LISA
I
can’t remember the last time I
slept for more than four hours. It’s been a long
haul,
longer than
any shift I pulled in med school, longer than any stint of duty
I’ve
done
before. And I have to keep doing it, because there isn’t
anyone coming to take charge.
Just
me. The price of being at the top
is that while you get the glory, you also get the
hours and the
responsibility for it all. I’m working hard to keep the media
from
picking
us to the bones, to keep our credibility up, to rebuild our
reputation through these
murders. I can see the turn coming, but it’s
slow, slow slow—like trying to turn the
Titanic from the iceberg,
although that’s not really right because ours has already
hit
and
hit HARD.
Three
deaths, seemingly unconnected,
but all diagnosed as the same thing. Normally
that sort of stat
doesn’t stand out—I mean we ARE a hospital for
God’s sake, and
a
damned big one. But then Greg had to butt in and nose around and I
remembered what
he’d found out about Pediatrics a year or so ago,
so I let him. This time he found more
deaths, going back a few
months. Seven in fact, all signed off by the same pair of
attending
nurses, all happening within three weeks of the last.
Not
good. From there came the
investigation and convictions, the review of hospital
security, the
new procedures, and of course the ongoing media blitz that’s
sucked
my
soul inside out. It’s getting better, but I’m still
putting in
16 hour days to keep it together.
I get into the office at about
five, and get out about eleven most nights. Come in on the weekends
too, and I remember eating a salad about six hours ago, I think.
But
I can’t get Ramona Lavelle and
Gina Quinone out of my head. The pair of them
injecting insulin
overdoses into IV lines, into surgery stitches. Choosing to kill
patients
who annoyed them. And later, patients at random. Like a
fucking game.
God I’m so tired.
The
weekend is coming and I’m tempted
to throw my cell phone in a drawer, curl up in
bed and sleep straight
through. The only problem is that I’m so tired I
CAN’T sleep, so
I’m working through files and drinking coffee, hoping that
when the
crash comes I’m at
home. I haven’t seen Greg or Jimmy in a week
or so, but they’ve been
around—I’ve
found traces here and
there.
Jimmy left me a box of nutrition bars and a note about taking care of myself.
Greg left me a 40 oz can of malt liquor.
I
stop trying to focus on the billing
charts in front of me and rub my temples. For a quick second I
indulge once again in my little fantasy, picturing myself being
sandwiched
between them, warm and cozy and completely without a
single responsibility. I wonder
if they snore—I suspect Greg does,
and it wouldn’t complete surprise me if Jimmy
did . . .
Can’t
close my eyes; I don’t DARE
close my eyes, so I get up and stretch a little,
hearing my spine
crackle. The damned files sit there on my desk under the high
intensity lamp, waiting for me to get back to business. I’m
so
exhausted now that I’m
giving the paperwork ulterior motives.
Slowly I pace around my desk; once, twice, three
times then settle
back into my chair and pick up the files once more, getting back to
the business of being the Dean of Medicine.
Yippee.
JIMMY
It’s
been a hell of a month. Who am I
kidding? It’s been a hellish TWO months, and
while things are
finally slowing down, I can’t lie and say they’re
anywhere near
normal.
The entire moral of the hospital is down, noticeably, and
everyone is grimly going
through the motions, as if sheer routine
will somehow snap us all back to where we
were before the murders.
It’s
hard to watch this place
struggle along. Things are getting better every day, but the
only
factor that really will bring us back is letting time pass.
We’ve
had all the coverage
we need, all the offered psych services and
security measures . . .
We
just need time. SHE needs time. I’ve
already spoken to Greg about it, and even
though he doesn’t say a
lot I know he agrees with me, professionally as well as
personally.
Lisa is taking this harder than any of us and at the rate
she’s
going I’m afraid
she’s going to have a breakdown of some sort.
And that WOULD probably be the
downfall of this hospital. She’s
been the one calm, determined force through this, and it
kills me
that she’s the one bearing the brunt of the media blitz.
She
needs to get away, and knowing
Lisa, that’s not going to happen without an
intervention of some
sort. Fortunately, I have just the place in mind—quiet,
stocked to
the gills with amenities, and out of town. Our Dean of Medicine would
never go there
herself, so I sense some sort of covert plan is
needed.
