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She slips through the door. I rummage in my bag, looking for my jeans. How does one work on not dying, when there’s a funny squeezing feeling in her heart region?
I’m not sure. The best I can do is gingerly step out of my pajama pants, pull on jeans, swap out my rumpled top layers for clean ones, and then do as my sister said and swipe a brush through my hair.
Then I head up the stairs, wondering if Roxie’s right and we’ll bump into Nick at the clinic.
Chapter 2
Maddison
Pamphlets line one wall of the small treatment room I’ve been holed up in for going on forty minutes now.
The two hours of tests in the ER are—thankfully—over and done. It wasn’t fun having nurses and a male doc, who looks about a hundred years old, paw around my bra to place electrodes, but I got through it.
Roxie stuck with me for most of the tests, but about twenty minutes into this treatment-room segment of my Stillwell Clinic experience, she bailed.
So I’ve been left to my own devices, with not much to do except hope that since they’re leaving me alone I must not be in critical condition. I’d twiddle my thumbs, if I knew how. Instead, I dwell on the fact that I have a knack for messing things up.
I messed up when I chose Sylvester… the weasel.
I messed up my health, if this heart thing is any clue.
I messed up my life, and now I have nowhere to live and no job and no boyfriend, and?—
The treatment room door opens, and a white-coated man steps in. A tall man, in obsidian-black-rimmed glasses. Sandy-blond hair. Warm smile.
“Maddison?” he says, with a sparkle in his eye.
“Nick! Oh my goodness!” I’m up out of my seat in a flash, and despite the fact that our friendship ended on bad terms, now I’m wrapping my arms around him.
He returns the hug enthusiastically, his strong arms tight around me. “I saw your name and snagged your case from Doctor Merriweather.”
“Wait, is he the old guy?”
“He’s seventy-nine, still practicing.”
“Is that allowed? Are there tests he has to pass or something, for vision and hearing, like you have to do to renew your driver’s license?”
He chuckles and perches on the short swivel stool across from the treatment bench.
I hop up onto the padded bench, swing my legs, and survey my old friend. He’s more clean-cut than he used to be. His hair’s shorter and neater, not shaggy like he used to wear it. His lanky form is still loose and relaxed and he has his legs kicked out to the side, but there’s a subtle, pinched look around his eyes, and a new line across his brow.
Stress, maybe?
He looks handsome in his white coat. The stethoscope around his neck and shimmering, silver-mounted badge make him look very official.
“There’s no mandatory retirement for doctors,” he says. “But I’m sure there are some checks and balances in place.”
“There better be.” I nudge my glasses up. “Because we all know eyesight doesnotget better with age. Nor hearing. A lot of things don’t get better with age, but they do get bigger. Like the length of one’s nose and the length of one’s ears.”
“Is that a scientific fact or something you learned from your grandfather?”
“Both. It’s a fact because I observed it happeningtomy grandfather. You should see his earlobes. They almost touch his shoulders. But that’s another thing. Shoulders hunch up.”
“I have seen his earlobes. I see your grandpa every time I go into the diner for French toast. He gives me ten percent off.”
“He does?”
“Sure. He calls me Doc and usually gives me a salute when I’m heading for the door. I’ve never figured out what that’s about.”
