Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Twenty (Role Play Edition)

 

You flip the light switch on and you’re immediately greeted by the sight of your living room; a small, confined space full of utter chaos.

 

There are books and old newspapers scattered everywhere, littered all over the floor and the counter and the sofa, and there’s an ever-growing pile of plastic bottles in the kitchen corner that you should have taken out to recycling over a month ago. It’s messy as hell, to say the least, and a perfect reflection of your current state of mind.

 

You just stand in the open doorway for a few seconds, feeling weak as you regard the disorganized space and knowing good and well that nothing about it will be changing anytime soon. At least not for the better. Not with the way you’re feeling right now.

 

You lock the door and lean on it for a moment, closing your eyes as you try to decompress from the day. You try to shut everything out, just for a moment, but you can’t even seem to manage that. You can’t stop worrying. Your mind adamantly refuses to take a break, constantly racing with thoughts of everything, past and present. It’s almost as if it’s become a separate being, no longer part and parcel of you, doing whatever it wants whenever it wants to. It also seems pretty hell-bent on making you miserable, refusing to yield even as you feel the faint, tell-tale throbs that warn of an oncoming headache.

 

You let out an exhausted sigh—something you seemed to be doing a lot today. You attempt to push yourself off the door, and it’s such a miserable attempt that you end up leaning back on it in a tired slump.

 

Another sigh.

 

You can’t even muster the strength to move your body off the damn door, much less to your bedroom.

 

At least it’s nice and toasty in here. The heating is exceptional, despite how old the apartment complex is, and that’s one thing you’re incredibly grateful for during winter here. Honestly, the apartment was a godsend considering how expensive it is to live alone on this side of town and relatively close to campus without being stark in the middle of it.

 

You definitely lucked out with this place. Most landlords charge twice or three times what you pay for your apartment, but Henry’s a pretty cool guy, and just happens to be a huge fan of your grandfather’s early music, so he cut your rent in half on the condition that you’d get him limited edition and exclusive copies to all his albums and other musical collaborations. Plus, you’re sure he appreciated it when you referred Trixie here the year after you moved in.

 

He has a thing for her, and has for some time now, although she won’t give him the time of day because she can’t seem to look past Bill for even a second. She’s been stuck on him for so long and you’re afraid she’s only going to get hurt in the end. The fact that they’re best friends only makes it ten times worse.

 

And, speaking of Bill, you wonder if he’s confronted Gina about his suspicions yet. Knowing him, he won’t. He won’t even so much as allude to it when he’s with her. You feel bad for him. You feel bad for Trixie. Fuck, you feel bad for yourself! You sigh tiredly as you continue to lean against the hollow door, feeling utterly shitty for all of you.

 

Several moments later, your phone starts vibrating, forcing you out of your innate pity-party. You fish the device out of your bag as it continues to buzz, getting louder and louder as it does. You feel unusually irritated by the sound. It’s like a really annoying bumblebee that won’t leave you alone.

You pick up as soon as the phone’s in your grasp, frowning slightly as you notice the ‘Unknown Caller’ display on the screen.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, Muffin,” you hear in response.

 

You recognize the voice immediately. “Gran?” you ask, your brows drawing closer to each other in question. “Why is your number showing up as unknown?”

 

“Oh, I’m using Theodore’s home phone. I think he has it set up to be private or something. You know I don’t know how these things work,” she admonishes, and you can almost picture her waving her hand in a show of nonchalance to go with her I-can’t-be-bothered-to-explain tone.

 

You feel your forehead furrowing with more concern. “Theodore? Why are you over at his house this late? Are you alright?” You realize you’re starting to sound a bit panicked. You try to suppress it, but you’re pretty sure you’re failing.

 

“Oh, I’m fine, dear,” she says. “I accidentally dropped my phone in the sink this morning and it got all wet and wouldn’t even turn on afterwards. Theodore put it in some raw rice. He says it’ll make it work again. I don’t know about all that technology voodoo but I’m taking his word for it and using his home phone in the meantime.”

