Maybe (7 page)

Argue among yourselves. It’s late, and I’ve got an early morning.

IT’S UNSEASONABLY WARM at 8:00 a.m. in downtown Louisville, and destined to get hotter. By 2:00 p.m. the heat index is expected to hit a buck-twelve, thanks to the legendary Ohio Valley humidity. But no matter. Dr. P. and I will be in Virginia by then. Miranda, too.

Miranda’s a real trooper.

After learning why Dr. P. and I came here, she asked to join us. I tempted her with sleeping in and ordering room service, and warned it wouldn’t be pleasant. But she insisted, and that’s why we’re enjoying a cup of coffee in the hotel restaurant, waiting on Dr. P.’s phone call. He’s across the street, at Jefferson Memorial Hospital, arranging clearance for us.

Miranda sips her coffee and smiles. Yes, she’s paid to smile and be pleasant on three hours’ sleep. But most women in her situation would’ve been happy to stay in bed and order room service.

At a separate table a few feet away, a young brunette in business attire is staring holes in us over a bowl of oatmeal. Miranda seems not to notice, or care. This is one of the many things I love about being with her in public. Miranda’s half my age, but not the least self-conscious about our relationship.

She says, “You’re beautiful!”

I laugh. “That’s my line for you.”

“It applies, though.”

I shrug. “Sounds silly when you say it. I mean, I’m old enough to be your father.”

She shakes her head. “Donovan?”

“Yeah?”

“Accept the compliment.”

“Okay.”

“Asshole.”

I check to see if she’s smiling.

She is.

The young brunette at the table next to us has removed her cell phone from her purse. I think she’s texting about us to one of her girlfriends.

“This is something I need to work on?” I ask. “Accepting compliments?”

“It is. But we’ve discussed this several times.”

“I know.”

“I won’t be here much longer,” she says.

“I know.”

She gets to her feet and leans across the table to give me a kiss. The local businessmen at the table behind her enjoy the view her short skirt offers, while the brunette beside us looks to be retching, as if she swallowed some bad seafood.

Miranda kisses me a second time and says, “You’re going to miss me, aren’t you?”

I kiss her back, and sigh. “I will. But what I’ll really miss?”

“Tell me.”

“Us.”

She sits down, reaches across the small table, and takes my hand. “I’ll miss us too.”

She sees the look in my eyes and says, “Don’t ask.”

“Too late.”

“If you don’t ask, I won’t cry,” she says.

“I already asked. With my heart.”

The intrusive brunette rolls her eyes, props her cell phone on the table and snaps a picture of me with one hand while pretending to signal a waiter with the other. Then she adjusts the angle and takes a picture of Miranda.

She’s annoying the shit out of me, as are the businessmen sitting behind Miranda. When one of them says to his friends, “Kiss him again, honey,” and the others giggle, I think about the popping sound their eyes will make if I burst them with my fingers. I always thought that sound was caused by a little pocket of gas behind the cornea, but according to Lou’s research, the eyes contain no such gas, and the popping sound has more to do with the clear jelly of the vitreous body needing a place to escape in a hurry.

Speaking of eyes, Miranda’s are gorgeous, and she has impossibly long, natural eyelashes models would kill to possess. She uses them to blink a couple of tears from her eyes.

“I’ll say it again, Donovan. We can’t keep seeing each other after I graduate.”

“Maybe not like last night,” I say. “But when you get your license, I’ll be your first client.”

“You can’t. It wouldn’t be ethical.”

“You’ve been counseling me for a year.”

“Not professionally. I can’t counsel a client with whom I’ve been intimate.”

I frown. “That’s a stupid rule. Who could possibly understand me better, a total stranger, or a woman who knows me intimately?”

She smiles. “You’re not going to draw me into a debate on this issue.”

“Why not?”

“First, you’re too persuasive. And second, you’re right. But this license is very important to me. I’ve worked very hard to earn it. In order to keep it I have to follow certain rules of conduct.”

“These rules are important to you?”

She gives me her analyst look, the one she uses when trying to give the impression she’s speaking to me as an equal. Since I already know she’s smarter than me, her look doesn’t have the intended effect. It only makes her more adorable in my eyes.

She says, “You’re trying to suck me in again.”

“You think?”

“If I say I believe in following rules of ethical conduct, you’ll remind me I’m already breaking them by sleeping with you for cash. Which I’ll attempt to justify by saying it was a means to obtain the finest education. But then you’ll say I could’ve gotten a school loan, and I’ll say if I got a school loan I never would have met you.”

“All of which is true,” I say.

“Yes, but then you’ll point out we
did
meet, and—”

“Miranda?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Exactly how long do I have?”

She bites her lip.

“Miranda?”

She blinks more tears from her eyes.

The lady at the table next to us is hanging on our every word. I noticed her jaw drop a moment ago when Miranda said she’d been sleeping with me for cash. Now she’s glaring at us in a rude fashion.

Miranda notices too, because she turns to the brunette and says, “Excuse me, have you ever considered whoring?”

“I
beg
your pardon?”

“Would you consider a three-way? You, me, and my boyfriend?”

“
Excuse me
?” The young brunette’s face is beet red. She looks at me with total disgust.

I blow her a kiss. She does a double-take, and intensifies her glare.

Miranda says, “We’ve got a room upstairs. We can bang one out in ten minutes if you’re in a hurry to get to work.”

“
What?
You can’t possibly think I’d—Are you
insane
?”

