stopped wearing makeup. What’s the point if she’s just going to cry it off? Dad’s holding a newspaper, but he’s not reading it either. He remembers to flip the pages every once in a while, even makes a show of shaking out the creases, but I know he’s not reading. If he were, he’d be making comments about this story or that.
“I’m going to take a walk,” I say, because I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t stand the endless talk shows about food and swimwear and how to know if your husband is cheating on you and who is the father of the baby.
“We should get some playing cards,” Mom says, putting her book down. “We can go down to the gift shop and see if they have any. Maybe they have board games.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” I stand and stretch my legs. “I just want to walk around a little. I won’t go far.”
“What if they need you?” Dad says.
“Text me,” I say, “or have them page me.” That’s something else I’m sick of—the constant overhead voice telling Dr. So and So that he has a call on extension twelve, and can Dr. So and So come to room 489, and Dr. So and So is needed in exam room seven.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
I open the door to the hallway and choose, for no particular reason, to turn right. There’s a drinking fountain, and I stop, even though I’m not really thirsty. At the very end of the hall are double doors labeled OPERATING ROOM FOUR. There’s another waiting room on the left, where a large family is huddled together in prayer. I continue walking past patient rooms until a familiar sound makes me stop. It’s the sound of a can of pop falling from a vending machine. I check my pocket for change and bingo! A can of sugary caffeine is just what I need. Maybe I’ll see Amber there, sneaking another candy bar. Maybe she’ll want to share the flavor with me again.
I follow the sound down a long hallway. At the end of it is a square room. The walls are a pale yellow, and there are no framed pictures or inspiring photographs hung on them. There is a long table draped with a white plastic cloth covered with a variety of donuts and a sign reading HELP YOURSELF. On another table is a row of coffee makers, two labeled regular, one labeled decaf.
I go to the freebie table first and pick up a cinnamon-and-sugar-covered cake donut. Then I go to the vending machine, put in my change, and wait for my can of Mountain Dew to fall like manna from heaven.
“Shit’s bad for you,” a deep voice says, and I nearly jump out of my shoes.
“Fuck.” I grab my chest because I swear my heart has literally skipped a beat.
“Sorry. You okay?” An African American boy, close to seven feet tall, is standing in the doorway. He comes forward and 1 2 6
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
puts a hand on my shoulder. “Last thing any of us needs is a premature heart attack. Premature being before our eighteenth birthdays.”
“James M.?”
He offers his hand. “In the flesh.”
I don’t take his hand. He’s close to a foot taller than me, but I go up on the balls of my feet and throw my arms around his neck. At first, he seems startled, then he hugs me back, even lifting my feet off the floor before letting me down.
“James M.,” I say, giving his firm shoulder a pat. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“So I gather,” he says, flashing me the biggest, broadest, best smile I’ve ever seen. He leans over the freebie table and picks up a glazed donut.
“I thought you said this stuff’s bad for you,” I say.
He puts a finger to his lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
He’s beyond handsome. His face is ridiculously chiseled.
His jaw, his nose, his prominent cheekbones look like they were either formed by a skilled artist’s hand or by God himself on an exceptionally good day.
“Sucks they’re keeping us apart. Well, I guess they’re doing it on purpose. Trying to protect our emotional states, I assume.
They don’t want us getting too close in case . . .” His eyebrows lift, and he sighs. “Have you met the other one, Amber?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“She kiss you?” he asks, his dark eyes narrowing.
I laugh. “You too?”
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