31. Bambi
Bambi
The first few days, Martha kept to herself, moving quietly about the house, taking care of chores and errands, and working out of their perfectly decorated Tiffany-teal-blue office at the back of the house that faces the pool.
Bambi enjoys her quiet company, the calm nature of the house when she is in it, even the strange way she somehow always knows which room she’s in and what she needs, like a human weathervane to Bambi’s shifting storms.
In the evenings, when the traffic along Sunset and Santa Monica would be at its height, cars honking, music tumbling car windows, Martha enlists Lucita’s help in preparing the house for dinner and insists on Lucita’s cooking being a certain thing that Bambi craves.
Casseroles and baked potatoes. Pot pies and pasta with vegetables.
Soups with rich broth and noodles. The dishes remind her that she likes food more than she allows herself to think about.
She and Martha initiate a habit of having dinner together in the dining room, which, normally, Bambi only reserves for special occasions.
Over a lit candle and a slightly open window, they eat together, mostly in silence.
Bambi pretends to read a magazine while quietly observing Martha preparing to-do lists or clacking away on the laptop next to her dinner plate.
This continues until one night, Martha asks her about her leg.
The wound hasn’t healed, and Bambi has taken to covering it and re-covering it daily.
“How did it happen, Mrs. Redfern?”
Bambi stops mid bite. Her cheeks flush a little red. How to answer? “It was a silly accident,” she finally says. “I slipped in the bathroom.”
“You’re going to need antibiotics,” Martha offers.
Bambi looks up from her meal, perplexed. “I’ll be fine.”
“Mrs. Redfern. It’s been weeks, and it isn’t healing well. I think you should see a doctor.”
Bambi cringes, a note of dread in her gut. “I don’t want to.”
“If your leg gets infected, you could get really sick,” Martha insists. She takes another bite and stares at her while she eats, waiting. A light breeze drifts in from the open window, and Bambi shivers.
“If you arrange it, I’ll go.”
Martha magics an appointment the very next day.
They wait in the doctor’s office, the ice pack Martha brought from home searing into her thigh.
Elevator music plays over a loop of commercials about lip filler and Botox on the flat-screen TV.
Bambi stares into the room’s privacy wall, a scenic tropical fish tank.
The water laps repetitively against the glass as the fish circle round and round in the confined, narrow space.
She goes to tap the glass, then pulls back her finger, the edge of her nail ragged.
Martha hands in her forms after Bambi signs them. When her name is called, she glances briefly at Martha, who nods reassuringly, then follows the nurse into a brightly lit consultation room. A pair of ceiling-height windows looks out over Westwood’s busy streets and medical buildings.
The room hums with electricity while outside, footsteps click up and down the long hallway.
After a few moments, there’s a brisk knock at the door, and the doctor appears in a long white coat, his hair slicked back, an oversized wristwatch that looks expensive peeking out of one sleeve.
“Mrs. Redfern.” He nods curtly. “Now it says here it’s your thigh? ”
She nods and lifts the fabric of her skirt up enough to reveal the wound. “Yes, here.”
The doctor plucks a pair of gloves from a shoebox in the wall. “Mmm, that looks like a nasty cut.” He sits on a small, beige stool and wheels closer to her. His cold, gloved hands carefully lift the bandage and prod the skin. Bambi winces at his touch.
At last, he pushes away and starts removing his gloves. “Well, you’re lucky it wasn’t close to a major artery. How did this happen?”
“We had an accident in the kitchen,” Bambi says quickly. She starts to say more but stops. His eyes search her.
“You need a few stitches. Sit tight. I’ll numb you up and then get this closed up for you.” His eyes lift to hers and then shift uncomfortably to his clipboard. Bambi notices his cheeks flushing. “I would imagine, given your profession, you are concerned about scarring?”
“Yes, of course.”
“In that case, I would recommend some dermatological treatment once the wound is healed.” His eyes float up to hers again. Bambi feels her stomach warm.
“I can arrange that for you, if you wish?”
“Yes, thank you,” she manages. The doctor begins typing on the computer, clicking away. After a moment, he scrolls through her file and stops.
“Your emergency contact is Mr. Jason Redfern. Is that still correct?”
Her throat tightens. The doctor turns and looks at her, his eyes studying her. Bambi feels naked, as if everything about her life is suddenly transparent. She has the impulse to bolt from the room and go find Martha, but she cannot move. “No,” she answers. “I need to change that.”
