Perfect Match (8 page)

“Oh, Janice, you’re a hoot, but thank you for all your help.
Quite a threesome isn’t it?”

Janice laughed, “Oh, yes, especially Hollis.”

“What do you make of him?”

“I only know him by phone and of course one couldn’t help
but hear D.R.’s conversations with him, when sharing his sexual escapades.
Sometimes he had the speaker phone on. I gathered Hollis is a skirt-chaser just
like D.R. What a pair.” Janice sighed. “Well, let me take them to the inn.” She
closed the door.

Madison sat at her desk glancing over the phone messages
that Roxy had taken for her. She mentally ticked off how she would answer a few
at home and some in the morning before their staff meeting.

There was a timid knock on her door.

“Yes?”

Rodney poked his head in. “Do…do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure, come in, sit, and relax. What’s on your mind?”

Rodney hurried to one of the chairs facing Madison’s desk.
His right knee began to bounce up and down.

He said, “I have some things I need to tell you. First of
all, thank you for defending me in front of the staff today, and second I
thought you did a splendid job with the meeting. It’s the first real staff
meeting I’ve ever attended. You really know your stuff, Madison.” He smiled,
but his right knee kept bouncing.

“Thanks for your compliment. We’re going to give Fallington
our best shot.” She thought a moment. “I really didn’t think of it as defending
you; just setting the record straight. I needed to nudge Hollis into the
future. Anyway, as we’ve worked together, I’m confident you’ll handle anything
that comes your way.”

He said, “I hope you still feel the same after what I’m
about to tell you.”

Madison remained poker-faced, waiting, wondering.

“Wilma and I are splitting up, getting a divorce.”

She paused only a moment, before saying, “I wish you both
the best with your decision. I only met Wilma once, at the Christmas party.
Both of you are very nice people, Rodney. Do you anticipate any special
problems to develop?”

“Oh, no. We both feel it’s best for both of us.” He paused,
chewing on his bottom lip, right knee bouncing like a jack-hammer. “I’m gay,
Madison.” His face spelled anguish.

“Okay.”

He stared. “Well…”

Madison leaned into her desk. “Well…am I supposed to say
something else?” She smiled.

“Well I thought you might be…upset or something.”

“Should I be?”

“Well most people are.”

Madison took a long breath. “Did you come in here to tell me
bad news or good news? So far I’ve only heard good news. Of course I’m always a
little sad when a relationship doesn’t work out. My marriage ended in divorce,
but I’m happier now, and I guess my ex is also. You deciding to embrace
honestly who you are is good news whether your gay, straight, or whatever.
Honesty begins on our own doorstep.”

His knee had stopped bouncing. He shook his head a couple of
times. “What makes you so understanding? This company really needs you,
Madison. We all need you.” His excitement began to show. “I can’t believe how
you’ve worked with D.R.’s bed buddies and turned them into workaholics.”

They both laughed.

Madison got up and rounded her desk. “Unless you’ve got more
good or bad news, let me give you a hug, Rodney.”

As he hugged her, Rodney thought what a good woman she was
and how thankful he was that she was their CEO. As he got ready to close the
door he said, “I just want you to know that my brother is the biggest blind
fool on the planet.”

The door closed quietly, and Madison stood there in the
silence thinking, was that bad news or good news.

Tuesday

Rachel Johnson was looking over some notes when she landed
herself at the foot of D.R.’s bed. “Alright Fallington, time for a new day. I
just spoke with your doctor and he said you’re to continue with physical
therapy as is, and you can get out of bed, use a wheelchair with a special leg
prop that will keep that right leg elevated.” Hands on her hips, “How’s that
sound?”

He sighed, “I’m not sure.”

She gave him a hard look. “Not sure? Not sure? Well then
maybe you need to stay in bed another month. I’ll get you a fresh blankie and
pacifier and you can sulk some more.” She turned and headed for the door,
taking with her the wheelchair that had been delivered to his room earlier.

“Wait. Wait. Let me start over, please.” He paused, mentally
working on his attitude. “What you suggested sounds really great. Everything.
I’ll try anything you suggest from now on. Really.” He was mentally gritting
his teeth. Cooperation? Not something I’m familiar with, he thought.

