Page 23 of A Guardian for Christmas

Chapter Twelve

Sagan

Rather than let her sleep through her weekly appointment with her physician, I accompany Esme downstairs at 3 p.m.

We meet Dr. White in the library, and I already don’t like him.

He talks down to Esme as if she’s a little girl.

“I’m still not sleeping, Dr. White,” she says, wincing as the doctor takes her blood pressure.

“Hmm,” he says, eyeing the number on the screen, “Hallucinating again?”

She clears her throat. “Still. Not again. Still.”

“You must try harder to tell yourself it’s not real,” Dr. White advises. “You must sleep, and I promise it will work itself out.”

“But…”

Dr. White raises a thin finger skyward and says, “‘Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fear to attempt.’ William Shakespeare.”

I don’t know what the fuck this guy is talking about, but I know I read that somewhere. My hand automatically goes to the back of Esme’s shoulder. “What hallucinations, baby?”

Dr. White barely acknowledges me, except to frown at the hand that touches his patient. “Now, what did I tell you about dating? You’ll drive yourself into an early grave.”

It seems to me that Esme has a lot of old men in her life telling her what to do.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

But there’s a difference. I seem to be the only one with a critical thought between his ears. I think Esme recognizes that, too, down deep somewhere, buried under years of bad advice, if my hunch is correct.

“We’re not dating,” she says quickly. “Sagan is an old friend.”

The doctor is smart and can see right through it. His suspicion of me pours off him. “Now remember, Esmerelda. No vigorous activity. We have to be careful of your heart condition.” His eyes cut to me, and I know what he’s implying. The way he sneers is disgusting.

Wait…

“You have a heart condition?” I ask.

Esme turns to me and nods, her face sad and childlike. I do not like how she acts around this doctor. She’s totally cowed. “It’s hereditary.”

I put my hand over my mouth, panicking. Vigorous activity…was what Esme and I did earlier considered vigorous activity? What does she have, the heart of a 75-year-old red meat eater?

She sees the look on my face and shakes her head. “Don’t worry. See? I’m fine.”

Esme is not fine. Not at all. And I’m the jerk who got her heart racing when it wasn’t supposed to.

“You should not talk about medical information in front of strangers,” the doctor tells her.

“If I was worried about that, he wouldn’t be here. I trust him. In fact, I’d like to add Mr. Fisher as my emergency contact.”

He seems taken aback at Esme’s animated demeanor.

“What’s up, Doc? Not used to seeing her so alert?”

Esme squeezes my hand. The doctor rounds on me. “And what do you know about my patient, exactly?”

I reel in the urge to put this man in his place. “If I could offer my medical opinion. Esme is dealing with some serious executive dysfunction. When I found her this morning, she was barely communicative, and she hadn’t eaten a full meal in days.”

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