I happen to know an expert in that field, so I pick up my phone and call him.
“Nuns and Nazis Porn Studio, how can I help you?” Greg responds. I sigh.
“What if it had been your mother calling?” I ask him.
“I’d have told her she got the part. There’s a walk-on for a leather boy too, in case you’re interested in auditioning.”
“Thanks
I’ll pass. I’m thinking
of getting out of town this weekend,” I tell him
lightly.
“Atlantic
City.”
“I see—and you’d like a tour guide to the seamier side of our Vegas of the East?”
“Something
like that—I want us to
take Cuddy,” I murmur, and the sudden silence on
the other end of
the line tells me I’ve succeeded in startling him with both
the
pronoun
and the plan. Then Greg comes back strong.
“Doctor
Wilson you sick little
monkey. I LOVE it. Let’s go dose her up with some
chloral
hydrate I
just happen to have with me. I’m calling shotgun.”
“No
drugs,” I snap. The last thing
any of us need are criminal charges. “We’ll pack
her
a suitcase
and then just offer to take her home tonight—she’ll
crash before
we even hit
the highway.”
“Sounds
good,” House mutters in a
more serious tone, his voice lower. “Cuddy’s
about
three hours
from a meltdown as it is. So—I can handle the
packing—“
“WE’LL
handle the packing, since
all you’d do is bag up a toothbrush and a pair of
fishnets,” I
insist firmly, feeling annoyed now. “Greg, we’re
NOT going to
jump her or
make assumptions here. We’re taking her out of a
stressful environment for REST. If
she wants to . . . pursue anything
more, then it’s entirely up to HER. NO pressure.”
I
hear House’s low whine, and while
southern parts of me agree, my brain still retains
the authority for
this decision.
“Yeah,
well you have to sleep
sometime, Eagle Scout. So—this means we get to break
in at Cuddy’s.
Cool—I know my way around the place.”
“That’s what I was afraid of, but yeah. She can’t argue too much if we’ve packed for her already. I’ll make reservations and meet you in the parking lot in about half an hour.”
“Great.
Gives me enough time to hook
up with my pusher. Want me to prescribe you
some Cialis?” Greg
chirps. I grit my teeth.
“Always
thoughtful, but no,” I
mutter; his quietly manic glee is starting to get to me and I
can’t
let him know that. We hang up, and I settle in behind my laptop,
pulling up the reservation desk of the Regatta Casino and Spa within
a few minutes.
It’s
pricey, a little out of the way
from the main drag of Atlantic City, and comes with
more services
than any other place I’ve stayed at—and I only had
one of the
economy
rooms back then. Now, I’m looking at reserving a suite
that’s going to set me back a
chunk of change . . . but Lisa’s
worth it. Her comfort, that is. I confidently book a three
room
suite, complete with sauna, Jacuzzi bath and stocked wet bar. The
full package:
two nights, comps, access to all the goodies . . . at
the very least we’ll do the town, if
not each other.
I squash that thought and curse Greg for encouraging it.
GREG
Oh
yeah. We’re moving quietly through
Cuddy’s house and I love the tingle that
accompanies on the BEST
break-ins. Jimmy’s looking nervous, but then again,
oncologists and
uptight preppies don’t often DO home invasions, so I cut him
some
slack. I pass through the dining room, down the hall and into the
Promised Land, trying
to remember where I saw her suitcases. Top
shelf of the closet, I think.
Yeah,
they’re there, and I let Jimmy
do the honors of fishing them down: a rolling
suitcase and one of
those square cosmetic cases, both done in tasteful tapestry.
SO
very
Cuddles, all feminine. Jimmy’s dropped them on the bed and
has them
unzipped;
they’re empty except for little sachets. MORE girly
touches.
“Okay, so she needs three outfits, casual, lingerie, sleepwear—“
“Sleepwear?”
I whine. My fevered
imagination suddenly drapes the gloriously nude
image of Cuddles in a
plaid flannel granny gown and I shake my head. “Let ME
handle
that.”
