Deceptions
Page 83
I kissed Ricky, and I whispered, “I love you,” and he said, “That’s all I want,” and in my mind I heard All I ever wanted as he lowered me onto the bed.
—
Afterward, lying in bed, catching our breath, I told Ricky about the medical records mix-up.
“Okay,” he said. “Excuse my ignorance, because it’s not a condition I’m familiar with, but there’s no way you could have been this girl, right? That you got adopted by your parents and, with their money, they were able to get it fixed? Maybe quietly, so no one knew you ever had it?”
“According to the doctor, no. I’m not familiar with spina bifida, either, so . . .”
He already had his phone in hand, searching on a browser.
“So, I could have done that,” I said.
“No reason to at the time,” he said. “But now it seems like you want to know more.”
He skimmed the page, then passed it to me. It said that spina bifida is a congenital defect in which the neural tube covering the spinal cord doesn’t fully form in utero. The girl with my alleged medical records had a severe form, which would have led to lifelong mobility issues. If I were that girl, I’d be in a wheelchair.
Something twigged in the back of my brain, something someone had said a few weeks ago, but the thought wouldn’t take form.
“No amount of money would have cured it,” I said. “Not today, and definitely not twenty years ago.”
“Okay, so you’re thinking—” He stopped short and rolled from the bed. “Time for a field trip.”
“Um, no, pretty sure that wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“But it’s what we’re doing.” He went into the next room, scooping up my clothing. “You know what you’re thinking. I know it, too—and I know to keep my mouth shut until we have proof.”
“Uh-huh. Well, while this mind-reading thing is very sweet—and hot—most of the time, there are times when it could become . . .”
“Creepy and annoying? Yep. Which is why I’m not doing it now. I know my limits, and I’d like to stick to the sweet and hot side.” He tossed me my clothing. “Although, if you can work in badass, I’d appreciate it.”
I grinned. “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know?”
“Exactly. I’m the Lord Byron of bikers. Except, being a biker, naturally I don’t write poetry. Or read it. In fact, for the record, I have no idea who this Byron guy is.”
“Gotcha.” I pulled on my shirt. “So where exactly is this field trip taking us?”
“The doctor’s office. Which I know you hate, on principle, but I’ll be there for moral support. And to make sure you get all the answers to your questions, whether you’ll admit you have questions or not.”
“Okay, but Gabriel is expecting me to work—”
Ricky was already on the phone. “Hey, Gabriel. It’s Ricky. I’m stealing Liv for a couple of hours to follow up on some questions regarding the Larsen case. In other words, completely job-related.” He paused, and I heard the faint rumble of a reply. “No, we’ve got this. I don’t have classes until this afternoon. I’ll make sure she gets her car back and send her your way after lunch. Sound good?”
I could swear I didn’t hear an answer, but it may have just been too low to pick up.
“We’re off, then,” Ricky said. “Talk to you later.” He hung up and turned to me. “Your absenteeism note has been delivered. Let me get dressed and we’ll go.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I hated doctors. Let me rephrase that. I didn’t hate them—I hated the places where they practice, like offices and hospitals. Admittedly, even the sight of a white coat and stethoscope was enough to send me running the other way. I refused to date three otherwise great guys because one was a med student, one an intern, and one a lab worker. So, yes, I may have had a problem with the profession, but it wasn’t personal. I thought doctors were lovely people. I just didn’t want to make out with one.
Why did I have such a problem with hospitals and doctors? I had spent my life wondering that. I was so damned healthy I rarely got a cold. I had never stayed in a hospital. Or so I thought, until I discovered there were two and a half years of my life unaccounted for.
Naturally, I’d asked Pamela. She said I’d spent one night in a hospital, for a fever, actually. Todd wasn’t allowed to stay in my room, so he’d slept in the waiting area and woken to me screaming, alone and terrified. That could explain my phobia, but I felt like there should have been more.
Dr. Escoda was the daughter of my former physician, who’d passed away a few years ago. Her office was packed. It didn’t matter. Give Ricky two minutes with the middle-aged receptionist and we didn’t just get a promise that we could see the doctor between appointments, we were shown into an exam room immediately to “protect my privacy.”
Dr. Escoda showed up less than five minutes later, and as she scurried in, I smelled terror wafting from her body like bad cologne. She shook my hand, her damp fingers enveloping mine.
“Ms. Taylor-Jones,” she said. “I’m so glad you stopped by.”
The sweat trickling down her hairline called her a liar.
Back when we first discovered my file had been lost, Gabriel had mentioned the possibility of pursuing it as a legal matter. I hadn’t ruled it out.
