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Authors: Cheri Gillard
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ever-present deep hum reverberating from the power lines overhead.
“Cute pig slippers.” Then I actually oink-snorted. Twice. No response. “What’re you doing here?” I asked again.
She held up her cigarette, as if that explained everything.
“Why are you here?” she said, still leaning on the metal beam and not looking at me.
I held up my black Hefty bag. “Disposing of the body.” She didn’t laugh. “I live here.”
Her glance flicked in my direction, then quickly away. “My grandparents live here.”
So that’s why I saw her at my bus stop.
And she wasn’t here to tell me she’d changed her mind.
I said, “Dr. Schroeder’s been asking about you and the baby.”
“Who’s he?” She took another drag, stifled a cough as long as she could, then hacked out all the smoke. With a piece of her lung, it sounded like to me.
“Come on. I know you guys had something going.”
“Don’t even know the guy.” She flicked ashes onto the asphalt.
“Well, he sure seemed to know you and act like you and he had a baby together.”
She grunted.
“You’re saying you didn’t have something going with him?”
“Told you, I don’t know the guy.”
“He said he was your doctor, but it seemed like more than that.”
“My boyfriend woulda killed me if I cheated on him.”
That big extra-dark black dead guy who made white babies.
“He has some information for you.”
She looked at me for the first time.
“Something about genetic concerns.”
“And that meant to you we had a thing going?” She looked at me like I was an idiot. Maybe I was.
“He said some other stuff….” I tried to dig myself out.
“What’d you say his name was?”
“Schroeder. But it’s spelled funny.”
“Maybe he was that douchebag I saw once, about a year ago. Does he have an office in that ugly pink building a mile or two from the hospital?”
“That’s the one.”
“What kind of genetic concerns?”
“He didn’t tell me. I’ll try to get more information from him. If it’s important, I’ll give it to Howard and he can pass it on to you.”
She snubbed out her cigarette stump on the cement. “Yeah, whatever.” She got up and left me.
Yeah, whatever? She gave me the feeling she didn’t like me very much, even after we’d had a baby together and everything.
I tossed the dead body into the Dumpster and headed back to my apartment, all the while trying to figure out what part of her rulebook I’d violated that might have left her less than happy to see me again.
Chapter 11
At work two days later, I was walking through the hallways with one of my patients who was Failure to Progress and was very teary-eyed. I gave her just enough empathy to soothe away her panic, then just enough rah-rah to help her know she would in fact live through the ordeal. When her husband arrived and took over for me escorting her on the laps around the nurses’ station, Charge Sarge called me over to the front desk. As I walked toward her, I saw a man standing just a few steps from the desk. He was by far the most handsome man in the world. Well, excluding George Clooney, of course. He wore a white lab coat over a pink button-down shirt, blue Dockers, and a giraffe necktie. His dark hair waved over his forehead, not quite styled—free and easy. His end-of-summer tan was deep and bronze. And he was tall and broad. If I were a cat, I’d be purring. And probably head-butting his shin. And making a fool of myself, and that’d be the end of that.
Good thing I wasn’t a cat.
He was looking in my direction. In fact, it almost appeared like the Greek God was watching me, studying me, like he’d been listening to the conversation I’d been having with my emotional patient.
I approached the desk to ask Sarge what she needed, trying to act like I didn’t notice his stare, but his smiling eyes held mine as I walked. Luckily, I didn’t trip. I felt compelled to return the smile. My luck, I probably had spinach in
“Cute pig slippers.” Then I actually oink-snorted. Twice. No response. “What’re you doing here?” I asked again.
She held up her cigarette, as if that explained everything.
“Why are you here?” she said, still leaning on the metal beam and not looking at me.
I held up my black Hefty bag. “Disposing of the body.” She didn’t laugh. “I live here.”
Her glance flicked in my direction, then quickly away. “My grandparents live here.”
So that’s why I saw her at my bus stop.
And she wasn’t here to tell me she’d changed her mind.
I said, “Dr. Schroeder’s been asking about you and the baby.”
“Who’s he?” She took another drag, stifled a cough as long as she could, then hacked out all the smoke. With a piece of her lung, it sounded like to me.
“Come on. I know you guys had something going.”
“Don’t even know the guy.” She flicked ashes onto the asphalt.
“Well, he sure seemed to know you and act like you and he had a baby together.”
She grunted.
“You’re saying you didn’t have something going with him?”
“Told you, I don’t know the guy.”
“He said he was your doctor, but it seemed like more than that.”
“My boyfriend woulda killed me if I cheated on him.”
That big extra-dark black dead guy who made white babies.
“He has some information for you.”
She looked at me for the first time.
“Something about genetic concerns.”
“And that meant to you we had a thing going?” She looked at me like I was an idiot. Maybe I was.
“He said some other stuff….” I tried to dig myself out.
“What’d you say his name was?”
“Schroeder. But it’s spelled funny.”
“Maybe he was that douchebag I saw once, about a year ago. Does he have an office in that ugly pink building a mile or two from the hospital?”
“That’s the one.”
“What kind of genetic concerns?”
“He didn’t tell me. I’ll try to get more information from him. If it’s important, I’ll give it to Howard and he can pass it on to you.”
She snubbed out her cigarette stump on the cement. “Yeah, whatever.” She got up and left me.
Yeah, whatever? She gave me the feeling she didn’t like me very much, even after we’d had a baby together and everything.
I tossed the dead body into the Dumpster and headed back to my apartment, all the while trying to figure out what part of her rulebook I’d violated that might have left her less than happy to see me again.
Chapter 11
At work two days later, I was walking through the hallways with one of my patients who was Failure to Progress and was very teary-eyed. I gave her just enough empathy to soothe away her panic, then just enough rah-rah to help her know she would in fact live through the ordeal. When her husband arrived and took over for me escorting her on the laps around the nurses’ station, Charge Sarge called me over to the front desk. As I walked toward her, I saw a man standing just a few steps from the desk. He was by far the most handsome man in the world. Well, excluding George Clooney, of course. He wore a white lab coat over a pink button-down shirt, blue Dockers, and a giraffe necktie. His dark hair waved over his forehead, not quite styled—free and easy. His end-of-summer tan was deep and bronze. And he was tall and broad. If I were a cat, I’d be purring. And probably head-butting his shin. And making a fool of myself, and that’d be the end of that.
Good thing I wasn’t a cat.
He was looking in my direction. In fact, it almost appeared like the Greek God was watching me, studying me, like he’d been listening to the conversation I’d been having with my emotional patient.
I approached the desk to ask Sarge what she needed, trying to act like I didn’t notice his stare, but his smiling eyes held mine as I walked. Luckily, I didn’t trip. I felt compelled to return the smile. My luck, I probably had spinach in
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