Jimmy
shoots me a look of grudging
reluctance and I can tell he’s had the plaid image
pop up too.
“Fine, but something she can feel comfortable in. Maybe
she’s got
a
nightgown on the back of her bathroom door.”
I
limp off to check, and there are
three choices hanging back here: hot red, gauzy black
and sheer
white. All of them slinky, all of them sending a wake up call to Mr.
Up. I lean
forward and sniff, basking in the sweet perfume of sleepy
Cuddles lingering on them.
Damn it, Mr. Up is rarin’ now. I snag
the red one down and peek around the bathroom
doorway towards Jimmy.
He’s filling the cosmetic bag with stuff from the
vanity,
choosing
earring sets.
Mother
of God. I always thought Jimmy
was a little anal retentive, but seeing him take
the time to
accessorize is offending the macho portions of my brain. I clear my
throat.
Loudly.
He looks up, clueless. “Oh good, you got one.”
“Yep.
So, while you indulge in your
amazing powers of Metro, I’ll just get started on the
panties,
shall I?” I offer, heading towards the dresser. Jimmy drops
the
last of the
makeup and steps over, his scowl finally registering.
“You
know, I didn’t HAVE to call
you, Greg. I could have just whisked Lisa off by myself,”
Jimmy
points out in that quiet tone he uses only when he’s really
pissed.
I hang my
head a moment; he’s right.
“Okay,
yes, I suppose you could have,
but--you wouldn’t. The guilt would have gotten to
you before you’d
even hit the turnpike and you know it.”
“Shoes,”
he interrupts, waving to
the closet. I head over and peer in, knowing I’ll
find
everything
organized in here—after all, this is Cuddles, queen of tidy.
There
are several
nice pairs, including at least two sets of strappy vinyl
fuck-me high heels in the far back.
Oh baby, what I wouldn’t give
to see THOSE waving over my shoulders . . .
“Focus,
Greg. And NOT those,” comes
Jimmy’s chide. “Yet,” he adds, restoring
my faith
in his sex
drive. I grab some low-heeled black pumps and sandals, handing them
over
my shoulder. Jimmy takes them but he doesn’t move as he
stares
into the depths of
Cuddle’s wardrobe with me.
“Am
I seeing what I think I’m
seeing?” he murmurs. I look off to the left side of the
closet,
and
there, under a dry cleaning bag I see the item he’s looking
at.
Jeans.
And not just jeans, but leather
ones. Gleaming black leather jeans. Low slung
jeans. Leather pants
that bring to mind a topless Cuddy sauntering around in them
as
they
cling to her delicious ass and slender thighs . . . Mr. Up is
definitely saluting the
fantasy, especially when the damned SHOES are
part of it too.
I don’t DARE look at Jimmy, but I hear him, breathing hard, a little whimper in his throat.
“Oh God---“ he breathes. I inhale deeply and reach for the bag.
“We’re taking those. We HAVE to.”
“We have to,” he agrees, sounding a little dazed.
*** *** ***
We
meet up again in my office about an
hour later, and even though Jimmy doesn’t say anything I know
damned well he’s been practicing a little self-pollution too.
After
Cuddy’s closet and panties drawer we both NEEDED some quick
release
and taking the
edge off was absolutely essential for sanity.
Jimmy
looks guilty; I wave that away
dismissively and check my watch. “Time to get
going. Your car?”
“My car,” he agrees. “I’ve driven the way before.”
“Let’s get this road trip started then.”
LISA
I
hang up on Alonzo, feeling a fresh
surge of hate right now. Apparently my car has a
flat, which means I
have to either go out and change it, or sweet-talk some one else into
changing it. I have Triple A, but it’s a hassle to get them
to come
out to a parking
garage. I yawn. Maybe a cab; I’ll deal with the
damned car tomorrow. I pick up the
phone to call the main desk just
as Jimmy opens my door and smiles at me.
“Heading
home?” he asks. I give a
shrug, and he takes a moment to come in and step
behind me. His hands
go to my shoulders and oooohhhhhh GODDDDDD, the rubbing
is perfect!
Big hands kneading at the knots there; I’m about to go
boneless now
and I
KNOW I groan a little. He laughs, “Tense.”
