“Sure. No problem.” He taps the screen. “Got it. Don’t worry. I have a photographic memory.”
“Really?” I ask vaguely. Suddenly I am incredibly weary.
“Just for things that matter,” Solo replies.
His gaze lingers on my leg, then moves on to my middle. I am not sure if he’s staring at my flattened arm or my boobs (also pretty flat), but either way, I’m not dressed for company.
He meets my eyes for just a moment. Then he hands my mother my cell and makes his way past my bedside fan club.
– 7 –
I wake up hours later, clawing my way out of the Vicodin haze. It’s dark, but my room is lit with soft yellow light. If I squint just right, I could be in a romantic restaurant. On a really bad date.
The first thing I see is Solo, looking with intense focus at the iPad they use in lieu of an old-fashioned clipboard medical chart. It’s not the concentration of someone trying to make sense of something he doesn’t understand. It’s the concentration of a guy confirming something he’s already suspected.
He hears me moving. The iPad is back in the slot at the foot of my bed and he’s smiling at me. Covering up. Looking innocent.
I think: Strange boy I really don’t know, don’t you realize nothing is more suspicious than an innocent look?
Before I can say anything, Solo slips out the door. Seconds later, a nurse arrives. I haven’t seen her before, so I figure she must be part of the evening shift.
I close my eyes, pretending to sleep. I’m not in the mood to chat.
She checks the bandage on my leg. It’s one hell of a bandage. Gently she begins to cut away the tape and gauze and pressure mesh. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t make me happy, either.
“Oh my God!” she says.
She has laid the flesh bare and her first thought is to call up a deity.
I risk a slit eye to see what horror she’s witnessed.
She’s not looking at my face. She’s staring down at my leg. And she’s not horrified, exactly.
She’s amazed. She’s moved. She’s seeing something she never expected to see and can’t quite believe is real.
I’m afraid to look, because I know that something must be very wrong.
Or, just possibly, very right.
– 8 –
SOLO
