Perfectly Adequate(13)

“Finish what you started to say.”

“Oh shoot.” I grin as the doors open to my floor. “No time. Bye, Dr. Hawkins.”





CHAPTER FIVE





Meatballs

Elijah


Five days after our chat outside of the hospital and in the elevator, more alluding to my gossip popularity, I decide to call Dorothy. No solid reasoning backs my decision. I just know that my incessant need for things in my life to make sense has gotten me nowhere.

No clarity.

No family unit.

No wife.

No hope that it’s all just a bad dream.

So I change directions and let instinct guide me. My instinct says Julie would shed several tears if I died, but short of that, she wants nothing to do with me. My love rubs her like a splintery piece of wood someone impaled into her chest. Every move I make only intensifies her pain and angers her.

“Hi, Dr. Hawkins.” Dorothy answers on the first ring, probably because I’ve followed her guidelines for the best time to reach her. I have a feeling she has a lot of guidelines. Fine by me. I’ll take all the cues and guidance I can get. If she doesn’t brutally murder me with the truth first, I find it quite possible that her honesty could unshackle me from my self-doubt.

That self-doubt sucks. It’s a creepy little bastard that lingers in a dark corner waiting to chase me into the street, where I have a high probability of getting struck by a bus. When someone says “It’s me, not you,” it’s a blinking neon sign that there’s something so fundamentally wrong with you, that they’d rather take the blame than let you find out how they really feel about you.

“Dr. Hawkins?”

I clear my throat. “Yes. Hi. How are you?”

“Tired.”

“Oh, is this a bad time? I can call you when you’re less tired.”

“Okay.”

I stare out my bedroom window at the sunset over downtown Portland, a ridiculous grin pinned to my face. Maybe Dorothy is on the autism spectrum, lacking the social filter of neurotypical people, or maybe she prefers complete honesty over frivolous lies.

On my days off, I like to sleep in as long as Roman will allow. But my mom has a gift for waking me up with an early phone call. She asks if I’m sleeping. I always lie and say no because I don’t want her to feel bad for waking me. Maybe I should say yes and follow it up with an honest “but that’s okay.”

“Or I can make this really quick so you can get to bed.”

“Okay.” Her personality continues to feed my amusement—my joy.

Even if she is honest to a fault, she at least has an aptitude for agreeability.

“Great. Would you like to have dinner next week?”

“I like to have dinner every week,” she deadpans.

I chuckle. Is she joking? Serious? I don’t know. I like that I don’t know. It makes the possibility of getting to know her that much more appealing.

“Me too. Roman is a fan of dinner too. He likes spaghetti. We’d love for you to have spaghetti with us next week on a night that works with your schedule.”

“Well, Mondays are chaos. Tuesday might work if I put some extra study time in on Monday. Wednesdays don’t work because it’s pet night at the car wash. When you purchase the Better or Best wash, you get a free pet wash. And Thursdays I glean at the farmer’s market. The other three nights I don’t get off work until eight, and I’m sure you don’t want to eat spaghetti that late. Although … I’m not opposed to carb loading after a long shift. I pretty much eat around the clock when given the opportunity. My mom wondered if my insatiable hunger was a parasite issue, so I did some extensive research on it and had myself tested. Turns out I have no parasite issues. I’m just hungry a lot.”

Pet washes. Gleaning. Parasites.

While so many questions race in my head, I promised one quick question before letting her get to bed. The other questions will have to wait until spaghetti night. “Tuesday sounds like the perfect night.”

“Um … yeah. Maybe.” Indecision seeps into her words. “I’ll see if my dad will feed Wilbur, Orville, and Gemma.”

Okay. Even with the time restraint … I have to ask. “Wilbur, Orville, and Gemma?”

“Yes. My emus and my dog.”

So much for rumors.

I have no idea where Dr. Warren and Dorothy stand. It never feels like the right time to ask him, especially since I’ve been planning my own date—dinner—invitation. And he doesn’t bring it up, so I assume (secretly hope) she rejects his invitation. But he is right about one thing, Dorothy Mayhem evokes an unavoidable curiosity.

I close my blinds and head downstairs to the kitchen. All the food talk makes me hungry. “Tuesday at six work for you?”

“I’ll check with my dad.”

“Fine.” I open the fridge and grab a bowl of grapes. “Tuesday at six, unless your dad can’t feed your pets. Then you feed them, and we’ll have dinner at seven instead.”

“But what time does Roman go to bed?”

“Eight.”

“So I’m coming over for an hour? Two if my dad feeds Wilbur, Orville, and Gemma?”

“You can stay later than his bedtime.”

“Why?”