“Not
anymore,” I admit, letting my
eyes close a moment under the heavenly sensations.
Slow steady
pressure loosening the muscles, rubbing JUST right . . . I could cry
with
how good it feels. Then he stops, the rat.
“Lisa,
why don’t you let me drive
you?” Jimmy murmurs in a low voice.
There’s
something in his tone
that doesn’t sound exactly right, but I’m too tired
to worry
about it.
I look up at him over my shoulder.
“Your
timing’s perfect—Parking
security tells me I’ve got a flat and I was thinking
of
calling a
cab.” Is it my imagination, or does Jimmy look guilty? God
I’m
tired.
“Okay
then. Let’s round up Greg and
we can get going,” he pulls my chair out for me. I
grab my purse
and coat, lock up the office and walk with Jimmy down the hall to
Greg’s.
It’s quiet this time of night, and I’m feeling
another
yawn coming on.
Greg
meets us at his office door, his
backpack over his shoulder. “Hey. What’s
SHE
doing here? I
thought we weren’t letting girls into our He-Man Commuter
Club,“
he
cracks. I roll my eyes; Greg’s pretty predictable sometimes.
“Seems
she’s got a flat tire,”
Jimmy murmurs in that odd voice again. I walk on between
them,
concentrating on staying awake.
“You
don’t say? Wow, that’s a
good reason for getting a ride from Wilson,” House
announces in a
sanctimonious tone. I shrug and trudge on. Out the doors, across the
driveways, into the elevator and up to the second floor. I lean a
little on Greg, who
laughs softly.
“If I fall asleep, just wake me when we get to my place,” I warn them both. “Okay?”
“You trust us not to ravish you while you’re out?” Greg asks as the elevator opens at the second level of the garage. I pull away from him and link an arm through Jimmy’s.
“Sleep
first--I’d like to be awake
for the latter part.” It’s weak, but it’s
all I can come up
with at the moment. Next to me, Jimmy laughs and unlocks his car. I
hesitate. House
clears his throat.
“I need the front. Hate to be rude, but it’s the only one that accommodates the legs.”
I
nod and climb into the back, settling
against the velour. Jimmy’s car smells good, and
it’s free of
clutter, unlike mine. I fasten the belt while they get in, and
gradually we pull
away from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
I don’t miss it.
Don’t
get me wrong. I love my
hospital. I love my job. But on this Friday night after a
long week
in a series of long weeks, I’m perfectly happy to close my
eyes in
the sweet darkness of this back seat and let it all drift away from
me. Up front I hear Jimmy and
Greg talking about sports, and under
it, Jimmy has some CD on, jazz I think.
I drift off.
*** *** ***
When
I finally open my eyes it’s
because Jimmy’s tugging my hands and making me sit
up a bit. I jerk
awake, blinking, trying to wake up completely.
We’re
NOT in front of my house. I
look around at the parking garage, wondering if why
we came back to
the hospital. Jimmy looks a little worried as I climb out.
“Why did
we
come back?”
“We’re not back. We’re . . . in Atlantic City, Lisa.”
Now
I hear it in his voice, and my
throat feels thick and choked up. Concern. I’ve
heard
Jimmy use
that tone with patients. I stare at him. “What the HELL do
you
mean, Atlantic
City?”
“Greg
and I brought you here because
you need a break. You’ve been pushing yourself extremely
hard, and
if you don’t do something to unstress yourself
you’re a good
candidate for a whole series of problems,” he reasons with
me. “So,
we thought we’d
get you out of town for the weekend.”
“With
the two of you,” I manage,
feeling myself go red. Jimmy nods, and for a long
minute I stare at
him. “Where’s Greg?” I finally ask.
JIMMY
“Up
in the suite, checking out all
the pay-per-view channels probably,” I admit to
Lisa,
who looks
sleepy and a little scared. I clear my throat. “Three rooms,
some
nice amenities—you’ll be able to go to sleep right
away since
we’re checked in.”
She
pulls her purse strap up to her
shoulder and draws in a breath; I bite my lip. “Lisa,
listen—this
isn’t about . . . what you told us, okay? It’s just
that after
everything that’s happened at the hospital, Greg and I knew
you
needed some serious down time, and
you’d probably never take it if
we didn’t sort of . . .”
