Page 21 of Dying for the Doctor

“Hold that pose,” says Papa Turner breathlessly as my new wife and I smile for what must be the thirtieth wedding photo of our newly married lives. “I want this one to be perfect.”

“They’re all perfect photos, Dad.” Wanda smiles, her pretty face lit up like a star. “Everything is perfect. Isn’t it, Ma?”

Mama Turner smiles at us, then nudges Papa Turner to take the picture. He takes about ten photos with his phone, and immediately Mama and Papa Turner huddle together to pick the perfect one to get framed by the patiently waiting Elvis who just declared us man and wife, doctor and damsel, killer king and paranoid princess.

My parents are here too, Dad and Mom beaming at us, the two of them standing close to each other, my brothers milling about in the background, arguing about something or the other. The police stopped by earlier, of course, but Dad told them to show him a warrant or else go fuck themselves. The cops know Dad well enough, and they didn’t take it personally. They left, but they’ll be back around eventually.

But I’m not worried. Nobody witnessed Lenny doing his swan dive out of that window except my wife, and she isn’t talking, isn’t telling, isn’t snitching.

As for me?

Well, I’m still grinning like that big bad wolf, watching my beautiful wife thank Elvis for his service as her paranoid parents fuss about the photos, frantically searching for the perfect pose, the pristine picture, the final photograph.

But I don’t need a photograph to remind me of today.

Because I’ve got the real thing.

I’ve got her.

Now and for ever.

∞

EPILOGUE

NINE MONTHS LATER.

DRAKE

Doctor Drake to the Emergency Room!

Doctor Drake to the Emergency Room!

Doctor Drake to the Emergency Room!

My entire life flashes before me as I sprint down the hospital hallway. I got the call that Wanda went into early labor while I was at my Lake Mead clinic, and it was all I could do to not hyperventilate to death on the mad dash over.

Bursting through the ER doors, I almost cause ten new emergencies in my frantic rush to get to my pregnant wife, to make sure she’s all right, that our babies are all right, that everything in our perfectly perfect life stays perfect.

“Wanda!” I howl, looking around the ER in a mad desperate search for my wife. “Wanda!”

“Um, your wife is already upstairs in recovery, Doctor Drake,” says a somewhat cautious nurse from my left. “The delivery was quick and smooth. No complications. They’re all waiting to see you. The elevators are just down the hall and—”

And nothing, because I’m already running down the hall and bounding up the stairs. I’ve never been this nervous about anything in my life, but then again, nothing’s ever been this important to me before.

Within moments I’m up on the fourth floor of the Maternity Ward. Out of consideration for Wanda’s parents, we instructed the hospital to give us a room no higher than the fifth floor because of Mama and Papa Turner’s issues with fire-truck-ladders. Doesn’t matter that all hospitals have multiple fire-escape routes and about a zillion fire-prevention failsafes.

But right now I feel like a failure as a husband for not being here for Wanda as she gave birth to our twin babies. My heart is hammering against my chest as I thunder down the hall to the recovery room, and when I burst through the doors and see my beautiful wife cradling two bubbly babies, a son and daughter who have Wanda’s rosy cheeks and my eyes, my heart almost explodes with the overwhelming gush of pure love.

“Ohmygod, Drake, are you all right?” Wanda gasps when she sees me desperately panting and heaving and laughing and crying all at once. “Didn’t they tell you everything was all right, no complications at all, that there was no need to rush?”

I can still hear the echoes of “Doctor Drake to the Emergency Room” but I know it was all in my head. Just the hallucinatory paranoia that comes when you suddenly realize you’ve got something precious in your life, something perfect in your life, something to protect in your life . . . fuck, who would have thought unconditional love was so damn stressful!

“They’re so beautiful,” I mumble as I lean over the hospital bed and kiss each of my perfect babies. Then I kiss my perfect wife, a long slobbery kiss that makes her giggle and push me away for air. “Are you all right, Wanda? How do you feel?”

“Great,” says Wanda cheerfully. “Handed in my PhD Dissertation this morning. Then I went into labor. Now I’m here. And the twins are here. Easy as pie. How was your day, honey?”

Backing away from the bed, I stare at my perfectly cool and collected wife who just juggled a PhD and twins without even breathing hard. And here I am a nervous wreck, about to turn into Papa Turner and start biting my nails down to stubs as I worry about my new family, my new babies, my—

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