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Chapter Three

All week long, I lie on the sofa recuperating, staring at the door, waiting for someone to kick it down and arrest me for killing Shorty. Or turning him into a vegetable. But it never happens.

So I’m left to wonder in silence about Detective Rousseau. Poring over every detail of our conversation in my apartment, and every detail of the doctor visit to Highland Medical Clinic on Wilshire Blvd. Though it was hard to maintain my usual level of alertness with my anxiety level skyrocketing.

Highland seemed like a legit clinic on the outside. Inside, it looked like a typical doctor’s office: dingy industrial carpet, uncomfortable vinyl chairs, a few small tables displaying magazines from a time when the La Brea tar pits were free of mammoths.

I approached the plexiglass window, my heart pulsing in every inch of my weakened body. My stab wound throbbing, reminding me that I couldn’t just turn around and walk out. For the first time since I left home, I needed help.

I introduced myself to the receptionist, keeping my head down, hoping she couldn’t see the streaks of makeup that inevitably turn up on my collar. I whispered Rousseau’s name and it’s as if I just told them I was Princess Diana. They had a wheelchair waiting for me just inside the door leading to the back office area. The receptionist rolled it out into the waiting room for me. A medical assistant in purple scrubs held the door open while the receptionist rolled me into a corridor leading to an examination room.

She tried to help me out of the wheelchair, but I held up my hand to stop her. “I can do it myself, thanks.”

Moving carefully, I climbed up onto the examination table. Gritting my teeth and trying not to let the pain show in my face. By the time I looked up, the doctor was already in the room. They weren’t going to make me wait.

“Good morning, Alex. I’m Dr. Grossman.” She holds her delicate hand out to me and I wince a little when I reach forward to shake. “Would you mind lying back so I can take a look at that injury?”

I don’t ask how she knows I’m injured. I figure Rousseau probably called ahead to give her a heads up. Maybe threatened to put a bullet in her Ivy league brain if she didn’t treat me well.

Dr. Grossman’s silver hair falls softly over her shoulder as she tips her head to the side. Watching me curiously as I painfully move backward on the table. Unlike the receptionist, she doesn’t attempt to help me or ask if I need assistance. She also doesn’t ask me to remove my hood or sunglasses. Rousseau must have been quite forthcoming with her.

Once I’m supine on the vinyl examination table, she comes to my side and reaches for the bottom of my black hoodie. I feel vulnerable and my anxiety is multiplying. In this harsh lighting, at this close range, she’ll see the industrial makeup on my face and neck. With the overhead lights shining down on my sunglasses, she may even see through the lenses.

“Alex, I’m going to ask you to please try to remain calm. Take a few slow, deep breaths. Can you do that for me?”

My chest trembles as I draw in a long breath. Then I let it out and there’s the unmistakable whistling wheeze of an asthma attack. I haven’t had one in years. They only happen when I’m under duress.

“A few more deep breaths,” Grossman encourages me.

I do as she says and the wheezing subsides on the ninth breath. Then I close my eyes because I can’t bear looking at the harsh fluorescent lights above me. She gently lifts the bottom of my sweatshirt just enough to see the wound.

“I’m going to have to put you under to clean this out.”

“No!”

“But —”

“No!” I try to sit up and she gently grabs my shoulders.

“Okay, okay. We won’t put you under. But this will need a lot of local anesthetic. Just lie down. I’ll be right back.”

She shot me up with demerol, which made me feel really good. Then she injected some local anesthetic into my abdomen so she could cut me open even further and clean out the wound. I told her I couldn’t feel anything, but it was a complete lie. The demerol and the anesthetic had mostly worn off about two thirds of the way into the procedure.

Grossman sent me on my way with seventeen stitches and a prescription for some antibiotics, anti-inflammatory steroids, and pain meds. But not before questioning me about my medical history. She was appalled to find I hadn’t been to a doctor in five years and that was only because I broke my shoulder while sparring with my father. I’ve never even been vaccinated.

She took some blood tests and told me to come back in ten days to have the stitches removed and to get some vaccinations. Then she asked me when the first day of my last period was.

“Why does that matter?”

“It’s a standard question.”

I glared at her from the examination table. “Eight days ago.”

“Are you sexually active?” There’s a long pause, then she continued. “I’m not trying to pry, Alex. But I need to make sure there’s no possibility that you’re pregnant. And I need to know if we need to schedule a gynecological exam for your next visit.”

