Chapter 14 #2
The driver behind us honked his horn again causing us both to jump. Ashley grimaced then pressed on the gas gingerly and slowly accelerated to the speed limit. We both ignored the passing car as the driver gave us the middle finger.
“Ok. Let’s just get to Sandra’s apartment. We’ll…drink some wine, do a little knitting, and you can fill the ladies in on your very colorful week.”
I nodded, still staring at the envelope on the floor. “What should I do with that?”
Ashley thought for a moment then said, “We’ll ask Fiona. She’ll know what to do.”
We arrived at Sandra’s apartment in one piece. I kept stealing glances at the envelope, rationalizing that it was too thin to be a bomb, but freaking myself out with all the other possibilities. We ended up leaving it in the car, deciding that we’d wait until Fiona advised us on what to do next.
As soon as Sandra saw us, she knew that something was amiss.
She accepted our coats, pushed wineglasses in our hands, and shoved us toward the living room where everyone from our group (but Janie) was chatting happily, waiting for us to arrive.
Janie was still in Boston, and wasn’t set to return until Thursday.
“Ah, Elizabeth, Sandra tells us you have some peculiar news.” Fiona glanced up from her stitches, and her ready smile slipped as her eyes moved over my face then Ashley’s.
“Are you two ok?” Marie’s voice sounded from the couch. I walked over to the empty spot next to her and sank into the comforting cushiness.
“Elizabeth had a colorful week,” Ashley announced in a deadpan voice, and then she gulped her glass of wine, finished it, and held it out to the room for someone to pour another. “And I almost killed a person driving over here. How are all of you?”
This proclamation was met with stunned silence, their eyes bouncing between Ashley, me, and one another.
Fiona finally spoke, ending the game of eyeball Ping-Pong. “Ok. Well then. Why don’t we start at the beginning? Elizabeth, tell us about your colorful week.”
I nodded then gulped the contents of my glass, finished it, and placed it on the table. “I’m going to need some more wine. Also, if anyone has some cashmere yarn I can pet, or even alpaca, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Good idea. Yarn fondling always calms my nerves. Make that two balls.” Ashley clinked her wine glass against mine.
The next forty-five minutes were spent filling the ladies in on the general story of my life during the past week, but I left out the more sordid and personal details.
I did tell them about Megalomaniac Meg, closing the deal with Dr. Ken Miles, and the resultant date for our first benefits session.
Several times during the story, Marie poured me a new glass of wine. I had to cut myself off at the third glass because I needed to be sober enough for a double shift the next day.
When I finished telling the tale, the ladies heaved a collective sigh, and the room plunged into a prolonged period of silence.
Unexpectedly, Kat was the one to speak up and ask the question that was probably on everyone’s mind: “What was in the envelope?”
“I don’t know. Ashley and I decided to leave it in the car.”
“This lady could be Nico’s hands-in-the-pants stalker,” Marie added. “It could be anything.”
“Or she could just be another stalker and not the hands-in-the-pants stalker. Nico could have several stalkers.” Ashley hiccupped halfway through this observation, then nodded at her own assertion. “Hot celebrities usually have more than one stalker. I read that somewhere.”
“That’s a cheerful thought. Here, have some more wine.” Sandra poured Ashley another glass then turned to Fiona. “What should we do about the envelope?”
I half smiled. Neither Ashley nor I had said anything about consulting Fiona regarding the envelope. It warmed my heart that, by default and universally, we all looked to her to provide us with guidance in times of chaos and absurdity.
Fiona sighed. “The cautious part of me thinks that you should call the police, just in case it’s something dangerous. The curious and impatient side of me says that we should just open it.”
We all nodded.
“My two sides tell me the same.” Kat offered.
“Well then.” Sandra put the bottle of wine down on the table. “Give me your keys, Ashley. Since I’m a little cautious but mighty curious, I’ll go open it.”
Ashley handed Sandra her keys and hiccupped.
Sandra pulled on her coat and gloves, and then marched out the front door wearing leather-soled fuzzy slippers and no hat.