“Absolutely,” the doctor says, nodding. “And who would you like to add instead?”
“Martha. Martha Holiday.”
The doctor inputs her name and number, which Bambi has to scroll through her phone to retrieve. Her heart beats faster while she reads it out.
“Is Martha a friend, a relative …?” the doctor ventures.
Bambi hesitates. “She works for me.” Her throat clears a little. “But she’s also a friend.”
“How nice,” the doctor adds and looks back at her, smiling. “Okay, we’ll get you stitched up, get you some antibiotics, and you can be on your way.”
A nurse brings in the anesthetic and the needle and thread on a tray, and they prep her leg. She’s numb in no time, the deadness in her leg a sweet relief. “Just a few small tugs. You’ll feel a pulling sensation.”
“Okay,” she replies and flinches.
“I know, I’m sorry, Mrs. Redfern. It’s painful because it’s infected.”
He apologizes again, and Bambi softens. The way he touches her—gently, calmly, carefully … How long has it been since a man was this way with her?
Eight stitches in place, and the nurse places a cotton bandage over the top.
“Keep it dry and clean,” he tells her and places a hand lightly on her shoulder. “It will heal up well. Just be sure to take these antibiotics with food.”
“I will.” She calms her shaking legs by crossing them at the ankles. “What about the pain? Can you give me something for that?”
“Yes, of course,” he answers. “I want you to be comfortable.”
Comfortable. The word rings through her, leaving a deep void in her core. When had she last been comfortable? Her eyes burn, and the room blurs.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Redfern?” The doctor turns and grabs a tissue.
“I’m fine. I just need something for the pain. Something to help me sleep.”
The doctor begins typing out another prescription. “I’ll give you some methadone for the pain. Please try to take it sparingly.”
“Nothing stronger?”
He shakes his head no. “This should suffice.”
He hands her the prescription. Their fingers touch for a quick moment, and Bambi pulls her hand away.
The doctor turns from her. “Mrs. Redfern, is there anything else you’d like to tell me? Anything at all?”
Bambi recoils. Her palms turn clammy, and the back of her knees stick to the plastic cover on the table. “What? No.”
His expression turns grim. “Do you need help beyond what I’ve done to treat you here today?”
Bambi laughs. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but no. I’m fine.” She stands from the table, her fresh stitches pulling. The doctor backs away.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Redfern. But we’re required to ask these questions if we sense a patient might be …” His voice trails off as he looks down at the floor. “In trouble.”
She pulls her skirt down and slips on her heels.
“The only trouble I have is you giving me this crap instead of what I asked for.” She waves the prescription at him, aware she is becoming irate.
“You know, there are thousands of doctors in this city. I just need to walk next door, and I can get whatever I want, right?”
“Mrs. Redfern, please. I’m just trying to help you.”
She pauses, her blood curdling. The room shrinks around her. The stitches in her leg tighten in her flesh as she stands. “There’s only one person who can help me.”
Later in the afternoon, Martha brings her a cup of tea and sits beside her on the sofa. Bambi sips the hot liquid slowly, her hands shaking. It’s as though she’s walking a tightrope across a deep, black trench. Any moment, she could fall in and disappear.
“I’ll fill your prescription and get you booked with the dermatologist,” Martha says, noting something in her diary. “You have the Cancun summer shoot coming up,” she says quietly. “It’s swimwear.” She hesitates. “Do you want me to tell them you can’t make it?”
If the drugs were in her possession right now, they’d be taking hold.
The abnormal hum in the back of her mind would dissipate, and she might have peace for once.
“No, no, no, no, no, Martha!” She slams her fist against the sofa, spilling the tea on the fine white fabric.
Martha leaps up and takes the cup from her.
Their hands touch, and Bambi grasps her fingers for a moment.
She squeezes them, not wanting to let go.
“Martha, listen to me,” Bambi says, aware that her voice sounds horribly desperate. She can’t help it. Her life is shifting inexplicably around her. “If I pull out of another shoot, my agency will drop me, and that will be it. Do you understand?”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Redfern,” Martha intones with genuine surprise. “I didn’t realize.”
“No one can find out about this. About any of this,” she whispers. “If anyone found out …”
A look comes over her then, a simple yet profound understanding growing between them. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Redfern,” Martha tells her. “You can trust me.”