Rachel came around the bed chuckling. “We make a great team,
Fallington, you and me. Maybe we could get our own TV show one of these days.”

He laughed the first time in he didn’t know when. “Rachel,
you’re a riot. You’d be the star of the show.”

After Rachel showed him a few maneuvers and operational
features of the wheelchair, D.R. was settled in, but he could feel his
emotional level sinking just from being in a wheelchair. How disgusting, he
thought. But I’ll deal with it. I’ll deal with it, he kept telling himself. He
practiced in his room a little, backwards, forwards, turning, braking, raising
and lowering the right leg adjustment.

Rachel watched, nodding her head in praise. “Why don’t you
test drive this beauty out in the hall, and then go exploring around this wing
of the building? There’re a couple of sunrooms you might want to check out as rest
stops.”

“Sounds good to me.” But he was dreading other people seeing
him sitting cramped in the damn wheelchair.

“One warning,” Rachel said, “you can think of this speed
mobile as your new Corvette; just don’t wreck it like you did the last one.”
She chuckled.

He looked up at her, shaking his head. “Never again Rachel,
never again.” He’d had his share of nightmares of the wreck, each time waking
up in a sweat.

She patted his left shoulder and went to check on other
patients.

He slowly touched his right hand to his left shoulder. It’d
been a long time since anyone had patted him on the shoulder or back.

After a few moments he wheeled off down the hall, staying
close along the bank of windows, overlooking the hospital grounds, parking
decks, and flag poles with flags whipping in the May breeze. Damn, I wish I
wasn’t in here, he thought. I’ve got to get better so I can get out of here. He
went the full length of the U-shaped wing. He located elevators, drink
machines, nurses’ station, and a few staring visitors. Damn, he hated being in
here.

He paused in the hall across from room 400. The hall was
empty of people, so he thought he’d try a couple of maneuvers with the
wheelchair. Back and forth, a little to the right, a little to the left. I’m
getting pretty good with this damn chair, he thought.

A shiny pan slipped from the overloaded cart rounding the
corner, clanging as it bounced and slid to a stop. D.R.’s jangled nerves sent
cross signals to his right hand causing him to jerk the chair the wrong way,
slamming his right leg against the wall. Throbbing pain reminded him of his
helplessness. Curses came through clenched teeth, as he waited for the awakened
pain to subside.

The patient propped in bed in room 400 watched the NASCAR
drama unfold, through her cracked door. She chuckled to herself thinking that
he can’t drive a wheelchair any better than his Corvette. She recognized the
glistening perspiration on his forehead, borne of raw pain. She knew that
experience well. She watched him muster enough courage to slowly push off down
the hall.

The patient tapped her pen a few times on her notebook and
began stringing words and sentences down the pages. Her thoughts were racing
faster than her pen. She’d stop in mid-sentence and jot abbreviated notes in a
separate pad, and then back to the spiral notebook.

After completing two pages, she bagged her notebooks and
pen, braced herself, and eased into her wheelchair parked near her bed. She
arranged her nine-patch quilt on her lap that her mom had made her, and rolled from
her room and down the hall.

D.R. had found the corner sunroom, braked his wheelchair and
was taking in the outside world, wishing he was out there and not in the
antiseptic-smelling hospital. His back was to the hall entrance. The sunroom
had three banks of windows. He was facing the end wall when he picked up the
barely audible wheelchair sound. The sound that is the movement of air,
accented by the padded wheels rolling on hard floor, a couple creaks and
clicks, and then stillness.

He caught the faint fragrance of something fresh, floral,
pleasant, so he figured some damn female had arrived. What now, he thought. Hide
out in my room? He was aware from his left that the unknown chair was creeping
closer but about three feet from him. He was feeling uncomfortable by the
second.

His curiosity and peripheral vision revealed a female with
shoulder-length brown hair, a soft teenage face, but eyes that told a different
story. He quickly looked away, but he heard the rustle of turning pages, and
the tap, tap, tap.

