Chapter 15 D’s Woman
d’s woman
Cian
Ayla drives like a bat out of hell. Well, she does in her little convertible. Luckily, she spared me of that ride this morning, and we’re in her huge SUV. So not bat-like, but maybe tank-like is more appropriate.
My plastic surgeon wanted to meet this morning, and my sister has decided she’s chauffeur, lovely assistant, and manager as I recuperate. I can’t say it annoys me. I can say it’s well beyond my typical life.
I’m a grown-ass man. I drive myself to appointments, handle my own calendar, and have spent years managing multi-million-dollar projects. I don’t need a babysitter.
There’s just the little part about only seeing out of one eye, the inability to use my left side very well, and the drugs in my system that make me open to this kind of help.
“What the hell happened to my truck?”
“It’s at your house. Police towed everything from the scene, but we were able to get it from impound and took it to your place yesterday.”
“I’m losing track of days.”
She gasps and points to herself. “Not like…”
“Not like that. I think anyway. I don’t seem to have any gaps in memory, but nothing is routine. It’s like constantly being on vacation.”
“Only with pain and bruising.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t I know it.”
She does. And I get it more now. “I’m sorry, Sis.”
“I haven’t ‘come to terms with it’”—she makes air quotes around that phrase with both of her hands on the steering wheel—“but it’s getting better. It’s been six months and it’s kind of… normal, I guess.”
“I don’t know whether I hate that for you or love that for you.”
“Same.” She looks my way as she turns into the parking lot. Once she parks, she looks from the building to me. “I’m coming in. I want you to have everything you need. But if you want privacy, just say the word, and I’ll go to the waiting room. Support is good. Being all up in the details is not.”
I exhale. “Love you, Ayla. Glad I have you. I’ll give the high sign if need be.”
We exit and make our way into the posh office with a high-dollar address.
The lobby might as well be the cover of one of the interiors magazines.
Cream and chrome–that’s what I’d call the theme.
Everything is backlit and the receptionist is inhumanly beautiful.
She’s too symmetrical, her teeth are too white, her lips too full.
Instead of being intriguing, it’s unnerving. She could be a robot.
There’s no little mole on the outside corner of her eye. No dark lashes that naturally curl toward dark eyebrows. No character at all.
“Cian Murphy. I have a nine thirty appointment.” I hand over insurance and identification and wonder about the health coverage.
I guess I run the business, and I can keep paying that for as long as I need.
Things I never considered when I thought of going out on my own.
Which makes me wonder… What does Liam do?
Maybe he needs to be on mine. I could figure that out—
“Mr. Murphy?”
“Yes.”
“We’re ready for you,” the woman in the doorway, who is probably Mom’s age but fighting it hard, calls and steps aside so that Ayla and I can walk through. “We’re here in the first door on the right.” She extends a hand, and we enter a room that’s like no doctor’s office I’ve been in.
The cream and chrome motif extends here as well. There are a few chairs around the perimeter, but one in the middle has a light haloed over it as if God himself opened the skies and is peering down from on high. Weird.
The woman Vanna White’s her hand at the chair for me as if it’s the seat of honor and not the hot seat. In my head I start humming ‘The Cheese Stands Alone’ from “The Farmer in the Dell.”
Ayla picks up on it and snickers. Our childhoods were the same, as much as the age gap and the sex difference could allow. I wonder if Sariah ever sang that song or if that was all she sang. I wonder how she raised Renée in regard to that or how she’d choose to raise others.
Does she want more? Is she done?
My mind wanders down an odd path of wishing I knew if she’d have kids with me or if I’d be okay being a stepdad to the feisty teenager she already has. Would it be enough?
The broken face must’ve knocked screws loose—and my testosterone too—for me to be speculating like this.
Man up, Murphy. Fix your face first. Parenting conversations later.
I’m sure the doctor says lots of things that are worth hearing. But he’s too tan and the hair implants look too fresh. Besides, my mind is over by Green Mountain and the woman who captured my gaze and my heart more than a decade and a half ago. She re-ensnared my mind a week ago.
