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 Posted: Thu Apr 08, 2010 5:41 pm
Four o'clock on Thursday. Day Seven since the subway accident, if you counted that first night in the hospital as Day One. Jada did. She probably shouldn't, since it made her hospital stay seem even longer. In the end, it wouldn't matter how she chose to count it, the time she would be spending there would still be the same. She chewed on her lower lip, reclining against the hospital-issued white sheets, sulking as the rough cotton scratched her sensitive legs. Pale skin was getting paler, not that the young heiress had thought it was possible. At this rate, she was going to blend in to her debutante dress. One good thing was that the all-liquid diet (aside from the crackers) was making her lose weight. Weight she didn't really care about. She'd rather be in the gym, gaining weight through muscle with Drew that stuck here taking lunch through an IV. Which wormed around in her hand like a little snake, until she wanted to vomit.
Which would keep them from giving her solid food. The doctors had promised her if she was good and didn't get ill off the crackers, then she could have a normal lunch tomorrow. Normal hospital lunch. She'd heard horror stories, but frankly, solid just sounded good at the moment. Normal. No grease, no fat, probably some turkey lump and low gravy, maybe a fresh apple? She'd kill a man for an apple.
Her debutante ball was going to be in a week, and Jada was paranoid, poring over the little samples her mother had provided her as though her opinion would make a difference at this point. As though there was something she could say which could make the older woman pull a halt to this crazy Roller Coaster ride that was pushing Jada closer to the future Szelem wanted for her. Closer to the edge of what separated what Jada wanted from the Point of No Return. Small piles of fabric were spilled across the comforter on her bed. The silk sheets her mother had brought were vetoed, but they had allowed the gorgeous comforter. Silk and satin, Chantilly lace, it covered her bed and stood out like a sore thumb among the boring, ugly barrenness of the hospital room. Elegance and taste were not something that the Destiny City Hospitals could afford, not with so many charity cases and John and Jane Does floating aimlessly in their coma ward.
She'd escaped the hospital yesterday, briefly, in her little wheelchair. It had all been with the help of Dylan, and had only been temporary. She had developed a mild fever, which had sent her nurse into a tizzy. The thought that Jada had strained herself too much, for shame! Her mother had been furious, because they'd planned to release her on Saturday. Oh, no, not if she was still developing fevers. The hospital could and would hold her for up to another week. Szelem had ranted at Jada for almost half an hour, alone in a little visiting room, about Jada's irresponsibility. It had been stupid of her, hadn't it? But it was worth it. That little glimpse of a world she would never be part of, as they passed through the mirror had been worth it.
Even if it could have waited until she was healthy.
Five minutes past four on Thursday afternoon.
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Posted: Mon Apr 12, 2010 7:18 pm
"Did somebody order room service? A strawberry parfait?" came the voice at the door. The doctor who entered, nametag confirming he was 'Dr. Gene Baskov,' didn't actually have any parfait in hand, which was probably a mixed blessing: on the one hand, a strawberry parfait was a strawberry parfait, a gift from the gods, the true ambrosia. On the other hand, this was Destiny City Memorial Hospital. Enough said. "This is the Embassy Suites, right? Overpriced chocolate and alcohol in the mini-bar, fluffy white robe and free pay per view?"
Dr. Baskov came and stood by Jada's bed, holding out his hand in obvious expectation of a tip, and brushed on a vivid smile.
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Posted: Mon Apr 12, 2010 7:37 pm
Jada, who was so desperate for food that the mention of a strawberry parfait immediately made her mouth water, reached out and lifted the invisible glass from the odd doctor's hand. "Thank you, Garcon." she said dryly. "I wish this was the Suites. I'd be wearing pants under my fluffy white robe, and my mother would have been allowed to bring the silk sheets. No alcohol though, doctor." she waggled her finger. "I'm under 21."
For the invisible parfait, the doctor received an invisible tip. "So, you're a new face. Are you here to tell me that you're setting me free?" Probably not. "Or that I won a free cruise to the Bahamas?" Again... Probably not. "Or that I'm all good, and they aren't going to be smearing me down with oil anymore?" Jada sucked at guessing games.
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Posted: Thu Apr 22, 2010 9:59 am
The doctor promptly found a chair and seated himself in it -- at least he wasn't attacking her with oil like the nursing staff cycled in to do on a reliable schedule that, to Jada, seemed to be 'constantly.' "Silk sheets," he answered promptly, backtracking to that point in the conversation. "No way. Huge ripoff, I swear by Egyptian cotton and nothing else. Well. Alright, that's not true -- in the winter when it gets cold, I've gotta say nothing beats Jersey-knit. They may not have the googly-eyed price tags of fine silks and satins, but that's comfort out the wazoo. Hi, I'm Dr. Baskov."
Jada had probably never heard a doctor use the technical anatomical term 'wazoo' before. Well, now she had.
"But no," he went on, "alas for your youthful dreams, I won't be paroling you on this fine, sunny day. In fact, certain parties -- whose names will not be disclosed -- want you sent over to plastics, which we can see about if our tanning oil doesn't help avoid the scarring, but so far it looks pretty good. Don't get me wrong, scars are serious business -- when I was in college, there was this one kid named John who had a long scar right under his eye, and every time one of us talked about him we'd inevitably say, 'so that kid John was buying an apple,' and you'd say, 'which John?' and the person telling the story would make their finger into sort of a hook and point at the spot below their eye and squint their eye up on that side and say, 'with the scaaaar.' Always the same squint, always the same voice. Sometimes we just called him Scaaaar, or Joooohn, with the hook-pointing and the squint. Point is, a scar, it follows you. And people are douchebags. So not having a scar would be good."
He leaned back, so the chair was only balanced on its back legs. "So, go with me on this, Jada -- on a scale of Eeyore to Tigger, how're you feeling?"
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Posted: Thu Apr 22, 2010 3:49 pm
She settled back like a princess, disregarding the imaginary parfait in order to watch the doctor like a hawk, almost suspiciously, something unreadable in her eyes. "I think silks are pretty comfortable. You do have the right idea going with Egyptian Cotton as well. In winter time, just get a heated blanket." She looked Dr. Baskov over, glad he didn't have any of those odd little bottles full of sterile-scented liquid that burned her as it soothed. "Nice to meet you, Doctor. I'm Jada."
Sent over to plastics? Purple eyes tightened. As in skin grafts? (The doctor's story almost made her vomit.) All in all, he wasn't getting a very Pooh-friendly look when she finally swallowed back the bile building in her throat at the thought of the expressions of horror her ruined back would be privy to. "Well, my youthful dreams are to be crushed, it seems." She swallowed. "And it is true, I've no desire for a scar." she was already thinking of all the ways she could be mocked for a scar. Not to mention what it would do to her wardrobe choices- Jada loved backless dresses. Something as distinctive as the scar she was imagining forming from the mess on her lower back.
She watched him, pondering for just a moment what would happen if Dr. Baskov, mid-torture, were to tip over in his precariously balanced chair and land sprawling on the floor.
He'd deserve it, you weren't supposed to balance in your chairs like that. Still, Jada looked at him very primly. "Eeyore to Tigger? How does that whole scale go, exactly? Eeyore, Rabbit, Piglet, Owl, Pooh, Roo and Tigger? Or are there other characters in-between? Because frankly, I'm feeling a bit like a Pooh."
Take it how you will, Dr. B.
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