“You’re blushing,” he says, sounding pleased.
I’ve had enough; I turn on my heel to find Mariah and that godforsaken test strip.
She’s in the lab and when she sees me, she tilts her head and her eyes assess me warily.
“Is everything all right, Dr. Bell?”
“Yes.”
“You look really flushed.”
“It’s the A/C in this place. What’s the thermostat set on?”
“62.”
“Is that in Fahrenheit?”
“Do you want to sit do—why are you fanning yourself like that?”
She’s handling me the way I handled the patients during my psych rotation, and sadly, she is smart to give me a wide berth.
It’s day two and Lucas is already starting to unnerve me.
After the longest work day of my life, I stand on the curb, waiting for my mom to pick me up like I am back in the third grade.
“Yoohoo, paging Dr. Bell!”
HONK HONK.
My mom swerves in front of me like she’s a soccer mom in a sporty hatchback commercial. For the next six weeks, she is my chauffeur. My cast has not only impeded my ability to see patients on my own, but has also forced me into vehicular dependency courtesy of my loud mother. There’s no way I could ride my bike one-handed.
“Oh this is so fun! Just like when I used to pick you up early from school when you peed your pants or cried after visiting the zoo on a field trip. You wanted to set all those animals free.” Her eyes glistened. “My little activist.”
I squeeze my eyes closed and slide into the passenger seat.
“Mom,” I hiss. “Please. Everyone can hear you—stop doing that—who are you waving at?”
“Look who it is!” She rolls down my window and shouts past me, “Lucas! Oh, oops! I should say, Dr. Thatcher!”
I don’t turn to confirm that she is waving Lucas closer to the car.
“Dr. Lucas Thatcher!” she shouts and then says to me, “He has turned into such a handsome man.”
I will not sit idly by while she compliments the uncomplimentable.
For half a moment we fight for control of the power window on my side. Up-down, up-down. I focus all the muscles in my body on the tiny button, but she thwarts me with a mother’s most powerful tool: child lock. She pops them into place and slides the window down with ease.
“Evening, Mrs. Bell,” Lucas says from somewhere on my right. I stare out the front window with a rigid focus. “For a second I thought one of Daisy’s friends was picking her up. Is that a new haircut?”
My mom titters and touches her ends. “Oh stop it, you. It’s nothing. Just a fresh trim.”
“Mom, we had better get going. Traffic is getting pretty bad,” I say, pointing out the front window.
“Nonsense! There’s nothing on our schedule except leftovers and Masterpiece Theater and I haven’t seen Lucas here in so long. Has it really been since…last Thanksgiving?”
I stayed in North Carolina for Thanksgiving last year and my mom subsequently regaled me with stories of how the Thatchers invited her over to their house for Thanksgiving dinner. She and Lucas allegedly played board games together “for hours”.
Lucas leans down and props his elbows on the open window. “You’re the reigning Pictionary champ. Those weekly painting classes have really been paying off Mrs. Bell.”
“Oh, you know I only go to those for the wine.”
My mother is flirting. I turn my back to Lucas so I’m facing the center console. “Mom. I’m tired and I’m hungry.”
“Maybe now that the gang’s all back in town, we can get everyone together for game night?” She pins me against the seat with her arm. Her ability to ignore me is baffling. It’s a wonder I wasn’t malnourished as a child.
I consider reaching down and punching the gas pedal with my casted claw-hand. There are several children crossing the street ahead of us, but it might still be worth it. She’s got a clean driving record and no priors; with the right judge and good behavior, she’d be out of prison in no time.
“Seriously, Mom. I feel faint.” I make my voice sound wobbly and weak.
“There’s half of a Fiber One bar in my purse. Listen, Lucas, you tell your mom I’ll give her a call later this week and we’ll set it up.”
He agrees with a “yes ma’am”.
Who is he kidding?
“I’ll see you in the morning, Daisy,” he says before tapping on the hood and walking in front of the car. Pedestrians on the sidewalk crane their necks to watch him like he’s something special.
I roll my eyes.
“Rough day?”
“The roughest. You know, I don’t see why you still talk to him. You’re supposed to be on my side. You’re my mom.”
“I’d be on your side if you were right, but in this case, you’re both in the wrong. You two have taken a silly childhood molehill and renamed it a mountain.”
“You don’t understand. Lucas is to me as Wanda Wade is to you. Remember when she bribed the judges with homegrown tomatoes and dethroned you from Hamilton Lawn of the Year from 2013-2015?”
“That is nothing like you and Lucas—Wanda Wade is just a cheating bitch. Lucas is so nice!”
This exchange is nothing new. Lucas and I both have two personas—one for when we are alone together, and one for when we are in public. That’s why nobody on the outside ever truly understands what we represent to each other. I’ve tried countless times to show my mother the error of her ways when it comes to Lucas, but he brainwashed her years ago. I was alone in my hatred for Hamilton High’s prom king, which was especially irksome because we were crowned together. Our senior class apparently thought it would be hilarious to see the two of us slow dance together under the neon lights set up in the basketball gym.