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And that brought us here.
I stood nearby, where I could see everyone’s mouths. I still lip-read through habit. The doctor and his partner sat to my right. My family to the left. My foot pressed into the painted wall as I leaned back against it, ready to leave this place after getting answers.
Everything looked good by the new doctor’s standards, but Woody, like all damn kids, had so many questions.
“So, I’m not gonna die?” was the first.
“I don’t believe so, little buddy.”
Woody’s silver eyes shone brightly, with every hint of innocence reflecting under glaring overhead lights that definitely needed adjusting. They’d do nothing to ease the migraines of the many patients who cried themselves to sleep.
Woody’s stare followed all of Dr. Novaletti’s words to the little speaker who voiced them.
“I like that you talk like a robot. Like me.” Woody’s voice held so much fascination, and it was no longer muted by fear. “But I have to use a stick.” He waved the electrolarynx.
“Yes. It’s like a little wand that gives you a magic voice.”
“Yes, but I won’t need it soon. My big brother, Remi,” he pointed over to me. “He’s getting us a real voice. If we were unwell, then we wouldn’t have wanted him to waste his money if we weren’t going to be around.”
Neither the doctor nor his partner commented that I could surely afford it, regardless.
“Well, I guess now is a good time to make him buy it.” Mercer Novaletti had more patience than most when it came to my brother.
And I liked that about him.
I’d fired at least three doctors, all over their lack of knowledge and sympathy towards Woodrow and his alters.
And I was about to hire one.
The man, whose finger whizzed across that little keypad, said, “You have a stomach bug. We won’t have official notes for a few days, but I’m confident it’s nothing more, Woody.”
Dr. Novaletti would be a wasted talent as a general practitioner here. He was right. His age didn’t represent his skills.
“But everyone else had it and got better?”
“Your immune system is a little lower, which isn’t surprising to me, given the treatment methods you’ve gone through in the past. But trust me, you have a stomach bug, and it isn’t more than that. You’re perfectly healthy as far as I can see, Woody.”
“And you know what to look for?” I asked, second-guessing him and my previous thoughts.
“Yes. I trained as a surgeon but worked closely with radiology during my placements. I know exactly what to look for. More than once, I was prompted to divert my profession. I chose surgery, but that doesn’t mean skills don’t lie in other places.”
True. I chose music, yet here I am, a skilled tattooist...a decoy.
“I see nothing to be concerned about, and I believe you’ll have confirmation of that within forty-eight hours. I’ve already forwarded everything to Dr. Rodregez, who also has a broad skillset.”
The doctor knew what he was doing. He reminded me that I had a doctor here who could singlehandedly run the whole complex, if only he had more hands.
I held back the sneer, sure, but he’s got what? Ten, maybe twelve years on you, pup.
Woody cut in, “Do you promise you think I’m okay?”
Mercer Novaletti placed a hand over his heart. “I promise. I’d bet my whole career on it.”
I hoped Rodregez would do as asked and check the scan out. And I hoped Novaletti was right.
But I couldn’t do any more until any of that stuff happened.
I promised the doctor a job here, one he could keep if he were right. Three days a week with great pay. He didn’t request more, having some other gig with art dealings or some shit back in Boston, where his family had requested, he didn’t drag this type of work into their home.
