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The woman gives a single nod. She consults her computer screen. “Harker?”
“Yes. I’m Joey Harker.”
The receptionist does another single nod. Apparently, it’s her best communication skill. “Dr. Montgomery is running behind. Wait there.” She gives a vague wave toward the seating area, her attention already back on her computer.
Looking at the seats, I see how crowded the room is. “Running behind” might be an understatement.
“Want me to stay?” Ginger asks.
“No. I’m fine. I’ll make myself comfortable.” I nod toward the reception desk and grin at Ginger. “With this kind of hospitality, how could I not?”
“Okay. I’m going to taste the delights of the city. What time should I come back?”
That is never an easy question to answer. “How about you go find a massage, that I am going to pay for, and be back here about 4:30?” I pull my phone out of my pocket and shoot her some money, ignoring her protests. “No arguing. This is for the ride. Thank you again. See you in a while.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Gingers asks, already scooting toward the door.
“Absolutely,” I lie.
I am nothing like sure. In fact, I’m very not okay, emotionally, anyway. But that doesn’t need to be Ginger’s problem. I wave as she leaves and sit in an empty chair next to a small child who immediately starts singing a song about a monkey and a pig, one which—I am certain—will become annoying very soon.
A pair of televisions are bolted to the walls. One shows something cartoony, and the other displays highlights from a college football game. The very idea of watching TV makes my head want to split open.
I check my phone for texts, but I can only do that for a minute. Looking at my phone makes my eyes ache, but I risk it in the feeble hope there might be something from Dexter. No such luck. There’s a pile of magazines on the table nearby, but I’ll have to give up my chair to get them, and I’m not sure I’ll get it back. Besides, looking at magazines only makes it clear that my sight hasn’t come all the way back yet.
I settle back into my chair and close my eyes.
I must have managed to fall asleep again, because when I hear my name being called, it has that echo of repetition. As though it has been said a few times.
I stand up and wave to the nurse. “I’m coming,” I say. I slide my bag over my arm and adjust my shirt.
“Dr. Montgomery is ready for you,” the nurse says, in a voice that makes it clear she’s said those words every twenty minutes or so all day long, and for every day leading up to today. For years. Maybe decades. Possibly forever.
She flips a page on a paper chart. “You were here six months ago,” the nurse says. As if maybe I’ve forgotten.
“Right.” What was I supposed to say?
The nurse runs a manicured finger down the lines of the chart. “Oh,” she says. And there it is. She hit my diagnosis. She shoots me a short look of what must be pity. Leading me to the left, she gestures me into a room and then into a chair. I sit.
“So. You had an episode.” It’s not a question. I nod anyway.
“Both eyes?”
“Just one.”
The nurse makes a noise that indicates understanding. “Mm.” She writes something down. “Pain?”
I wonder if I have the words to describe how much. “Yes.” That will have to do for now.
“Still?”
I’m not sure I understand. “Still pain? Yes. It still hurts.”
The nurse scratches a few notes into the chart.
“And how’s the vision?”
“Isn’t that what I’m here to figure out?” I’m humiliated to hear the quiver in my voice, sure that one more dumb, repetitive question will make me start bawling.
