and drew closer to the document. The header came into focus. CONTINENCE CARE, it said.
I sat up, affronted. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“We have different care levels, Mr. Sinclair, and sometimes you graduate from one to another, and when you do, you have to pay for the additional attention.”
“I’m not incontinent, though.”
She drew a patient breath and waited. We waited. Neither of us seemed willing to budge as the clock’s second hand ticked away. Some indeterminate amount of time passed, during which I tried to convince myself this was at least better than what I’d imagined a minute ago. I should be grateful and placating and slink out of here pretending that I couldn’t hold my bladder; that was easier than defending myself.
I hunched over the form again and squinted at the fee adjustment. “Christ almighty. Four hundred dollars a month?”
A ballpoint pen appeared by the decimal. “This amount covers bed pads or diaper orders, whichever, and this here is for additional laundering and room cleaning as needed. We have a fixed price because—”
“I don’t need a diaper.”
She flipped the form to face her, wrote something, and flipped it back. “We’ll order you some pads then.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back. Placation, I reminded myself. I’m not getting kicked out. After that, nothing else matters. “Is that all?”
She tapped at the signature line. “If you’ll sign here.”
Without looking, I wrote a careless loop for my first name and a squiggly line for my last, after which I accidently passed the pen back with a little too much oomph. It hit her square in the gut and landed on the floor.
She bent down to retrieve it and set it gently on the desktop. “We also need to talk about your behavior.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, gesturing weakly toward her general midsection.
“Reginald came in with some complaints about a recent outburst.”
“You and I both know Reginald’s an arrogant asshole, so . . .”
She puckered her lips. “And Luann talked with me today about your brashness last night.”
I pointed to my head. “Am I not allowed to be brash when they’re sewing me up?”
“It was afterward.”
“She wasn’t exactly full of the milk of human kindness either.”
“My point is that not everyone appreciates how you speak to them, and this moment here, now, is a perfect example. You’ve been unusually agitated lately, and it seems to coincide with your recent spills. You’ve had some coordination issues, haven’t you?”
I exhaled heavily. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“We’ve scheduled you for a doctor’s visit on”—she consulted the file, then her calendar—“tomorrow, actually. You’ll get those stitches looked at, and you’ll also have a general checkup. I know you don’t have a lot of family, so I spoke to Luann to help guide us”—she waggled her finger at my chest and hers, as if we were a team—“on what questions we need to ask and what concerns we have.”
“I appreciate it, but I don’t have any concerns.”
She leveled her gaze. “Luann suggested that you might want to inquire about the possibility of dementia.”
I swallowed. “That sounds more like an allegation than a suggestion.”
“Mr. Sinclair, it’s a matter of being proactive, and if you do have it, there are treatments to delay symptoms. And if you don’t, then great. But considering some indicators we’ve seen, it’s not unreasonable to inquire. You’ve been disoriented and moody. Luann said she saw you today in the hallway acting paranoid. Let’s also admit, a common symptom is a lack of emotional restraint, and about ten minutes ago you seemed to be telling that nice gentleman to go”—the next part she whispered—“fuck himself.”
I snorted, on the cusp of telling her to do the same, after which I planned a postal moment, where I’d throw the paperwork and the paperweight and the paper tray across the room. I wanted to roar. To tear the board from the wall and everyone’s faces off it as well. I very nearly wanted to strangle her. Emotional restraint be damned.