We all waited. I tried to start a knitting project but couldn’t concentrate. Through my wine-induced cloudiness, I had a sudden spike of adrenaline and shot to my feet. “I should stop her. I’ll—I’ll call the police. What if, what if it’s—”
Sandra entered the apartment at that moment carrying the envelope in one hand. Her face was grim. She motioned for me to join her.
As I approached, she pulled a picture from the envelope and handed it to me.
I glanced at it then sucked in a sharp breath.
It was a picture of Nico and me walking out of the infusion room after our friends-without-benefits conversation.
She’d first used a black sharpie to scribble over my face then some kind of sharp object to scratch at my image.
“There’s more.” Sandra flipped the photo over.
On the back of the picture was a very lengthy handwritten letter.
The script was sporadic. In some places, it was large; in others, the writing was small.
In some places, she’d used capital letters; in others, she’d written in cursive.
Certain words and phrases stood out, such as I love you, or be with me, or I hate you, and I’ll die without you.
Mostly it just appeared to be a crazy, scrawling blob of indecipherable script.
I released a breath I didn’t actually know I was holding. “She’s bonkers.”
Sandra nodded. “You should probably call the police now.”
I ended up calling the police from my apartment when I got home.
I explained the situation as much as was feasible over the phone and with a great deal of reluctance.
I was passed from person to person until someone offered to take down my information and schedule a phone call with a detective the following day.
Things progressed much faster the next day.
The detective, it seemed, had looked me up on the Internet, seen the YouTube video, and offered to come down to the hospital to collect the picture.
Detective Carey Long met me just inside the ER clinic and praised both Sandra and me for not touching the photo without gloves; she also admonished me for opening it at all.
“Have you informed Mr. Moretti about the incident?”
I winced a little. “No. He’s in New York.”
Detective Long gave me a disapproving frown. “Do you have any way to contact him? He should know about it. Tell him as soon as you can.”
I promised I would. I was then instructed to call her if I saw the woman again, and I was given strict orders to always have a walking buddy.
Before the detective left, and just after we shook hands, she dropped her official persona and said, “I’m a big fan of the show.” She gave me a polite smile, then departed.
I stared at her retreating form until it disappeared around the corner, wondering how a smart, seemingly capable woman like Detective Long could be a fan of Nico’s misogynistic show. For that matter, how could Sandra be a fan of his show?
I didn’t have much time to meditate on this disturbing fact because I was paged with the results for Angelica’s screening tests.
They came back positive, and she was officially eligible for the study.
I felt a twinge of relief on her behalf.
The results thus far looked promising, and I was very pleased for her and her family.
My next call was to Rose, to inform her of the results and to work out the next month’s calendar. Administering Angelica’s infusions at the hospital every eight hours for twenty-eight days meant that my schedule for the next month would be completely rearranged.
We settled on the timing of her infusions to be at 6:00 am, 2:00 pm, and 10:00 pm This meant I would have to be at the hospital at these times regardless of whether I had a shift or not.
But I didn’t care. I could give up four knit nights over the next four weeks with no complaint if it meant a lifetime of improved outcomes for a patient.
No big whoop. Besides, other than knitting, my social life was basically nonexistent and had been since before college.
Now with Janie missing in action, making kissy-face with Quinn Sir Handsome McHotpants von Fiancé, I was free as a bird.
You can’t miss what you don’t have.
Of note, I didn’t count my future benefit sessions with Dr. Ken Miles as part of my social life. They fell more into the recreational category, like seeing a movie or window-shopping.
Speaking of window-shopping, Wednesday evening I pulled together a first day infusion survival kit for Angelica.
I’d noticed earlier in the day that her blue blanket had a My Little Pony patch; therefore, I purchased a purple purse with an obscene amount of lace and fringe and filled it with pony paraphernalia.
I also packed pineapple slices for after the infusion.
When Rose and Angelica arrived Thursday, I tried to hand the purse off to Rose, but she waved me away.
