“How long has your boyfriend been a methamphetamine user.” blue scrubs asks, pen at the ready.
“Um, I don’t know.” I say honestly, watching her scribble furiously, shaking her head.
“Ooookay…um, does your boyfriend use any other drugs or controlled substances?”
“Uh, ecstasy maybe once – the night we met…and um, I don’t know.”
“Right,” she says, writing more, “and what allergies does your boyfriend have?”
“I don’t know.” she writes more.
“And when was the last time…”
“I don’t know.”
“Ms. Sharkey…” she sighs.
“I DON’T KNOW. I DON’T KNOW. I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T HAVE ANY ANSWERS – I….”
It is only now – now that William’s life on the line and the sole responsibility of making sure he doesn’t end up in the morgue is on me, that the nurse actually believes I am not complicit in the activities that led us here. She gives me a painful look and puts her hand over mind, “Listen, it’s going to be okay. We got there just in time – he’s going to be all right. Why don’t you have a seat outside and we can talk about this later.”
I nod as she uses her free hand to pass me some tissues. As she holds the door open, I enter the hallway plagued with a strange sense of deja vu.
She’s pretty – platinum blonde hair with no evidence to suggest she gets her roots done weekly. Her LBD wouldn’t even dream of being off the rack and her perfectly manicured fingers have probably never seen a hard day’s work. The Michael Kors being cradled under her left arm looks brand spankin’ new – no doubt a gift from the suit behind her. This woman and I have nothing in common – and yet I feel like I know her. In fact, I know I know her…
She’s classy, she’s calm…she’s headed my way.