“How does that sound?” the surgeon asks.
“Fine.” I’m on autopilot.
“Can you give us a moment please?” Ayla asks, and my brows cinch at her interference.
“Absolutely, Mrs. Barone. I’ll be back in a few.” He sees himself out.
No sooner does the door close as my sister is in my face, snapping her fingers in front of my nose. “Earth to Ci. Are you in there?”
I snap my head back. “Yeah. Why?”
“Did you just agree to an eyelid lift?”
“Wait. What? No.”
“But you did. I don’t know where you are, but can you reenter the stratosphere for a few minutes before you, I don’t know, get a chin implant during your surgery?”
“I don’t need a chin implant.” Do I?
“Don’t even look at that mirror. You need nothing.
You’re handsome. Very handsome just as you are.
You don’t need to enhance or minimize anything.
Reconstructing and setting the bone around the socket is major surgery.
It’s enough. You’re here because Dr. Singh is the best, not because you’re in a Nicolas Cage movie. ”
“It was a John Travolta movie.”
“Glad you’re back with me. Can you wait on the nip and tuck shit until after your midlife crisis?
“As if I’d need to nip or tuck. I run. And I have Murphy genes.”
“Yeah, you’re back. Good thing too. I’ll get the doc.”
Ayla opens the door to find the surgeon, and I get my head back in the game.
Where the hell did my mind go and for how long?
I know. But I can think about her later.
Sariah
Renée’s right. The stupid game is addictive. It’s like they added crack or nicotine to the screen right there for the taking.
I spend lunch numbly eating a sandwich, missing my mouth a couple of times, while both of my thumbs zero in on the target.
At least I found a way to silence the messages.
The team wants to chat the whole time. Apparently with earbuds or headphones, those can come through so they’re verbal instead of text, but I can’t read fast enough and keep up with the mission of the game, so I silenced them.
I need to go see what the chatter is. Seeing as how this game is similar in demographic to Connect2Coach, I wonder if the team can leverage how the kids chat and maybe use that to funnel to the appropriate coach.
See? I’m working.
That’s my excuse when the user experience team asks about the beta of the UX. Research. Even I don’t believe me. Mostly because when they pull out their phones, I see the app front and center on their home screens or notification centers.
We’re all liars. Or excellent app developers.
I finally turn my phone upside down in my desk drawer, ignoring the siren call of the app’s specific alert tone.
Unlike most people my age, I do not have my phone on silent all day.
I’ve run too many times, had Renée’s school reach out too often, and have more google alerts set to ping if searches are tripped.
I’m loud and proud with the alerts. I might as well be living in two thousand and seven. I regret nothing.
I work through the afternoon and head to my car later than usual. That stupid app distracted me, and I could’ve finished the task at home, but pushed through.
That was a mistake because either the Nuggets are playing or the Avalanche are, or there’s a concert tonight because downtown is packed. Traffic is ridiculous and pedestrian traffic fills every gap any vehicle vacates.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Angel. How was your day?”
“It was good.” I answer, fighting the smile that bubbles up. “Better now.”
“I figured you’d be home by now.”
“Me too. Weren’t you supposed to find out about surgery today?” I ask as I merge westbound on US 6.
“How’d you know about that?”
“You mentioned it yesterday. Those meds must be strong.”
“They’d work on a horse, I bet. I swear I forget half my days. Ayla and I will need assistance if we stay together too long.”
I smile. “That feels wrong to laugh at.”
“Yeah. It’s no joke and laughing hurts so I avoid it.”
“So the surgery?”
“A week from Tuesday, exactly two weeks and one day after the incident. He doesn’t work on Fridays and he thinks Thursday is too soon for the swelling. His Monday is booked.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Aside from my visit to the ER on Monday, I had my tonsils out when I was a kid. I haven’t had general anesthesia since. So yeah. They say you come out of anesthesia sad or mad. Ayla came out swinging. I’d assume Liam would too. They think it’s the redheaded gene.”
