50
AMANDA
“You’re not a doctor, are you?”
Amanda wished she hadn’t said it. The moment the words came out, she wanted to scoop them back up and swallow, make them go away.
But a dab of glue held his glasses together.
His teeth were stained yellow. His breath smelled like rotten meat beneath a layer of mint.
The knot in his tie was crooked. He chewed his fingernails.
None of these things specifically meant he wasn’t what he claimed to be, yet all of them seemed to be pieces of a puzzle, and when combined, they formed a picture that wasn’t what was on the cover of the proverbial box.
Like he wasn’t a real doctor, but only playing one, and he was poorly cast, at that.
Amanda had no idea where that word came from, proverbial.
It jumped into her head in much the same way the image of this man knocking her out had.
She had no recollection of him loading her into the back of the SUV, driving, or coming here, but she knew those things had happened, too.
She knew those things on some deeper level.
They came from the same place that told her she was in a lot of trouble.
Far more trouble than she first suspected.
“Of course I’m a doctor,” he said casually as he reapplied her bandages over the incision in her chest. “Would you like me to show you the secret handshake?”
He gave her that wink again, and she half expected him to call her “dear,” but he didn’t. Instead, he finished with the bandages and tugged her gown back in place, repositioning her sheets to finally cover her up properly.
“I need to use the bathroom,” Amanda said in a meek tone. “Bad.”
This brought a frown to his face. “You have a urinary catheter in place. Feel free to go. That’s what the collection bag is for.”
“Not . . . number one. Number two.”
His lips dropped into a solid line. “Come now, Amanda. We both know that’s not true.
The anesthesia used during surgery paralyzes your muscles.
It will be a minimum of twelve hours before your intestinal tract begins to move again.
Probably twenty-four before you’ll really need to move your bowels.
” He went quiet for a moment. “This is really about your bindings, isn’t it? You want to get up out of that bed?”
Amanda found herself nodding.
“And with you believing I’m not a doctor, what would you do then? Smash my skull with a bedpan? Attempt to overpower me and make a run for it?”
Amanda didn’t nod at this, although she wanted to.
He sighed. “It’s common for the mind to play tricks when coming out of surgery.
The anesthesia lingers in our cells and can sometimes release little bits here and there for as long as a week.
It can make you sluggish, nauseous. It can even make you hallucinate.
Feel paranoid. Images and thoughts can appear in your mind and feel perfectly real even though they are not. I want you to see something . . .”
He disappeared behind her for a moment, then returned with a clipboard. He held it out in front of her. “These are your consent forms. Do you recognize them?”
Amanda shook her head.
He pointed at the bottom of the first form. “But that is your signature, right?”
Amanda tried to raise her head, get a closer look. It certainly looked like her signature. A little wobbly, shaky even, but it looked right. Although she had no memory of signing anything.
He flipped through the pages. At least a dozen, all with her signature.
“We’ve got consent to use this facility.
Consent for anesthesia. Consent for all six procedures.
You may not remember it now, but we talked about all of this at length during your pre-op visit.
I imagine with time that will come back to you—you just need to be patient. ”
Amanda’s mind had latched on to one particular word from that spiel and held tight, wouldn’t let go. “Six?”
He nodded. “The first two—your kidney and liver—were the most significant, which is why removal was performed through independent procedures. Your blood pressure is a little weak due to the transfusion, but once it stabilizes, I’m confident we’ll be able to continue.
I’m hoping to combine the remaining harvests, but I won’t be able to confirm viability until you’re back on the table—you understand.
There are so many factors involved. It’s sometimes best to be cautious and confirm all conditions are optimal before proceeding.
” He nodded at the two large bags of money in the corner of the room.
“With your donations, you’ve made a sizable contribution to your financial well-being.
You should be proud of that. Most people your age don’t think about that. You’ll leave here with a nice cushion.”
Six.
The word screamed at her. Wouldn’t shut up.
Six what?
She needed to ask the question, but couldn’t. Kidney. Liver. What else?
He seemed to know what she was thinking, even though she hadn’t said it aloud. He began ticking off his fingers. “Kidney, liver, spleen, right lung, a portion of your lower intestine, a portion of your upper intestine, and your pancreas.”
As he rattled on, Amanda pictured the scars on her body, each new scar appearing with each tick of his fingers, turning her once beautiful, flawless skin into a patchwork of black stitches and angry flesh.
She’d never be able to hide it all, and if a casting director saw one, just one, it was over.
Word spread. The whole town would tag her as damaged goods.
It didn’t matter how much money this brought in.
Even if it funded the rest of her trip out to California, even if it paid for her to spend years out there, it wouldn’t matter.
She’d never work. Her signature or not, she would never have signed those forms. No way.
And if she had, when exactly was it? After he knocked her out?
Maybe in some groggy state? Maybe with the first of the anesthesia? Is that why she couldn’t remember?
The doctor frowned, staring at his hand, at his fingers. “Hmm. That’s seven, not six.” He looked first to the clipboard, then up at her. “We appear to be missing a consent form.”
“I take it all back,” Amanda told him. “I don’t want to do any of it. No more. If I signed anything, I take it all back. Just let me go.”
“I understand your hesitance,” he told her. “But I’m afraid any recision period has long passed.”
Amanda had no idea what that meant and didn’t much care. “You’re not cutting me open . . . again. No way.”
“Oh my, I can see you’re getting agitated. I’d hate for you to twist the wrong way and tear open your stitches.” From his breast pocket, he took out a syringe, tipped it needle side up, and gently depressed the plunger. A drop appeared at the top of the needle and slid down the side.
Amanda tensed. “What is that?”
He slipped the needle into her IV line and dispensed the medication. “Just a little something to help you remain calm.”
Amanda spit at him.
She couldn’t move her arms, or legs, or any other part, so she spit at him. The gob of thick saliva caught the left lens of his glasses and the side of his nose, hanging there for a moment before dripping down to his cheek.
Amanda expected him to get angry. Shout at her.
Hit her. But he did none of those things.
Instead, he wiped the spit away with the tip of his index finger and slipped it into his mouth.
He savored it. When his finger came out, he brought the slimy digit to Amanda’s cheek and traced her skin to the corner of her mouth, a thin grin growing on his lips.
“I’ve enjoyed our work together, Amanda.
Perhaps we should talk about your heart? ”
“My heart?” The words came out sluggish, the medication taking effect.
“Of course,” he said flatly. “You’re such a giving person. With so many people out there in need, how could we not discuss your heart?”