pharmaceutical sales team meeting. Easy to spot: impossibly crisp dress shirt, a tall, good-looking salesman type—yeah, there
is
a type—with five or six thirty-something babes, all with product binders, folding portfolios, expensive purses. Heels, lipstick, skirts at just the right length to get them in some busy doctor’s office door. And not a glance to me.
Right side: nobody. Not till I saw her in the corner chair. Fragile. Dark hair, which she brushed away from averted eyes. Hand curled around a paper cup. A hesitant hand.
From elsewhere: “Jack.”
I had never heard Nikki’s voice so small, so near a whisper. But we’re all small sometimes. I thought nothing of it. “Yeah, Nick, gimme a venti blonde…” I’d expected some smart-ass remark, but it wasn’t there.
“‘kay.”
She slipped behind the capp machine, down to the rack of urns at the far end. I hadn’t yet seen her face, but knew something was off.
“On the house, hon,” she said when she set the cup down before me. I’d been looking in the direction of the pharmaceutical bunch—a pair of legs, I think. When I turned to face her, Nikki was gone, slipped away in the back.
She was whispering—into a phone, I realized.
What?
…
Jesus, no. I can’t go back there
…
because I can’t
…
somebody’s after me
…
no, I don’t
…
I don’t have the money, I don’t have any fucking relatives
…
I don’t want to see anybody
…
I didn’t know who else to call, I
…
I busied myself at the counter. Cinnamon, Splenda, half-and-half. Tossed out the wooden stir stick.
“Jack?” Her voice, still small, came from the back room.
“Yeah!”
“Can I…speak with you?”
“Sure, Nikki.”
I stepped up to the counter.
“No. Back here. It’s okay, this once.” It sounded muffled.
The break room. Half a dozen lockers, aprons, clipboards, schedules. And, at the little table, Nikki sat under a NO SMOKING sign, smoking a cigarette, her hand shaking as she flicked ashes.
She turned toward me. The right side of her face bulbed out, black and purple, her right eye a ring of bruises. The
J
of
Jack
slurred out from her swollen lips.
11.
19 July, 10:20 a.m.
St. Francis Hospital, Bartlett
Nikki had whatever insurance Starbucks grants to those who tough out enough months or years of twenty-five hours a week or less, part-time, and finally bag full-time and benefits. Not the best plan, I was sure, but I was equally sure it beat the crap out of whatever Wal-Mart did. I’d called ‘Bucks’ district manager, Johnny Broome—a favourite of Lynette’s, from some charity board—and he’d sent someone to cover the store. I persuaded him to cut out the whole gotta-fill-out-the-company-form thing, and got her to ER I’d been afraid she’s busted her zygomatic arch—the cheekbone that buys those supermodels their supermodel money. I’d seen it happen to a big, dumb Newfie sergeant in Cyprus. It wasn’t pretty, and he wasn’t right for months. Luckily, the ER doc said, no breaks—just one hell of a bruised mess.
The doc and Nikki both kicked me out of the exam room, so I called MacDonald from the waiting room, left three messages.
At long last, Nikki came out, a nurse on one arm, orderly on the other. Wouldn’t get in the wheelchair. “No way,” she said. “I’m not some invalid, for—” The look she directed at the orderly said there was no point his insisting any further. Still, she added, “Don’t you make me talk.”
The pain got to her sharply, suddenly, ripping past whatever the doc had used to dull it. A nurse handed me two prescriptions and some kind of high-end, fancy icebag contraption that would hit her insurance at fifteen times the drugstore price. The doc gave me a shrug and said he was handing off to Nikki’s doubtless nonexistent primary care physician.
A stop at the pharmacy, then I asked her, “Where’s home?” I hadn’t thought till that moment about where she lived.
A deep wince, silent tears, and a
is
a type—with five or six thirty-something babes, all with product binders, folding portfolios, expensive purses. Heels, lipstick, skirts at just the right length to get them in some busy doctor’s office door. And not a glance to me.
Right side: nobody. Not till I saw her in the corner chair. Fragile. Dark hair, which she brushed away from averted eyes. Hand curled around a paper cup. A hesitant hand.
From elsewhere: “Jack.”
I had never heard Nikki’s voice so small, so near a whisper. But we’re all small sometimes. I thought nothing of it. “Yeah, Nick, gimme a venti blonde…” I’d expected some smart-ass remark, but it wasn’t there.
“‘kay.”
She slipped behind the capp machine, down to the rack of urns at the far end. I hadn’t yet seen her face, but knew something was off.
“On the house, hon,” she said when she set the cup down before me. I’d been looking in the direction of the pharmaceutical bunch—a pair of legs, I think. When I turned to face her, Nikki was gone, slipped away in the back.
She was whispering—into a phone, I realized.
What?
…
Jesus, no. I can’t go back there
…
because I can’t
…
somebody’s after me
…
no, I don’t
…
I don’t have the money, I don’t have any fucking relatives
…
I don’t want to see anybody
…
I didn’t know who else to call, I
…
I busied myself at the counter. Cinnamon, Splenda, half-and-half. Tossed out the wooden stir stick.
“Jack?” Her voice, still small, came from the back room.
“Yeah!”
“Can I…speak with you?”
“Sure, Nikki.”
I stepped up to the counter.
“No. Back here. It’s okay, this once.” It sounded muffled.
The break room. Half a dozen lockers, aprons, clipboards, schedules. And, at the little table, Nikki sat under a NO SMOKING sign, smoking a cigarette, her hand shaking as she flicked ashes.
She turned toward me. The right side of her face bulbed out, black and purple, her right eye a ring of bruises. The
J
of
Jack
slurred out from her swollen lips.
11.
19 July, 10:20 a.m.
St. Francis Hospital, Bartlett
Nikki had whatever insurance Starbucks grants to those who tough out enough months or years of twenty-five hours a week or less, part-time, and finally bag full-time and benefits. Not the best plan, I was sure, but I was equally sure it beat the crap out of whatever Wal-Mart did. I’d called ‘Bucks’ district manager, Johnny Broome—a favourite of Lynette’s, from some charity board—and he’d sent someone to cover the store. I persuaded him to cut out the whole gotta-fill-out-the-company-form thing, and got her to ER I’d been afraid she’s busted her zygomatic arch—the cheekbone that buys those supermodels their supermodel money. I’d seen it happen to a big, dumb Newfie sergeant in Cyprus. It wasn’t pretty, and he wasn’t right for months. Luckily, the ER doc said, no breaks—just one hell of a bruised mess.
The doc and Nikki both kicked me out of the exam room, so I called MacDonald from the waiting room, left three messages.
At long last, Nikki came out, a nurse on one arm, orderly on the other. Wouldn’t get in the wheelchair. “No way,” she said. “I’m not some invalid, for—” The look she directed at the orderly said there was no point his insisting any further. Still, she added, “Don’t you make me talk.”
The pain got to her sharply, suddenly, ripping past whatever the doc had used to dull it. A nurse handed me two prescriptions and some kind of high-end, fancy icebag contraption that would hit her insurance at fifteen times the drugstore price. The doc gave me a shrug and said he was handing off to Nikki’s doubtless nonexistent primary care physician.
A stop at the pharmacy, then I asked her, “Where’s home?” I hadn’t thought till that moment about where she lived.
A deep wince, silent tears, and a
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