“I don’t want an exam.”

“Alex, it’s a normal part of being a woman. You should have been taught this in school. Once you turn eighteen, you should be getting a gynecological exam once a year. More often if you’re sexually active.”

“I’m not sexually active.”

“Have you ever been sexually active?”

Her pen was poised over my medical file, ready to jot down whatever answer I gave her.

“No.”

She scribbled something in the file, then she handed me my prescription and shook my hand. Making me promise I’d be back in ten days to complete the treatment. She’d never see me again.

I don’t care if she was extremely sensitive to my situation. Never asking why I wore this disguise. Never commenting on what she saw when she lifted my sweatshirt. Never asking how I got stabbed in the first place. She knew too much about me now. If Rousseau wanted to, he could use that information to take me down.

I reach up and grab the back of the sofa to pull myself up. Time to change the dressing on my wound. I make my way into the kitchen and switch on the stove light. A small collection of first aid implements are lined up on the counter next to the stove: four-inch by four-inch gauze squares, a box of sterile cotton pads, medical tape, saline wound wash, and antibiotic ointment. This collection standing next to my stockpile of drugs.

I haven’t taken any of the pain meds for fear that Rousseau or one of Shorty’s friends will show up at my door and I’ll be too drugged up to fight back. But it’s been six days since I visited Dr. Grossman and my stitches have been oozing and the pain is coming back. I don’t want to go back to Highland, but I don’t want my tombstone to read: She refused to see a doctor.

I’ve always imagined my tombstone saying something like, Head chopped off by Samurai master, or, A Samurai ripped out her heart with his bare hands.

Yes, I’ve watched too many Tarantino films. My father was obsessed with them.

He probably still is. But I may never know. I doubt I’ll ever go home to see my parents.

I begin my nightly ritual of cleaning my wound and applying a new dressing by opening a box of gauze. I pull out a packet and set it aside, then I remove the caps from the wound wash and antibiotic ointment. I tear off a few strips of medical tape and hang them from the edge of the counter. Open a packet of sterile cotton, I then squeeze a little of the saline wound solution onto the cotton pad. Then begins the worst part.

I grab a piece of the tape securing my dressing to my skin and begin to slowly peel it away. My skin is red and raw from changing my dressing twice daily; once in the morning and once before bed. Each time I peel away the tape, more skin comes away. So now I’m left with a screaming pink square of raw skin boxing in my knife wound.

I peel away the top half of the dressing, but that’s as far as it will go. The gauze is stuck to the wound with crusted pus and blood. I pull a little harder and suck in a sharp breath at the searing pain. Tears stream down my face as I inch closer to the oven to get a better look at the wound under the stove light.

Shit.

I pulled out a stitch.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Fuck!

I stick the tape back onto my skin and turn off the light. Pulling down my sweatshirt, I walk toward the door, breathing in my usual composure. Trying to pretend I’m not at all broken.

I peer through the peephole and I recognize the shape of the head under the black hoodie. Rousseau has his back to the door. A show of faith demonstrating he doesn’t expect me to open the door and attack him from behind. And also a friendly display of submission. He’s showing me that I can trust him. He’s not going to attack me either.

I unlock the door and walk into the kitchen. “Come in,” I shout across the breakfast bar and into the darkness.

He opens the door slowly, but he steps inside and closes the door quickly. “Better?” he asks, referring to the closed door.

“Thank you, Detective.”

“Please, call me Daimon.”

Daimon Rousseau. Daimon pronounced Deh-món. So French. And something about knowing his first name, even if it’s not real, makes me less tense.

“Why are you here, Daimon?” Saying the name aloud feels even better. If he weren’t here, I’d probably start repeating it. Daimon. Daimon. Daimon.

“I told you I would be back. I still need to take your statement.” I can see his silhouette move and hear the soft crush of the carpet beneath his shoes as he takes a few steps toward the breakfast bar.

“I already told you, I didn’t see anything. But even if I did, shouldn’t another detective be taking my statement? After all, you are the … I’m sorry, but are you the victim or the perpetrator in this crime?”

He lets out a brief chuckle at this question. “I am neither. I’m the responding officer in this case. You were the intended victim.”

“Right. Well, I have nothing to tell you. I didn’t see anything and I’m quite busy. I’d appreciate it if you left.”

“Forgive my intrusion. I didn’t realize you were busy standing in the dark.”

