The next day I told LJ about it, and I was expecting her to go “Women!” and roll her eyes, but she just got quiet. So I just moved on. But she didn’t. A couple days later LJ pulled this really shitty trick on me.
She calls up and asks if I want to come over for Wii boxing. But when I get there LJ, Sully, Peg, and my sister, Claire, are there, all staring at me. My stomach goes into knots. I’m all, “Is it somebody’s birthday?”
LJ says, “Joan, we want to talk. We’re concerned about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Never better.”
But Sully goes, “Some of the choices in your life is what we mean.”
“How your drinking—” LJ starts.
“The fuck?” I yell. “You all trash me behind my back, then think you can tell me how to live?”
“It’s hurting you and us and Stormy,” says LJ.
“Stormy! Did that cunt put you up to this?”
LJ, the prick, says no, it was her idea, but the important thing is “We’re coming from a place of love.” Who comes up with this shit? Hallmark?
I’m heading out the door, screaming, “Leave Stormy outta this! She’d never pull this! She loves me.”
Well, I was wrong, because a week after, Stormy moves out while I’m visiting Claire. After all her bullshit about sharing emotions, she leaves without talking to me or even telling me she’s dumping me or why. How’s that for hypocritical?
My best guess is LJ pulled that “intervention” to ruin our friendship so she could make the moves on Stormy. But I’ve never known for sure because, until today, I haven’t seen either of them.
Now, wham! Like a punch in the gut, I’m in Imaging staring at Stormy. Her hair is pulled back into a neat little bun and she’s wearing these lavender scrubs. And I’m remembering these very non-medical images of Stormy: the top of Stormy’s head bobbing in my lap while she sucks me off, her nails digging into my thighs. Stormy riding my cock, her head thrown back, all sweaty, and her makeup running down her face. Stormy spread out on her back on my bed, her wrists and ankles cuffed—and I’ve got my whole fist in her and she’s coming so hard I think she’s gonna break my hand.
But she’s Miss Cool-and-Collected. I’m just another patient. Just as sweet as cherry pie, she’s handing me all the forms to sign: the consent form, the privacy policy form, the insurance form, the blah blah form.
Then I put two and two together: she saw my name on the chart. She knew I was gonna be here—she’s probably known since Friday, when I did the preregistration—whereas I’m totally unprepared for our little reunion. She dumped my ass, and now she gets her golden opportunity to see inside my head. I wanna break something. Then she says, “The technician needs to ask you a few questions. She’ll take you into another room for privacy.”
What’re the questions they can’t ask me in front of Janet and the little old lady who’s waiting three lime-green chairs away, for Chrissake? I mean, Janet’s been my attendant for three years. She changes my sheets, helps me shower, cleans up my puke. Hell, she’s even run my dicks through the dishwasher. But I decide I’m just as happy to get away from Stormy.
The tech, whose name tag reads SHEILA, just grabs my chair and wheels me into the other room without so much as a hello. She asks me the same questions I answered during preregistration yesterday: Do I have a pacemaker? Have I ever gotten metal in my eyes? Is there any chance I might be pregnant?
I love that last one. Just to mess with her I say, “Sweetie, I’m a gold-star lesbian, you know? Untouched by Y-chromosomal hands.”
Sheila doesn’t bat an eyelash, so I’m thinking, hmm, probably bi or maybe a femme. I give her the once-over. She’s blonde, in Scooby-Doo scrubs, kinda cute in a Bridget Jones sorta way. I give her the smile, but she’s like a robot with the questions: Am I wearing any metal—hair clips, underwire bra? As if.
She says the same shit I’ve been told: Hold really still so the picture comes out clear. Eyes closed. They’ll do several angles. It will be loud. It will be over in about half an hour.
“Any questions?” Sheila asks, then grabs my chair again, kinda rough, and wheels me back into the waiting room, jerking to a stop. Nice bedside manner. I cock an eyebrow at Janet to see if she caught it. She shrugs.
Sheila’s leaning over with her arm around Storm, talking really low, which all seems very unprofessional, in my opinion. Even though they’re just a few feet away, and I’m leaning in (in a casual way), I can’t catch a word. They giggle a little, which, I’m sorry, is not medically appropriate. I’m not jealous—I mean, Stormy with another femme? What would they do together? But then I realize I never really asked her much about her exes. I start picturing Storm with all the butches she met through me who are no longer my friends, like LJ and Peg, and I get so steamed I lose track of things.
Stormy and Sheila both glance at me, and I’m sure Stormy’s been trashing me, but before I can flash Sheila a smile that says, “Don’t believe a word of it,” she’s disappeared through a door on the right. A second later a big woman in dark blue scrubs comes out: buzz cut, snake tat on her biceps, sleeves rolled up like a muscle shirt. I crack a grin and she gives me the nod. For the first time since I crossed the threshold into Imaging, I unwind a little.
Stormy comes around from behind her desk. “Lynn will get you set up,” she breathes, lightly placing a hand on Lynn’s excessive musculature. What is up with this place? Is eating pussy a prerequisite for working here?
“I’ll help, too,” Stormy adds. Grunting, she and Lynn hoist me from the chair. “I know how to move you, don’t I?” Stormy murmurs and winks at me. I breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever Sheila’s problem is (probably nothing, probably I’m just feeling paranoid because of the shock), Stormy certainly isn’t holding a grudge.
My new butch bud and my apparently non-hostile ex lead me to a lift that raises me to a small, rectangular white enclosure with a long, narrow bed. They help me swing my legs onto it. “It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?” Stormy says sympathetically. Lynn hands me foam earplugs, which I insert, then puts my neck inside this sort of brace that holds my head in place. Next, she slides several pieces of foam against my head, inside the head brace, further immobilizing me, before finally snapping a white plastic plate over my face. I must look like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs.
“Okay, Joan,” Lynn rumbles in a smooth, professional tone, “Don’t worry. We’ll have you out of here in no time. I’ve got other stuff to do, but Sheila’s gonna take you through it step-by-step.” Lynn points to a booth raised up high with a dim red light blinking inside. I can see Sheila in there, like a DJ in a club with shitty decor. Lynn walks out.
Stormy leans over and I feel a lightning-quick spark when her breasts graze my chest. “I won’t be far,” she pats my wrist. “We’ll keep an eye on you,” she says reassuringly, then steps back.
“I’ll need you to stay real still, Joan,” Sheila says through an intercom, as I slide into the white tunnel behind me.
I shut my eyes. Half an hour like this. Good lord. I need that deep breathing my doctors are always recommending when nothing else works for the pain, even Jack Daniels. Focus on my breath. Picture a happy place.
“All right, Joan.” Sheila’s voice sounds metallic coming through a speaker near my head. “This first one will be a minute and a half.” I’ve been told so many times how loud it’ll be that I’m really curious how it will sound. After a few preliminary clicks and bangs, it goes Clink, clink, clink. Bam! Bam! Bam! Clink, clink, clink. Bam! Bam! Bam! It sounds a hell of a lot like industrial music like they played at the club the night I met Stormy. With all the other shit I’ve been through, I can definitely stand ninety seconds of medical techno pop.