“—Kidnap
me?” she snorts. Right
then and there I relax. THIS is the Cuddy I know and
love. She shoots
me that wonderfully familiar exasperated look and I flush a
little,
nodding.
“I
know you too well to try and talk
you into it. Sometimes a slightly more drastic
measure is called
for,” I point out. She doesn’t argue; instead she
waves a hand
and we
fall in step, heading for the elevator. It’s gotten cooler,
and the scent of salt water is in
the night air.
“What about--?”
“--We
packed for you,” I tell her,
not daring to look at her expression, but out of the
corner of my eye
I can see Lisa’s elegant shoulders stiffen at that little
outrage.
“I’m going to kill House.”
“Maybe
you should just change your
locks and find a better hiding place for your spare
key,” I
suggest.
The
Dean of Medicine very maturely
sticks her tongue out at me as we enter the lobby
of the Regatta.
I usher her to the bank of elevators, and it’s fun to see that despite her attempts at being annoyed, Lisa’s actually a little impressed.
“Suites
are at the top. We have the
Windjammer,” I murmur, holding the door for her.
The car shoots up,
and Lisa sways against me; I slip an arm around her to help both
of
us keep our balance and for a few sweet moments the feel of her
against me is
wonderful. God, the thought of sleeping with her, even
platonically—
Before
that notion leads any further,
the car stops and reluctantly we pull apart,
stepping out into a
short horseshoe hallway with only five doors along it. Each has
a
plaque: Yacht, Windjammer, Catamaran, Sloop and Schooner.
I
unlock the door of the Windjammer and
hold it open, letting Lisa sail by me into the
plush and opulent
living room. She gives a happy sigh, and even I have to admit
it’s
a gorgeous place. Sunken living room; huge vaulted wood-beamed
ceiling; big windows overlooking the Atlantic, fireplace with cheery
blaze going---and Greg blissed out in the
state of the art recliner.
He barely turns his head as we walk in.
“Dibs
forever,” he moans, holding
up the remote and hitting the Shiatsu button. Lisa
laughs and walks
by him towards the window. Outside and far, far down below is
the
dark water with the thin line of whitecaps rising up from the
waveline. It looks cold and
remote, but beautiful too, and I love
watching at Lisa’s profile while she looks out. Then
she turns and
shoots me a soft little smile that makes something inside me flare
up.
“It’s beautiful, Jimmy. Just . . . beautiful.”
“Thanks.
Your suitcases are still in
the living room—I wanted you to be able to choose
your
bed—ah--ROOM, that is.”
Great
Freudian slip on my part; across
the living room Greg is snickering, but I ignore
him and wander to
the cases, ready to carry them to wherever m’lady asks.
Cuddy
wanders from one room to another,
considering. Two are standard bedrooms
with queen sized beds and
fairly nice bathrooms, and one is--well, the master, with a
king-sized bed and the sauna in it. She looks at that one, then turns
in the doorway and crosses her arms, her gaze moving from me to Greg
and back again.
“You
KNOW this is insane,” she
announces to us, those sharp blue-grey eyes framed
by thick dark
lashes. “The Dean of Medicine checking into a hotel room with
the
Chief
of Oncology and the Chief of Diagnostics? The publicity ALONE
could sink all THREE
of our careers!”
“Technically
only ONE of us checked
in,” Greg argues, and I wait for his counter line of
reasoning; if
anyone can debate Lisa and win, it’s him.
“We’re in a resort
city, where the
news of the hospital killings is already forgotten if
it ever even made a ripple. Besides,
you’re here to rest, which
means you’re not going to be cavorting around anyway.
Get.
Some.
Sleep.”
His
tone is soft but compelling, and
I’m moved at how much he actually cares. I think
we’re all a
little startled. Lisa slumps a bit against the doorframe. I carry the
bags over, brushing past her.
Then Lisa speaks again, softly.
“Fine. Then I’m not sleeping alone. Get in here.”
GREG
I’m
taking the left side of the bed.