“We’re still looking for your file,” she said. “I deeply apologize for the distress it must cause you. I doubt there’s anything important in those records—”
—
Afterward, lying in bed, catching our breath, I told Ricky about the medical records mix-up.
“Okay,” he said. “Excuse my ignorance, because it’s not a condition I’m familiar with, but there’s no way you could have been this girl, right? That you got adopted by your parents and, with their money, they were able to get it fixed? Maybe quietly, so no one knew you ever had it?”
“According to the doctor, no. I’m not familiar with spina bifida, either, so . . .”
He already had his phone in hand, searching on a browser.
“So, I could have done that,” I said.
“No reason to at the time,” he said. “But now it seems like you want to know more.”
He skimmed the page, then passed it to me. It said that spina bifida is a congenital defect in which the neural tube covering the spinal cord doesn’t fully form in utero. The girl with my alleged medical records had a severe form, which would have led to lifelong mobility issues. If I were that girl, I’d be in a wheelchair.
Something twigged in the back of my brain, something someone had said a few weeks ago, but the thought wouldn’t take form.
“No amount of money would have cured it,” I said. “Not today, and definitely not twenty years ago.”
“Okay, so you’re thinking—” He stopped short and rolled from the bed. “Time for a field trip.”
“Um, no, pretty sure that wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“But it’s what we’re doing.” He went into the next room, scooping up my clothing. “You know what you’re thinking. I know it, too—and I know to keep my mouth shut until we have proof.”
“Uh-huh. Well, while this mind-reading thing is very sweet—and hot—most of the time, there are times when it could become . . .”
“Creepy and annoying? Yep. Which is why I’m not doing it now. I know my limits, and I’d like to stick to the sweet and hot side.” He tossed me my clothing. “Although, if you can work in badass, I’d appreciate it.”
I grinned. “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know?”
“Exactly. I’m the Lord Byron of bikers. Except, being a biker, naturally I don’t write poetry. Or read it. In fact, for the record, I have no idea who this Byron guy is.”
“Gotcha.” I pulled on my shirt. “So where exactly is this field trip taking us?”
“The doctor’s office. Which I know you hate, on principle, but I’ll be there for moral support. And to make sure you get all the answers to your questions, whether you’ll admit you have questions or not.”
“Okay, but Gabriel is expecting me to work—”
Ricky was already on the phone. “Hey, Gabriel. It’s Ricky. I’m stealing Liv for a couple of hours to follow up on some questions regarding the Larsen case. In other words, completely job-related.” He paused, and I heard the faint rumble of a reply. “No, we’ve got this. I don’t have classes until this afternoon. I’ll make sure she gets her car back and send her your way after lunch. Sound good?”
I could swear I didn’t hear an answer, but it may have just been too low to pick up.
“We’re off, then,” Ricky said. “Talk to you later.” He hung up and turned to me. “Your absenteeism note has been delivered. Let me get dressed and we’ll go.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I hated doctors. Let me rephrase that. I didn’t hate them—I hated the places where they practice, like offices and hospitals. Admittedly, even the sight of a white coat and stethoscope was enough to send me running the other way. I refused to date three otherwise great guys because one was a med student, one an intern, and one a lab worker. So, yes, I may have had a problem with the profession, but it wasn’t personal. I thought doctors were lovely people. I just didn’t want to make out with one.
Why did I have such a problem with hospitals and doctors? I had spent my life wondering that. I was so damned healthy I rarely got a cold. I had never stayed in a hospital. Or so I thought, until I discovered there were two and a half years of my life unaccounted for.
Naturally, I’d asked Pamela. She said I’d spent one night in a hospital, for a fever, actually. Todd wasn’t allowed to stay in my room, so he’d slept in the waiting area and woken to me screaming, alone and terrified. That could explain my phobia, but I felt like there should have been more.
Dr. Escoda was the daughter of my former physician, who’d passed away a few years ago. Her office was packed. It didn’t matter. Give Ricky two minutes with the middle-aged receptionist and we didn’t just get a promise that we could see the doctor between appointments, we were shown into an exam room immediately to “protect my privacy.”
Dr. Escoda showed up less than five minutes later, and as she scurried in, I smelled terror wafting from her body like bad cologne. She shook my hand, her damp fingers enveloping mine.
“Ms. Taylor-Jones,” she said. “I’m so glad you stopped by.”
The sweat trickling down her hairline called her a liar.
Back when we first discovered my file had been lost, Gabriel had mentioned the possibility of pursuing it as a legal matter. I hadn’t ruled it out.
“We’re still looking for your file,” she said. “I deeply apologize for the distress it must cause you. I doubt there’s anything important in those records—”
