The Kiss Quotient(84)

“How is this program funded?” he asked.

“Private funding. You know this area and all the large philanthropic organizations. Go on and sign it already. You’re making me nervous.”

His heart slowed, his hands steadied, and he scrawled his signature on the highlighted lines of page after page of legal verbiage.

She gathered the papers together, filled a small paper cup with water from inside her office, and handed it to him. “Drink this. You’re looking faint. Go on back now and break the news to your mom. She’s in her regular exam room.”

He tossed the water back and marched into the suite of exam rooms, going straight to the second room from the end. His mom was stretched out on the exam table with wires sneaking out from underneath her sweater to link to an EKG. A nurse printed readouts from the machine and made notes on his clipboard before he helped his mom peel the sensors off her chest.

“How’s everything looking?” Michael asked as he sat down.

“I’ll let the doctor tell you when she comes in.” The nurse smiled, gathered up his papers and machinery, and left the room.

“It’s going to be good news.” His mom straightened the lilac cashmere sweater that actually matched with her pants—plain white—for once. “M? feels good.”

This seemed like too much good news for one day, but there was color in her cheeks, and the smudges under her eyes weren’t as pronounced.

“Have you gained more weight?” he asked.

“Three pounds.”

That loosened some of the tension in Michael’s body. “That’s great.”

“Stop worrying and trust M?.”

A knock sounded on the door, and his mom’s doctor stepped inside, a curvaceous woman with sandy shoulder-length hair and a demeanor that instantly put people at ease.

“So it’s good news. I know I’ve shocked you again, Michael. Your mom is doing really well,” she said with a laugh before her focus returned to his mom. “Your last scans were stable, and we’re going to start spreading them out even further. We’ll keep your current dosages the same and do bloodwork every month. Of course, if anything changes, we want to see you right away, but I don’t think that’s likely.”

“Tell my son it’s okay if I work more. He and his sisters are trying to trap me at home.”

Dr. Hennigan eyed him with an understanding smile. “If she wants to work, let her work, Michael. It’s healthy to stay active—both physically and mentally.”

Michael crossed his arms. “Maybe instead of working, she should start dating.”

“Oh no no no no no. No more men for me.” His mom made emphatic motions with her hands and shook her head. “I’m done.”

The doctor’s eyebrows rose in a considering way. “He’s right. You could start dating, Anh. Might be fun.”

His mom sent him a withering glance, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

They left the exam room shortly thereafter and walked by the reception desk. Janelle grinned warmly, and his mom gave her a distracted wave.

“Is she in shock?” Janelle asked.

His mom frowned. “He wants me to get a boyfriend. Me. I’m almost sixty.”

Janelle nodded sagely. “It’s never too late for true love.”

“Bah. I just want to work. Money is better than men. I want a Hermès handbag.”

“Well, maybe you can afford it now,” Janelle said with a wide grin.

Michael ushered his mom out of the office before they could go into why she could afford it. As they got into his car and pulled out of the parking structure into the sun, he wished he could tell her about the program, but then he’d have to come clean about all the lies he’d told her regarding her excellent but nonexistent health insurance and how he’d been paying her medical bills all this time.

The only one who would understand was Stella, but she was gone. No, he’d have to keep this to himself.



* * *



? ? ?

Stella rested her forehead in her palm and methodically went over the attributes in herself she associated with her disorder: her sensitivities to sound, smell, and texture; her need for routine; her awkwardness in social situations; and her tendency toward obsession.

Over the last week, she’d tackled all of them but the last two. She didn’t know how to tackle those. She could listen to awful music as she worked, wear perfume, take kitchen shears to the French seams of her shirts, and destroy her routines, but she couldn’t suddenly talk to people with ease, and she couldn’t not be obsessed with something she loved.

Her mind spun around and around in circles, trying to figure out how to solve the problem. While she wasn’t great at talking, she had made marked improvement over the years. If she focused and watched what she said, she was able to interact with people without making them uncomfortable—mostly. That left obsession.

How did one not obsess over something wonderful? How did one like something a reasonable amount? If she was being realistic with herself, she had to admit this simply wasn’t a possibility for her. She couldn’t like something halfway. She’d tried that with Michael and failed miserably. Did that mean she had to abstain completely from things she enjoyed?

She supposed she could give up piano, martial arts movies, and Asian dramas. But what about her greatest passion?