The young female said, “How’re you feeling today?” Her voice
was soft, but confident.

He gave a slight shrug. Maybe that’s all he’d need to say to
some strange teenager.

More tapping, rustling paper.

A few long minutes passed. He felt trapped in a damn chamber
with some idiot tap, tap, tapping.

“What are you in here for?” Her question broke into his
private thoughts.

He sighed and lifted a finger toward his wrecked right foot.
Can’t the dummy see that my damn foot is bandaged, he thought.

She persisted. “How long you going to be here?”

Too damn long, if I have to be questioned by some stupid
teenager, he thought. Maybe she’ll settle for another shrug, so he shrugged.

Didn’t work.

“So…is your foot the only thing wrong with you, or is your
voice box broken also?”

Enough of this nonsense. His hands jerked both wheels.
Didn’t budge. He tried again; nothing moved, except boiling frustration.

“You have to release the brake first, and then you can
travel around the world.”

Great, just what I need a smart ass comedian to cheer me
back to good health. He sat still, with arms resting on the supports in
surrender to being captive to a chatty little twerp.

“My name’s Selena, what’s yours?”

He thought a moment before giving in and deciding to answer,
“D.R.”

“Like in doctor, are you a doctor?” She toyed with him.

He shook his head?

“So…what do the alphabets D and R stand for?”

He slowly un-braked and turned the chair slightly in her
direction, as he decided to do something he’d not done since junior high
school…use his real names. He gave her a quick glance. “Doak Roscoe.” Regretted
it immediately.

Her eyes twinkled beneath her dark lashes. “Doak must be a
joke, but Roscoe I like. You look like a Roscoe.” She giggled a little, as she
scribbled on the margin of her notebook page. She looked up and off in the
distance at the mountains. Her expression was farther away than the horizon.

Roscoe felt uncomfortable with her sudden change of mood. He
ventured, “Why are you in the hospital?”

It took her a few seconds to return to the present moment.
“I’m dying,” said flatly.

He huffed in disbelief. “That’s not funny and nothing to
joke about. You’re too healthy and young. You’re not dying.” He wouldn’t just
leave it at that. “Is that the latest teenage trend…talking about dying?” He
huffed again.

She eyed him, easing her chair a little closer, leaning
forward, “Yes, I’m dying, but something worse than dying is being a despicable
jerk. You’re a jerk, Roscoe.”

Before he could muster his thoughts, Selena reversed her
wheelchair and shot down the hall like a rocket, rich brown hair flowing, her
profile in full view. His mind was searching, searching for something not clear.

Wednesday Evening

Roscoe had eaten all of his tasteless meals dutifully and
had been watching a baseball game on TV, but his thoughts were of Selena, the
teenage patient in room 400. Every time he’d wheeled up and down the hall her
door had been shut.

His mind kept going back to her calling him a ‘jerk’, and
she had the audacity to be confident about it. That really bothered him. But
mainly he couldn’t get off his mind her saying that she was ‘dying.’ What
nonsense. What the hell was that all about? Women…of any age…can’t be figured
out, he thought.

He switched channels. Commercials. He clicked the remote
again, and again. Nothing but commercials. He clicked the OFF button and held
his hand there a full ten seconds as if to make a statement. He looked around
the room thinking he’d probably lose his mind before his foot got well.

Footsteps slapped down the hall to his door. In walked Billy
White, his partying friend, with his strained, pasted on smile. Wrinkled shirt
with frayed collar and two buttons missing. “Hey, man, sorry I haven’t been by
to see you before now, but things have been really busy. You know…stuff and
all…”

“Good to see you, Billy. Pull that chair over.”

He wrestled the chair over, staring at Roscoe’s bandaged
right foot. Then Billy was on his feet, pacing to the foot of the bed. “When
you getting out of this place?” He paced back and sat again, eyes skittering
around the room.

Roscoe studied him a moment. “What’s going on Billy? You
seem jittery?”

“Oh, not much. Say, by the way what happened the night of
the wreck with you and the blonde?”

Roscoe didn’t want to think about it. “Why? Is there some
kind of problem?” He didn’t need any more problems.