Page 20 of Forget About Me

He paces in a circle, hands on top of his head. “I already feel guilty. Your mom—your parents—trust me.”

“Ben, stop.” I make him face me. “I wanted this. I trusted you. Plus, it feels so good. How can it be wrong?”

Oh, young Lucy. How can it be wrong to only think of yourself and your own pleasure? Let me count the ways.

Grrrr.I’ve lost count of the pills I’m dispensing. Again. After pouring them all back into the bulk container, I count out loud this time, write out the instructions and slap the label on the bottle. Slamming the meds cabinet closed, I head back into the exam room to give the owner of the energetic shepherd mix with a ripped-off dew claw instructions for keeping the bandage clean and teach the anxious woman how to give him the antibiotics. Luckily, this dog doesn’t have a yellow or red sticker on his chart, so I don’t have to worry about trying to sneak meds down the throat of a dog that’ll rip me to pieces.

Then, making sure that my radiation monitoring badge is pinned to the lead vest, I’m off to take and develop X-rays for the Jack Russell terrier who jumped out of a moving car. I give him an injection to ease the pain, but we can’t sedate him because he’s looking shocky. I can’t use sandbags to keep him still because the weight could exacerbate his injuries. Trying to keep him in place with the lead gloves on is like trying to sew on a button with oven mitts, so I finally just take off the left glove and run the x-ray without it. Who needs two hands, anyway?

Once I get him stabilized, I grab a SlimFast to get me through the rest of the day, since I did errands instead of eating on my lunchbreak. Before I can take more than a couple sips, a Persian loses his lunch all over my scrubs. Which does a good job of suppressing my appetite.

What won’t go away? The jumble of feelings in my gut. There’s no phone number anywhere on Puck’s chart, so I’ll have to go over to his old house to find out how to get in touch with him. So I can call him to tell him that I can’t train Puck.

Or that I will.

I can’t decide.

I could use the money for all kinds of things, like a certification course or even first month’s rent for my own apartment. Or a down payment on a car. I just don’t know if it’s worth the price. I’m completely frazzled just knowing he’s in town. Actually spending time with him could send me over the edge.

If I just blew him off completely, it’d serve him right, but he’s a client of this practice and I’m a professional so I will stop by on my way home tonight and tell him… whatever I decide.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“It’s All I Can Do” - The Cars

Lucy’s Totally Tubular Tuneage, Song #5

BEN

Monday evening, I’m holed up in my apartment studying commentary on Launce’s speeches when I hear an unfamiliar knock.

My dad’s polite double rap was always accompanied by “Dinner!” or “Ben? Phone call.” But my dad hasn’t tried to get up the stairs to my place since his heart attack. This person is aggressively pounding away, so I slump into the couch and peer over the top to see if anyone’s peeking through the window.

Finally, the knocker gives up, and I flop onto my back. I just don’t feel like dealing with a Jehovah’s Witness or a kid pounding the streets for MASSPIRG. Puck seems to have other ideas, however, because he sails off the couch and skids to the door. When a musical “Hello, Puck!” penetrates the door, he barks excitedly.

Lucy.

Why is she here? Did I miss a message from her? Then I remember that I didn’t leave my number. I wasn’t sure giving it to the redhead at the vet was a good idea. She knew a little too much about me. My phone number is unlisted for a reason.

“Do you want me to train this dog or not, Ben?” Lucy calls through the door. Before I have time to talk myself out of it—or she alerts the entire town to my presence—I launch myself over the back of the couch and swing open my front door.

“Hey! Sorry, I was…” I look around my mess of an apartment, searching for the end of my sentence.

“Whatever.” She charges in, and I shut the door behind her. “What do you need this sweet boy to do and when and what are you paying?”

Puck’s attention ping-pongs back and forth like in the scene fromTwo Gentsuntil she scoops him up. Fierce as ever—dog on one hip, hand on the other—she lifts her chin as if she’s defying me to actually try and do this with her. “Ben?”

“Sorry. I… sorry. What were your questions again?”

“What do you need him to know how to do?” She spaces the words out like she’s talking to an idiot, which I deserve.

“Right, so, I’m going to play this character that has a dog and talks to it in a bunch of scenes. I auditioned with him, and he was great, except when someone moved around backstage. Then he went crazy barking. Obviously, that would be a problem in a performance. So, I’d need him to… I guess, sit and stay and only pay attention to me? Is that possible?” She frowns and puts Puck on the ground. He sits and stares at her lovingly. “I’ll pay you whatever your rate is, plus the theater can give you a big ad in the program, so that might help build your business. If that’s something you want to do.”

“When?”

“When what?

“When would we do the training, when is the play, when would you pay me?”

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