Sweet Forty-Two(66)

“Well, he’s not six, so let’s use a grown up word,” I teased. “Penny-colored sounds like something said to or about a little kid.”

“For goodness sake. Fine. The copper-haired breezy boy. What’s his name again?”

“Regan. Not like the president. Like there should be two E’s there, but there’s not.”

“I don’t want to discuss the formation of his name, dear.” She grinned and tucked her hair behind her ears.

I took the exit for the hospital, my heart starting to race. “What do you want to know?”

“How he manages to make you smile like you used to when you were a little girl.”

“He doesn’t.” I couldn’t have sounded more offended if I tried. I drew my eyebrows together and bit the inside of my cheek to combat the Regan-esque sensation overcoming my lips.

“You act like smiling’s a bad thing.”

“It’s a lying thing,” I mumbled.

“Pull over.” My mom’s voice was sharp.

I looked at her and she wasn’t joking. Her eyes were on me and her finger was pressed against the window as if I didn’t know where over was. Without a fight, I pulled over along the wide shoulder and put the car in park.

“What?” I looked around, trying to find the source of her sudden panic.

“Don’t do this, Georgia.”

I opened my mouth to accompany my sudden need for more oxygen. “Do what? Take you? We can go—”

“No.” She put up her hand. “Don’t throw away whatever is happening with Regan.”

“You made me pull over for this?”

“You need to stop and listen to me. And to yourself. I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything, Mom.”

I sighed and put the car in drive, merging back into the thickening traffic. Everyone in the area worked at the hospital and the road swelled like grease-fed arteries during the day. I was annoyed at having left my spot in the line of cars to listen to her chastising.

“I just think—”

“Stop!” I cut her off, the stress of her impending appointment boiling over into my speech. I took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m just trying to focus on you right now, okay?”

My mom sat back and crossed her arms in front of her. “For such a tough little shit, you sure let fear drive your decisions an awful lot.”

My throat tightened. I tried to swallow it open, but it didn’t work. I knew my mom was probably as nervous about her appointment as I was, and I’d just yelled at her so I couldn’t very well do it again.

Even if she was right.





Given the last time I’d seen Dr. Carver was when I was in his office stomping my feet like a sugar-crashing toddler, chatting with him before my mother’s procedure was awkward at best. The nurse had taken my mother back to do all of her vitals, and things of that nature, while Dr. Carver discussed what to expect during and after the minutes-long procedure.

I sat at his desk, in an office I’d never been to before. We weren’t at Breezy Pointe, which was nice on a superficial level. This office was more clinical. Sterile, with mock 1940’s Coca-Cola advertisements on the wall. Bizarre, I thought, given the obesity crisis the medical community rants about. Though, I suppose if you have someone in front of you who is literally losing their minds, offering them a Coke is the least you can do.

“Georgia.” He nodded, the way a principal might. Then he took a casual seat and fussed with his lab coat. His next lab was my mom’s brain. I wanted to burn the coat.

“Hi, Dr. Carver. How long will the procedure last?” I didn’t need him to retell the tale of why they were doing the procedure and what the procedure consisted of, or a discussion of why were incessantly calling it a procedure.

When people go in for most other procedures, they outline the parameters. Not here. Here, it was a procedure, because no matter how you sliced it, you couldn’t keep the electro out of the conversation.

“Just a few minutes.”

I knew how long it would last. As I said, I’d been doing my homework. I just felt the need to act like I gave a shit about what he said. Maybe my attitude wasn’t fair. He’d been an exceptional doctor to my mom, but he was still the one who was going to be zapping her brain. There are some things I just can’t look past in a person.

Procedure will last a few minutes.

Procedure.

She’ll be monitored in recovery for a couple of hours.

Go home.

Those were the highlights of the conversation. I couldn’t be in the room for a number of reasons, all of which prevented me from having to scream, I don’t want to be in there.

So, I waited. I didn’t count ceiling tiles or entertain the fish in the oversized tank with my longing gaze. There was no playing around on my smart phone, because if it were so smart, it would transform into a portal through which I could escape. I didn’t want to be angry at my phone for not existing outside of reality, so I left it in my backpack.

“Georgia Hall?” The pleasant nurse who wasn’t much older than thirty had a calm smile on her face. Not an overly enthusiastic one. I appreciated the common sense of her facial muscles.

I flowed from sitting to standing in one overly graceful motion. One that I’m sure made it look like I was trying not to look as twisted up inside as I felt.