“I wasn’t standing in the dark.”

“How is your stab wound?”

I pause to take a deep breath as I remember the questions Grossman asked. And my stupidity for answering.

“Not very well, actually. Your doctor asked too many questions and I don’t think she did a good job cleaning the wound.”

“Let me see.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me see the wound?”

“I’m not going to let you see it.”

“Then I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care if you believe me.”

“Yes, you do.”

I grip the edge of the breakfast bar to keep from grabbing something to throw at him.

“Let me see it,” he insists. “If it’s infected, you need medical attention.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I have a lot of experience with knife wounds. Just let me have a look at it. Or you can just lay here and die. It’s up to you.”

“You think you’re so smart,” I huff. “I can’t show it to you. The dressing is stuck.”

“Lie down on the sofa and I’ll get it unstuck.”

My heart pounds with anticipation. Am I really going to let this stranger help me? Am I going to let him touch me?

I can’t face Dr. Grossman after this. Not with her threatening to probe my privates in the name of medicine. This is less traumatizing. This is nothing.

I turn around and gather the supplies off the counter. Then I carry them, cradled in my arms, into the dark living room. I drop everything onto the coffee table and push the table back a little so he can kneel next to me. Then I sit down on the sofa.

He walks slowly, looking almost like a blind person as he taps his toe on the carpet in front of him with each step. Making sure he doesn’t bump into anything. When he reaches the coffee table, he bends down and feels his way around it until he’s about to step on my foot. I quickly pull my legs up onto the sofa as he kneels down.

“Sorry. Didn’t see your foot there.”

“Everything is on the table. Do you need me to tell you what everything is?”

“No. I’ll use my flashlight.”

“No light.”

“Just to look at the table, then I’ll turn it off. I promise.”

I swallow hard and consider telling him to leave. Then I remember that stitch I just pulled out. “Hurry up.”

He turns toward the coffee table, on his knees, and the flashlight clicks on. I pull my hood over my face and turn away from him, toward the back of the sofa as he sifts through my collection of first aid products. He clicks the flashlight off and I sigh as I turn back to him. He has something in his hand. It looks like a square of cotton.

“Just lie all the way back and relax.”

I ease myself down onto the sofa, but I keep my gaze locked on his hands as they move toward my belly. He grabs the bottom of my sweater and I flinch.

“Why are you so afraid?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“I can hear your heartbeat.” He pauses for me to respond, but I don’t. “Just relax.”

“Hurry up.” I repeat this demand because I don’t know what else to say.

He lifts the bottom of my sweater up, but it’s not enough to see the top of the dressing.

“Lift your back for a moment so I can raise this up a little more.”

I raise my hips and lower back a little so he can push the sweater up a bit more. Then his fingertip makes contact with the skin over my ribs and I flinch again.

“Please hurry.”

“I’ll go as fast as I can.”

He begins to pull the tape away from the top half of the wound, then he stops when he feels the resistance. He folds down the top half of the dressing and he squeezes the cotton square. A few drops of saline solution come out of the cotton and drip onto my burning wound. He uses the moisture on my skin and on the cotton square to loosen the dressing a bit.

“Why do you hide your face?”

The question stuns me and I have to remind myself to keep breathing. “I think you should leave.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to pry.” There’s a long silence where neither of us moves, then he continues to clean my stitches. “I just wonder why anyone would want to hide such beauty.”

The word beauty is not a word anyone has ever used in my reference. Not even my parents have called me beautiful. My parents were not the best parents, but at least I can say they never lied to me.

“How do you know I’m beautiful if you’ve never seen me in the light?”

“I don’t. But you have a beautiful figure and a graceful voice. It stands to reason that your face must match the rest of you.”

“And if it doesn’t? Does that make me unreasonable?”

“Not at all. It makes you different. Different is good.”

He lifts away the old dressing cleanly and I breathe a sigh of relief. I begin to sit up and he places his hand on my belly to stop me.

“Wait. Let me put your new dressing.”

I push his hand off, perhaps a bit too roughly. “I can do that.”

He chuckles as he stands. “Have you ever been touched by a man, Alex?”

“It’s time for you to leave.” He bumps his leg on the coffee table as I usher him toward the door, then I quickly make my way back into the kitchen before he can open it and let the soft glow of the light in the corridor. “Thank you for your help, but I need to rest. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Alex. Until next time.”

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