“But you’re blond.”
“Maybe. My beard isn’t blond or brown when it comes in. It’s a dark rust.”
“I remember.” And I do. That chin, rubbing across my neck or my belly. Or lower.
“You saying it like that is… Angel, if I weren’t bedbound, with one functional eye and my tongue wired behind my jaw, well…”
I can’t help the laugh that explodes out of me. “Wow. Your skills need work, Cian Murphy. That’s not the way to woo a woman.”
“I’ll keep trying then. Note to self, missing teeth are not a turn-on.”
“Did the doctor say anything else?”
“He did, but my mind was out of it. The drugs are gnarly. Ayla threatened me with breast implants if I kept zoning out.”
“Also a turn-off,” I offer, the smile no longer hidden. “If you’re keeping a tally.”
“Noted.”
I exit the highway to head south as he continues.
“I just wanted to hear your voice. This was not at all how I envisioned beginning again with you. Being cloistered away with my sister is messing with my mojo.”
“Yeah, but having someone there to help and not let you get C cups in a stoned-out state is priceless.”
“Ds, woman. With these shoulders and my frame, Cs would just look ridiculous.”
My laughter reverberates through the car, but it’s interrupted with a beep.
The screen flashes Renée calling.
“Ci, let me call you right back. It’s Renée.”
“Sure thing. Let me know everything’s okay. Okay?” I can feel his worry.
“Will do. Bye.” I disconnect and quickly connect to the incoming call.
“Née?”
“Mom, RoRo is on the floor. She’s shaking. What do I do?”
“Add a call. Dial 911 and merge me in.”
“But—”
“Now, Renée. Do it.”
Dead air greets me before I hear my panicked daughter steadying her voice. “My name is Renée, and my grandmother is on the floor shaking. It looks like she’s having a seizure. I need an ambulance.”
“What’s your address, Renée?”
She gives it and the operator continues. “Don’t hang up with me. Can you put me on speakerphone?”
“I’m on headphones.”
“Okay, good. Can you get behind your grandma and roll her to one side?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good. What’s her name?”
“Rosie. But I call her RoRo.” My daughter sounds strong and more firmly in control with each sentence.
“Right, so let’s get RoRo on her side.”
“Okay.”
I’m skidding on two wheels around a corner when the cop pulls up behind with his reds and blues flashing. He can ticket me in my driveway.
“She’s moaning. And there’s spit coming out of her mouth.”
“That’s normal. It’s nothing you’re causing. Is she on her side?”
“Yes. But she’s shaking so hard.” Her voice goes small and shaky when she says, “Please help.”
The sound of ambulance sirens is a chorus with those of the police behind me.
“Almost home, Née. I’m on Alkire.”
“Okay, Mom. Hurry.”
“Who’s on the line?”
“This is Renée’s mom. We were on the phone when she dialed you. I’m two blocks away. I’m in a silver SUV trying to get to my daughter who’s alone with my mom. You mind telling the policeman behind me there’s a medical emergency so there’s no incident? He can ticket me after we know RoRo’s okay.”
“Renée, tell me what you see,” she continues, ignoring my request.
“She’s not shaking as much, but she doesn’t seem to be breathing right either. I don’t know.” Her voice breaks on the last word, right along with my heart.
“You can do this,” the operator says to my daughter. “The ambulance is only a mile away.”
I run the stop sign and tear to a stop, throwing the car in park in my driveway as the cop does the same, drawing his gun.
“Freeze.”
“Follow me,” I yell, leaving the kitchen door open, allowing the cool night air to rush around my flushed skin.
The scene before me is bleak. Rosie is on the floor, laying amidst the shattered vase of pink peonies. Water coats her back, and her eyes are vacant.
My daughter looks panicked, more so as her eyes lift above my shoulder as she screams. “No.”