He answers with the obligatory, “whatever,” and I make my way to the door.
The doorman stops me and asks where I’m going.
I pull the card back out of my pocket and read off the name. “I’m here to pick up a Miss Miller,” I answer, and he directs me to the elevator.
“You’ll find her on floor 15, apartment 105,” the doorman says as I’m walking away.
I wonder if my client’s just slumming it with the cab. It’s happened before, but if that’s the case, I really should have dressed down a little.
Jenny really needs to get better with specifics.
I get up to the apartment and pop a mint in my mouth before I knock on the door.
“Just a minute!” the muffled voice from inside the apartment calls back.
And so I wait.
I wait for about five minutes before the door opens, but as soon as it has, I’m wishing I was somewhere else.
The woman standing in front of me is a few inches shorter than me, probably 5-foot-7 or 5-foot-8, with long, red hair in a loose updo, emerald eyes, and pouty lips. She’s in a chic, but understated and tight-fitting black dress, just revealing enough to titillate the senses without being risqué, but none of that bothers me.
What bothers me is that she’s been a patient of mine for a few weeks now.
“Dr. Churchill?”
“Grace?” I respond.
“Oh, this is just great,” she says, and throws her arms up before turning and retreating back into the apartment.
I’m just standing in the doorway, not sure whether I should follow her in or make a mad dash for the elevator.
“You may as well come in,” she says, so I do.
The apartment is spacious and well appointed. Her chart says that she’s 24.
“So, what’s up?” she asks.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“I’ve got a date coming,” she says. “If you found an aneurism or something, would you mind just letting me know and getting out of here? I haven’t been out once since my last round of chemo, and I was really looking forward to trying out this wig. It looks real, doesn’t it? Here, feel,” she says, and turns her head.
I reach out and awkwardly feel her new hair, saying, “You know, I honestly wouldn’t have even known that it wasn’t yours.”
“You’re just saying that,” she says. “My hair wasn’t this long when you were treating me, and I’m not a redhead.”
“Well, people do dye their hair,” I start.
“Yeah, but their hair doesn’t usually grow six inches in a couple of weeks,” she says. “So, hurry up. Am I dying, or did you screw up the diagnosis and I actually just had some bad sushi, or what?”
“It would have to be pretty bad sushi to cause a seizure,” I laugh, but my attempt at humor isn’t appreciated.
“So, I’m dying,” she says. “That’s all right. I kind of figured that out when you started talking about 10-year survival rates. Well, thanks for stopping by to tell me, but unless there’s a solid chance I’m going to keel over at dinner, I think it’s probably for the best that you go.”
So, the good news is that she doesn’t realize that I’m her escort, but I’m in a bit of a dilemma here. I can either come up with some fake medical information to give her and then quickly show myself out, or I can be honest about why I’m here.
For the sake of my job—the day job, that is—it’s probably for the best that I try to find a third option, but I’ve got nothing.