Page 58 of Notorious

“That’s what I thought. The thing is, his mom’s health insurance denied her a transplant that she needs. Do you know anything about appealing insurance decisions?”

“Sure. Those matters usually go through the company’s utilization management department. It’s illegal for them to take cost savings into account when making medical coverage decisions, but they do it all the time.” He tears off more bread with a growl.

“That’s terrible,” Jules says. “You Americans have the worst health system. It’s unbelievable.”

“I know, right?” Sam says. He grins at me. “Maybe your mom can fix it when she gets to the White House.”

“That’d be nice. At any rate, would you mind looking into it?” I ask. “I mean, I know insurance companies are the worst, but still. It seems weird that she’s so sick, yet they won’t pay for her transplant.”

“Insurance companies cut corners, because they have to turn a profit,” Sam says. “There’s pressure to show increased shareholder value quarter over quarter and only so many ways they can make money—especially with rising costs. That doesn’t make it right,” he adds. “I’m just saying that it doesn’t surprise me. I expect she already tried internal appeals. Most people who’ve had to deal with health crap know their way around the process. But we can go further—file a complaint with the Department of Insurance if need be. That is—I’m assuming she’s in California?”

“Yeah.”

He nods. “Just let me know her information, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Her name’s Sue Ann Haskell.” I saw her name on the envelope Johnny gave me, the one he meant her to get after he was dead. Thinking about it makes my stomach hurt. I give Sam the name of her insurance company, which Johnny told me, and her phone number, which I pulled off his phone.

“I’m happy to help if I can.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling a little lighter.

“Anything for my favorite ex,” Sam says with a smile.

“So, what have you two been up to?” I ask, and Sam launches into a story about their recent trip to Italy.

I listen, glad Johnny is getting care and missing him all the same.

After dinner, I’m restless, so I end up doing a few hours of design work after all. But when I rub my bleary eyes sometime after midnight, I know this is too much: election, work, Johnny. I’ve already decided Johnny has to come first. Even if our marriage isn’t real—though it feels realer every minute—he’s a good man with a soft heart, and he deserves to be cherished. It seems like he’s gone way too long without anyone showing him how much they appreciate him.

I’m going to do my best to fix that.

A quick check on my phone shows that, sure enough, the gossip sites are running headlines like “SPICING IT UP? Rocker Julian Hill and boyfriend Sam Stone dine with Stone’s former lover Kurt Delmont—with Delmont’s porn star husband nowhere to be seen.” There’s a photo of Sam and Jules holding hands as they duck out the back of the restaurant. I sigh at the comments speculating that we’d make a great threesome. Or foursome.

I log on to my computer again and send in an application for more time off from work, including details about my time-sensitive projects so they can be transferred to other designers. When I’m done, I go into my bedroom, which—after sharing it with Johnny for only a few hours—feels so, so empty.

I wonder what Johnny’s doing right now. I hope he realizes how brave he’s being, taking the steps to get well. It was easy to see that the idea of a locked ward scared him. It scared me, too, even though I know he’s in a modern hospital, not something out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He’s not being tortured. He’s there to get the help he needs.

I wish I could see him, though. Just for a minute, to know he’s okay. To tell him I miss him.

CHAPTER 20

Johnny

The porn version of a strip search is much sexier than the real thing.

After Kurt leaves, a male nurse walks me to the locked ward and into a room containing a bare bed with no sharp edges that’s bolted to the floor. I freeze, wondering if it’s there so they can strap down unwilling patients. There’s literally nothing else in the room: no sheets or other bedding, no chair or nightstand, no curtains. Through an open door off to the side, I can see a bathroom with a roll of toilet paper on top of the sink. It doesn’t even seem to have towels or a mirror—just a sink and a toilet.

The nurse hands me a hospital gown with snap fasteners and says, “Put this on, opening in the front. No laces are allowed. No strings on hoodies or sweatpants. No belts. No weapons. Take off everything you’re wearing, and put it on the bed.” Although he gestures toward the bathroom, I’m not feeling the need for privacy. Which is just as well, since I doubt I’ll have much of that in here. There’s no handle on the bathroom door, let alone a lock. I shuck off my shirt and put the gown on, then unbuckle my belt and drop my pants and boxers per his instructions.

He makes me open the gown and turn around so he can see my whole body. “No tattoos,” he murmurs. “No cuts or burns.” Next, I open my mouth so he can poke around inside. He checks me everywhere and then marks something on a clipboard, seemingly satisfied, before squeezing my clothes, feeling through every pocket and all the way down the arms and legs to make sure, I guess, that I haven’t snuck in a knife or something. He finds the slip of paper with Kurt’s phone number and places it on the mattress.

He’s making sure I ain’t got nothing I could use to kill myself.

As the violins start up in my brain again, I want Kurt. I want to be able to talk with him about being strip-searched. I want to talk with him about how I feel. I’ve been lost in my head for months, and the past couple of days, having someone to be honest with, has really meant something. I miss him.

The nurse finishes with my clothes and tells me I can get dressed, but he keeps my boots and belt. He hands me some thick socks with tread on the bottom, then leaves the room, giving me some semblance of dignity now that he’s taken away anything I could use to hurt myself.

This is so weird. I put my T-shirt, boxers, and jeans back on, and when I’m ready, I knock on the door—because I’m locked in—and the nurse returns to let me out. I follow him down the hall into the section where, I guess, the other inpatients are. We pass a room where someone is screaming, and two large, burly nurses go racing past us and scoot in there.

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