“Lizzy, what is wrong with you?” She gave me a mother stare, the kind that says where is your common sense? “You went through all that trouble to put this together for Angelica, and you want me to give it to her? Why can’t you take credit for your good deeds?”
I groaned. I complained. I didn’t want to give Angelica the purse because just the thought of doing it made my hands damp. Rose held fast, and in the end—with sweaty palms and a nervousness I didn’t really understand—I gave Angelica the purse.
She loved it. Her smile was brilliant. She squealed with happiness, and her eyes twinkled in a way that reminded me of Nico. It made my knees wobbly and my heart melt.
The infusion portion of the visit was uneventful, which was a big relief to everyone.
When it was over, while one of the research nurses was taking Angelica’s vitals, I pulled Rose to the side and asked her to have Nico give me a call when he had a free moment.
I didn’t want to tell Rose about the Fancy Stalker lady because I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily, but I did need to inform Nico about the issue.
After Rose and Angelica departed, the stars aligned such that I had the remainder of the day off. From 3:00 pm until Angelica’s 10:00 pm infusion, the time was mine to spend, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
It was high time for a panty dance party.
Sometimes, when I had an afternoon off, instead of going to sleep right away like I ought, I liked to dance around my apartment wearing nothing but underwear…
usually sexy underwear…sometimes paired with high heels.
I’d introduced this concept to my best friend Janie some years ago, and she’d joined me on more than one occasion.
We’d bonded over lip-synching to ’N Sync and bobbing to the Backstreet Boys.
Even I, Elizabeth the tomboy, wanted to feel beautiful, feminine, and desirable every once in a while, even if no one was there to see it.
It made a difference in my mental wellbeing.
This behavior was usually precipitated by periods of dressing in nothing but scrubs.
I felt like an asexual blob of teal cotton and sensible shoes.
I left the hospital with a panty party plan in mind.
I’d perfected a method for avoiding the paparazzi by tucking my hair into a hat, changing into civilian clothes, and leaving via one of the lesser known back doors.
If the photographers were loitering around my train stop, I crossed the street and walked to the next closest stop several blocks away.
I kept a vigilant eye out for the Fancy Stalker.
I arrived at the apartment without incident.
A certain amount of preparations were required in order to maximize the benefits of my plan: I needed to take a bath, shave everything that could be shaved, lubricate my legs and body with fancy lotion, apply light makeup—just enough to make me feel girly—paint my nails, and brush my teeth.
I blew out my long hair, and it fell in soft waves over my shoulders.
Once I felt clean and pampered I pulled out a full set of pink and black lacey lingerie; thigh highs, pushup bra, garter belt, lace panties—the works—and strolled over to the stereo in the living room in stocking clad feet. I felt and smelled fantastic.
I briefly considered listening to the CD that Rose had given me from Nico, my music homework, but quickly dismissed the idea.
I wasn’t in the mood to broaden my horizons, and I’d already spent too much time fantasizing about him recently.
I was in the mood to dance like a crazy person and enjoy being in my own skin.
The first few beats of “As Long As You Love Me” by the Backstreet Boys reverberated through the speakers.
I allowed the cotton-candy, feel-good rhythm and lyrics to carry me off on the pink bubble of sublime happiness and true love.
I slid around the polished wood floor, I spun on my tiptoes, I tossed my loose hair from side to side with wild abandon, all while mouthing along with the song and meaning every syllable.
I jumped up and down on the couch during the chorus and felt the fantasy of the words to my bones.
It was during one of these jumps that I caught sight of a figure standing just inside the entranceway.
Startled beyond reason, I spun, sucked in a gasping breath, and lost my footing.
I fell ass over ankles off the couch and landed with an unforgiving thud on the area rug in front of the sofa.
I also made a weird yelping, moaning, screaming sound.
The figure ran toward me; his face half amused, half concerned.
And that’s when I realized that Nico Manganiello had been watching my panty dance party.
3Translation: Between saying and doing is the sea.
1 Translation: Between saying and doing is the sea.