Miranda says, “I hope you don’t expect us to believe you got that round mouth by eating oatmeal.”

“
Omigod!
” she says, and jumps to her feet to run tell the manager.

“I guess that’s a no,” Miranda says. “Sorry, Donovan.”

“Story of my life,” I say.

My cell phone vibrates. I answer it.

“Yes?”

“We’re good to go,” Dr. P. says.

DR. P. MEETS us in the lobby and escorts us to Dr. Boreland’s office. Boreland is Chief Operating Officer of Jeff Memorial.

Dr. Boreland shakes my hand while looking at Miranda.

“And you are?”

“Miranda Rodriguez,” she says, extending a hand.

He says, “You’re quite young. How do you fit in?”

“I’m sixteen weeks away from obtaining my Master’s in Counseling Psychology. After graduating, I’ll work with Dr. Petrovsky at his clinic, counseling patients.”

He nods.

Dr. P. is stunned into silence, which reminds me I neglected to tell him Miranda’s cover story.

Dr. Boreland shows us close up photos of the victims and says, “Dr. Petrovsky claims he can do something with these hands and faces. Do you share his optimism?”

I look at Dr. P.

He nods.

I say, “Dr. Petrovsky is the most highly-skilled surgeon on the planet Earth.”

Dr. Boreland frowns. “You’ll pardon me for doubting the veracity of that claim.”

“Whoa,” I say. “You couldn’t have said that simpler?”

He frowns.

I say, “I can assure you Dr. P. is without peer.”

“Funny I’ve never heard of him.”

“Have you heard of Albert Schweitzer?”

“Yes.”

“Sigmund Freud?”

“Yes.”

“Phineas Flatulence?”

“Do I strike you as the sort of person who enjoys having his time wasted with childish humor?”

“Why do you ask?”

Dr. Boreland decides to move on, saying, “Dr. Petrovsky’s name fails to appear in any internet listing of doctors and surgeons.”

“And yet you’re showing us the photos,” I say.

He shows me a flat, annoyed smile. “I’ve been ordered to cooperate fully.”

“By?”

“Dr. Dame, president and Chief Executive Officer.”

“That should convince you.”

“It convinces me Dr. Petrovsky has a great deal of clout. But I strongly disapprove of him giving false hope to these patients.”

I look at Dr. P. “Show him the photo.”

Dr. P. opens his leather folio and removes two photographs of an incredibly handsome man who happens to have a prominent scar on his face.

Dr. Boreland studies the photos a full minute, then looks at me.

“So?”

“That’s me, less than four years ago.”

“That’s preposterous.”

I notice Miranda’s eyes are glued to the photos. She might be more stunned than Dr. Boreland. I exaggerated about being incredibly handsome just now. I was, at best, good looking. Now, thanks to Dr. P. and his team of government surgeons, I’m incredibly handsome.

For real.

Dr. Boreland opens his desk drawer and removes a pair of surgical magnifying loupes. He puts them on and walks around his desk.

“Do you mind?” he says.

“Not at all.”

He motions me to look up so the light catches my face. Then he leans over until our faces are less than a foot apart. He pinches my face in various places, holds the skin between his fingers, and inspects it.

“This is a joke,” he says.

“Thank you,” Dr. P. says.

Moments later the three of us exit Dr. Boreland’s office and take the elevator to the fourth floor.

All twenty-two Derby City Fair victims were brought to Jeff Memorial. The thirteen adults, six children and three infants were doubled up and grouped in adjoining rooms on the fourth floor so they could be treated and monitored consistently.

I approach the first woman, Mary Valentine.

“Hi Mary, I’m Donovan Creed. This is Miranda Rodriguez and Dr. Eamon Petrovsky.”

Mary is drugged to the max. Her hands are heavily bandaged, and she’s receiving fluids.

She tries to speak, but her words are slurred.

Miranda says, “We’ll check on her and let you know.”

I have no idea what that means. Miranda says, “She asked about her daughter.”

Dr. P. and I exchange a look that indicates he didn’t catch Mary’s question any better than I did.

I continue, “Dr. Petrovsky is the world’s greatest plastic surgeon. He believes he can significantly restore your hands, over time. Dr. P. and I own a surgery center and spa in Las Vegas, Nevada. When you’re able to travel, we’d like to donate our services to you and your daughter, free of charge.”

Mary’s eyes well up. She mumbles something completely incoherent. Dr. P. and I look at Miranda, who says, “Mary is very grateful, but wants to know how long it will take.”

Dr. P. says, “Best case, five years, twenty surgeries.”

Mary mumbles something else. Miranda translates, “What about her baby?”

Dr. P. says, “Don’t expect a miracle.”

More mumbling. Miranda says, “She wants to know if it will hurt.”

“It will be excruciating,” Dr. P. says. “I’m sorry, I wish I had better news.”

Mary would never imagine the total cost of her surgical procedures, medicine, physical and occupational therapy will cost more than three million dollars. Nor would she care, I suspect. Right now she’s in a state of shock. Her attack was so sudden, her situation so horrific. One moment she’s pushing her baby in a stroller at the fair, the next moment her hands are burned practically to the bone. Not to mention her baby’s beautiful face has been ruined forever.

All this happened because she decided to use the free hand sanitizer dispenser at the fair.

As we go from one patient to the next, Dr. P. offers hope, Miranda offers encouragement, and I offer revenge.

Whoever did this is going to pay.