 

You breathe a silent sigh of relief.

 

“I was just calling to ask,” she continues, “would you prefer pecan or key lime pie for the day after tomorrow?”

 

You’re a bit surprised by the question, and that feeling quickly transitions to painful nostalgia.

 

“Gran…,” you breathe out another sigh before continuing in a little above a whisper. “You don’t have to make pie for Sunday, you know that.”

 

“Ramona Georgette Gallo,” she huffs adamantly, “if there’s one thing you and your grandfather ever agreed on, it’s that we need pie on every occasion.”

 

You smile at hearing that, her words mimicking those of her late husband. You want to laugh but you realize you can’t. Your throat is starting to feel tight and the smile that manages to form on your lips is accompanied with a burning sensation in your chest. You realize you’re getting choked up. You blink back tears behind your glasses as memories swim through your head.

 

When you were ten, your grandfather had been the one who first told you the usual saying, “When life throws lemons at you, you make lemonade.” At that age you thought it was such a neat and clever saying.

 

But then you’d asked him, your face all scrunched up and serious as you’d cocked your head to the side in question the way a typically curious child would, “What if life throws limes at you instead?”

 

He’d full on laughed at that, in his typical cheery and boisterous laugh. Even now, the memory of his infectious laughter makes your chest burn even more as you long to hear it.

 

He’d simply replied with the biggest smile on his face, “Well, you make key lime pie with them, of course!”

 

Needless to say, key lime pie has been a tradition in your family ever since. It’s also your comfort food.

Gran had wanted to switch it up every now and again with pecan pie or something else, just to break what she’d considered ‘unrepentant monotony’, because if it was left to you and your grandpa, you’d have key lime pie every single day of the year. Gran agrees that tradition is great and all, but insists that variety is the spice of life, so you’d agreed— all but reluctantly—to have pecan pie sometimes as well. He’s only been gone a year and you can’t believe how much you miss him.

 

“Alright, Gran,” you say once you can finally manage to speak again. “Key lime pie it is.”

 

She chuckles, almost as if she was expecting the answer, and you can hear pained undertones in her chuckle as well. This is going to be really hard—for the both of you, but especially for her.

 

This was a person she had been with since she was nineteen years old. She’s seventy-two now, and the man she had spent pretty much all her life with is no longer in it. You can’t even begin to imagine what that kind of void feels like, and to be honest, you’re pretty determined to never find out.

 

“Do you need me to bring anything?” you ask.

 

“No, I’ve got everything covered, Muffin,” she says, as you pretty much expect her to. She never asks for help of any sort from you, or accepts any whenever you offer. She always wants to be the one taking care of you and never the other way around. Especially after what happened with your father.

 

You think she feels guilty about it, even though she shouldn’t, but you’re not about to argue with her tonight.

 

“Okay. ‘Night, Gran,” you say finally. “See you tomorrow.”

 

“Goodnight, my dear. Make sure you drive safely, you hear me?” she says adamantly.

 

You can’t help but smile at her over-protectiveness. “Yes, Gran.”

 

Silence fills your apartment once more as she hangs up. There’s nothing but the light humming of the heater in the background and the signature buzzing of the refrigerator.

 

You figure you’ll check on Trixie before you turn in, dialing her number right after Gran hangs up. It goes directly to voicemail. You contemplate heading up to her apartment, but you really don’t feel like climbing two flights of stairs right now, and you especially don’t feel like going back out into this shitty cold weather, either. Plus, you guess it is late and you don’t want to wake her up if she’s already asleep.

 

You try Bill’s phone and get the same result. It’s pretty unusual for him to have his phone switched off, and being the nerdy tech he is, he never lets it die. You’re not really sure what to think. You decide to just shoot Trixie a quick text, even though you realize you’re running really low on those right now.

 

hey, call me w/n u c this. been worried abt u.

 

You stuff your phone back into your bag, leaning your head against the door and sighing once more. You really hope she’s okay. You hope they both are.

 

***

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