I sort of have to; the only way I can safely get in and
out is by
bracing my right and moving my left leg first. The infarction screwed
up my coordination and balance, and even though I’ve learned
how to
compensate, it’s not
always easy. Especially in a new bed.
I’m
nervous, but I expected that.
Fortunately this joint has a good mattress, sheets with
a really high
thread count, and enough pillows to arm an entire sorority. My cane
hook
fits on the nightstand just right, and I slide in, not thrilled
at how cold the sheets are,
even through boxers and a tee-shirt.
Fortunately
there’s a heater close
by, and I look over at her. Cuddles has the sheets
and blanket jacked
up to her chin and stares back at me.
“Give
me some covers or I’m going
to take them by force,” I announce firmly. This does
NOT have the
desired effect; she laughs and lets go, rolling to her stomach. Her
hair
looks gorgeous in the low lamplight. Jimmy’s still in the
bathroom brushing his teeth, so
I settle in and try to relax. The
tv’s on, and some in-house program about how to win
at
craps is
playing. I stretch out a little, sighing. Cuddles scoots over and I
feel her hip
almost against mine now. Warm. Nice.
Jimmy
flicks off the light in the
bathroom and wanders out self-consciously. He’s got
blue pajamas
on, with his monogram on the damned breast pocket. Gah! I expect a
pen
or two in it as well.
“You. Packed. Pajamas.” I know my tone’s a little sharp; Jimmy looks down, sighing.
“I get cold.” He turns off the tv.
“Well
for God’s sake get under the
covers, and don’t let the air in—“
Cuddles snaps.
Jimmy jumps
like a good former husband that he is and scoots in; once again we
all
fumble and settle down, trying not to touch each other but still
have some grip on the
blankets. I turn out the light and it’s
dark
now.
“Oh
God, someone’s got icy feet!”
Cuddles groans. I tug and roll towards her, pretty
sure the toes in
question aren’t mine. Jimmy gives a sigh.
“That would be me.”
“Yeah,
well, I’d have a doctor
check that out—poor circulation’s indicative of
lots of
terrible
things,” I point out helpfully.
“Raynaud’s for one. ED for
another.”
“I
don’t have EITHER of those!”
Jimmy snaps, but Cuddles is snerking, so I slide an arm around her
waist. She makes this great little ‘eep’ noise and
what do you
know? Her
butt’s up against my lap.
“Hell-o,”
I groan a little. She
looks over her shoulder at me, and gives a disapproving
glance that
is having NO effect in getting me to back off.
“Weren’t
you the one telling me to
go to sleep?” Cuddles demands. I roll my eyes and
prop my head up,
resting it on my free palm.
“So sleep—I’m good with furtive frottage you know.”
“Greg—“
Comes the voice of reason
from the other side of King Island here. Between
us, Cuddles laughs
again.
“My hero—“
“Shhh,
settle down. YOU’RE the one
who wanted to snuggle, so close your eyes, Lisa,”
I hear Jimmy
croon, and for a moment we’re all a little tense and awkward,
but
just a
little more shifting and this is good.
Like,
really good. I’m up against
Cuddles, and I know she’s got her head on
Jimmy’s
shoulder. Feet
are entwining now, and that feels damned nice too. It’s been
a long
time
since I’ve had this kind of comfort. Mr. Up’s
interested,
sure, but I’m not about to press
his luck at the moment. Good
enough that Luscious Lisa smells terrific, and I have a
pretty nice
lock around her waist as the long comfortable minutes go by.
I slide my hand up to cop a feel—I AM in the neighborhood—but I’m blocked by Jimmy, gripping my wrist and pushing it away. Not meanly, just—firmly.
“Let her sleep—“ he growls a little. This startles me enough to back off a tiny bit.
“Yeah? Well how do I know you’re not groping her yourself, Jimbo?” I whisper back.
“Because she’s out, for one thing. I don’t molest unconscious women, Doctor Feelgood.”
I
feel Cuddles smother a giggle, and I
tighten my grip on her waist, burying my own
chuckle against her
satiny shoulder. Jimmy gives a put-upon sigh since he heard
the
two
of us.
“Both of you, sleep—“ He orders us, “Or I’ll send you to separate beds.”
We shut up. We sleep.
