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I power-walk through the waiting area, which is a decent size, but with the adrenaline running through me, possibly lightning-fueled, I make it from one side to the other in seven steps. Then I turn and walk along the other wall, eight steps this time, turn left again for another length, and then again. The whole square is thirty steps, but that probably means it’s not a square, even though it looks square. Suddenly it’s critical that I understand the exact dimensions of the waiting room. Ineedto know, so I do the whole lap again. Seven steps. Then eight, then seven, then eight again.
But now I’m pretty sure I expect it to be that size. I’m making the steps match what I think the length of the walls should be.
This time I’ll do it with my eyes closed. I hold my hands out in front of me, just in case I swerve sideways. I don’t want to crash into a chair or a coffee table or something and actually hurt myself. Of course, Grayson is right here, so if I do crash into something and end up needing stitches, this would be very convenient.
When I do the lap without looking, I still count thirty steps around the room. And now I feel both comforted and a little crazy. Because why did I do that?
I look at Grayson, still sitting in the chair in the center of the waiting room, watching me. “Why did I need to do that?” I ask him, a wobble in my voice, but at least I’m not laughing hysterically anymore.
He stands up and walks slowly over to me, a little like you’d approach a wild animal on a trail in the woods—like you want to get closer, but the possibility of a dangerous charge (haha, get it? All the kinds of dangerous charges?) keeps you from any sudden moves. His hands are in his pockets, though, not held out in front of him, and this helps. I don’t feel like he’s bracing against me, afraid of what I might do.
“I think you’re just working out a bit of extra energy.” He stands close, but his hands stay in his pockets.
Buzzing with way too much of whatever kind of extra energy this is, I’m still standing in a room with a doctor. I don’t have to wait overnight or a week or a month for an office visit. I can just ask him what I’m worried about.
“Do you think I actually got juiced by that lightning strike?” I ask, my voice a whisper and my eyes averted from his.
I steady myself against the scorn he will surely respond with—he’s been so patient with my medical worries for so long, but no doctor can take a person seriously who thinks she’s been amped up by actual lightning. If he laughs at me, if he makes that huff of contempt, I’ll know. I’ve reached the end of the medical field’s tolerance and politeness.
“I’m not going to pretend I understand every part of what just happened,” he says.
I stop fidgeting. The giggling is over, and I don’t feel like it’s coming back right now. He’s answering me with kindness and respect, exactly the way he always does.
I manage to raise my eyes to his. He’s not laughing at me.
He leans against the chair behind him, just enough to look comfortable in this bizarre waiting-room consultation.
“I’m going to give you my best guess, if that’s okay.”
He waits for an answer, and I nod.
He moves his hands so one is at his side, resting on the back of the chair he leans against. He looks comfortable. I think his comfort is helping me relax. “This seems like more of an inside-out issue than an outside-in one. Let me tell you what I mean by that.”
Explanation is good, because if I let my brain run with the words I’m hearing, I will definitely start picturing myself turning literally inside out. Gross. And (at least in my mind), highly probable, after getting struck by lightning. Or at least standing under a tree that got struck by lightning.
“You are experiencing a lot of extra energy right now. I think you’re responding more to fear than to anything from the storm that might have touched you. The fear—that’s the inside. The lightning is the outside. Are you following my metaphor?”
That smile he’s giving me right now is the doctor smile. The confident, comforting one. Not the flirty, hopeful one. It’s exactly the right smile for this situation.
I nod. “Yes. Inside me is all the mess. Outside is the electrical storm. Lightning strikes outside, and inside I go all fizzy.”
“Something like that,” he says, without the slightest hint of mockery. “I believe your body is having a shock response to the very real fright you experienced. And if it’s okay with you, I’d like to treat you for shock.”
“What does that look like, exactly?” I ask.
“I’d like you to lie down and cover up with a warm blanket. See if you can drink something. Rest here while I monitor a few of your vitals. What do you think?”
“Can we just stay here?” I ask.
“Here in the waiting room?”
I nod.
“Sure,” he says. “These chairs aren’t very comfortable, but if you’ll lie down on the floor and put your feet up on this chair, I’ll go get you a blanket.”
I sit down on the floor and look around. He sees me looking, and he folds his coat and places it on the floor so I can put my head on it. Like he knows what might crawl across the floorboards and into my hair.
Or maybe he’s just being nice.
