Page 33 of Doctorshipped
Grant:Thank you.
Grant:For looking into how to help Fiona, I mean.
Jayme:I adore her. It’s my pleasure.
Jayme:And my job.
I stare at my phone. I’m so bad at these sorts of things.
Jayme:Chamomile helps. And Melatonin.
Grant:Sometimes.
Jayme: …
The three dots appear and disappear. I watch them, unable to pocket my phone, far too eager to see what she’ll say to me next.
Jayme never does text me again. Eventually I push off the railing and head back inside. I make myself a cup of bedtime tea and add a dollop of honey—not because Jayme recommended it, just because it sounds good.
* * *
Hazel arrives bright and early.I’m up and rested enough. Or, so I think, until I walk out of my kitchen to see the waiting room half-full of patients.
Maybe I should hire a receptionist. Where would she sit? In the waiting room? Whose bright idea was it to combine my personal home with an office that was open to the public?
Mine.
What was I thinking? Ah. Yes. I thought I could be nearby and spare Fiona the need to be in childcare with someone after school while I worked at a clinic. And I still do like that idea. Well, I mostly like it.
I heave a sigh and look around the room. “Does anyone know who was here first?”
“I do,” my daughter says, walking up behind me with a smirk on her face.
Then, feigning an attitude way beyond her years, and probably quoting some show she saw on TV, she says, “I took the liberty of putting a piece of paper on a clipboard I found and passed it around to everyone. You can see your patients in the order they wrote their names.”
That video Jayme sent me said something about people who live with dyslexia thinking outside the box. My quick-on-her-feet daughter definitely usually solves problems with creativity and ease. I smile thinking of my text exchange with Jayme from last night.
“Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
Fiona lowers her voice so only I can hear her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re smiling.”
I promptly frown.
“Right. No. Yes. I’m fine.”
I look at the clipboard and call out the first name on the list.
“Ella Mae Epperson?”
“Right here,” a young woman around Jayme’s age answers me, jumping out of one of the chairs and wiggling her fingers in my direction.
The only thing Ella Mae seems to have in common with Jayme is their age. She’s dressed in a mini-skirt, a crop top, and go-go boots. Her fully made up face includes false eyelashes. And her highlighted hair is styled—maybe even overstyled.
