My latest novel, Déjà vu at the Blue Diamond Saloon, began with a dream. Or should I say nightmare? We were living in Tampa Bay and I had one of those middle-of-the-night heart-pounding sweats. I woke up but the story was so vivid and real to me the next day that I had to start writing it down. This was somewhere around late ’05 or early ’06.
Several interstate moves and many rewrites later, Déjà vu at the Blue Diamond Saloon was born. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Déjà vu at the Blue Diamond Saloon
Nikki Durrance escaped the worst nightmare of her life when she fled Las Vegas for San Francisco, leaving her husband behind at the Blue Diamond Saloon. So when the perfect Dr. Mike Fischer proposes, she accepts. But when her new Mr. Right begins to transform into a guy just like her ex-husband, she begins to question everything, including her sanity.
Nikki longs to trust Mike, but with an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu, Nikki’s fear propels her into discoveries of betrayals and underworld connections that will send her running for her life again.
AVAILABLE now on Kindle.
I peeked out the window of my upstairs office and thought, “Everything in Las Vegas looks better at night.”
The dusty, thirsty, lifeless terrain transforms into an Alice in Twinkleland and the neon electrifies the Las Vegas strip. The barren stretches of nothingness surrounding the valley of so-called normal life vanishes from view. But nothing is normal in a place where gambling is invasive—it’s in the grocery stores, it’s in McDonald’s, and it’s in every neighborhood corner where a neon sign flashes “gambling and cocktails.”
Leo the grocer startled me when he appeared at the front door of our Las Vegas house—the one we’d dreamed of when we were squished into a tiny one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco. But that house felt like a prison with its tomb-like shades covering the windows to prevent the harsh, desert sun from scorching the inside of the house.
When I ran downstairs to open the front door, he handed me a package of ice. Because this is how Vegas works—when you check out at the grocery store, the clerk asks if you need ice, and if you’re lucky, they’ll deliver it to you on short notice. It would be such a shame if you had the sudden urge to make a martini and be out of ice. Especially if you had a surprise guest like I did that hot August night.
I felt Jeff’s breath on my neck, the belt buckle he wore when he played Texas Hold ‘Em pushing against me, and so I pulled away and asked, “What’s the ice for?”
“Drinks with Gabrielle,” he said.
“Yes, she’s over there.” I looked in the direction he was pointing, as Leo drove off and a woman wearing a black leather mini-skirt and tank-top stepped out of a taxi. Wearing stilettos, she posed in such a way that time stood still, portraying an air of confidence. Stunned that he knew the half-sister I had never met, I drank in the details of her appearance. She looked nothing like she did in the picture she’d sent me–brunette with medium-length hair. Now she had pure white spiked hair, the exact color Jeff described when he insisted I bleach my almost black hair.
She approached our front door and said, “You’ve lost weight.” I’ve lost weight? What did she know about me? I’d planned on sending her my photo, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
Jeff stepped forward, “Please, come in, make yourself at home.”
I fingered my wind-blown hair and glanced at my unkempt clothes. This was not how I’d imagined I’d be dressed when I met Gabrielle for the first time. My enormous closet in the master bathroom, part of an even larger master suite, full of clothes for every occasion—for golf, tennis, or evening wear at some elegant function on the Strip. Because if there was one thing true about my husband was that he loved to impress others with a well-dressed wife.
Jeff led us into the living room, moved the cat off the couch and said, “Please, sit here” to Gabrielle but then turned to me, “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”
I didn’t wait around long enough to see if Gabrielle sat down or not, but I heard soft laughter and ice tinkling from the kitchen. Jeff must be making his special cocktail—what he called a French Martini joking that he named it after me. Pineapple juice, vodka, Chambord, and Vermouth—”What’s so French about that?” I had asked. “Well, you are French, right?” he said, and then he threw his head back and laughed in a maniacal way, as if he knew a secret I did not know.
Uneasiness swept over me leaving Jeff and Gabrielle alone downstairs in my kitchen—the kitchen I took pride in. It was a luxury to finally own such a beautiful, brand-new home and I considered that room to be my private haven. It was where I stood each morning when I gazed at the backyard, lit with the morning desert sun, recalling a similar backyard in my California childhood.
I hurriedly dressed in a pair of black slacks and my favorite black pumps I’d found on sale at the Outlet Mall on Las Vegas Boulevard. I rummaged through the dresser drawers searching for a particular red shirt—because from the way my husband was leering at Gabrielle, I knew it was important I dress my best.
Unable to find it, I put on a black one instead, and grabbed a matching black purse. On my way downstairs I passed my upstairs office where I indulged myself in working on my latest manuscript. The words often failed me then, but when I awoke in the middle of the night to an empty bedroom, I could sit in my office and the lights of South Point Casino calmed me, reassured me. I then wrote until the sun began to peek over the mountains of Henderson in the east in that special hour where the daylight meets the neon. I jumped into bed before Jeff returned from an all-night poker game.
When I’d made my way to the living room, Jeff handed me a drink and the three of us sat down—Jeff in his leather recliner and Gabrielle in the chair next to him—the one I considered my own. I moved our cat, Sam, the name Jeff had insisted on even though he was not a cat lover. I sat down on the couch closest to Jeff as if I was competing with Gabrielle for his attention.
After a quick drink and a brief chat, Jeff suggested we all go to the Blue Diamond Saloon. “They have the best buffet,” Jeff said.
No, it wasn’t the fanciest place, like those casinos on the Strip, but it was a local hangout like so many in Vegas that served food, drinks, and of course, the ubiquitous gambling. The saloon was within walking distance from our home, and Jeff particularly enjoyed the poker games there. Jeff said, “You two go on—I’ll catch up” so Gabrielle and I started walking toward The Blue Diamond Saloon.
Jeff caught up with us, and once we arrived, he sauntered inside as if he owned the place. When I tried to follow him, Gabrielle’s demeanor changed and she gave me a look that said, “You’re so gauche” (after all, according to the emails we’d exchanged, she’d lived in Paris) and she’d indicated she’d expected me to have done the same—with a French name like Nicole and all. But ever since she discovered I hadn’t lived in Paris, she seemed to be slightly disappointed in me. I’d hoped, perhaps, that living in Las Vegas, the “entertainment capital of the world,” would give me some caché, but this was something she dismissed—as if I hadn’t quite mastered being here.
The doorman must have felt the same way, because he refused me admission. This was too weird to even be polite, so I left, and headed for home, stopping by the shop around the front of the club. But all the red shirts cost more than I had on me, and I had left my credit cards in my other purse—the red purse.
When I arrived back home, I noticed the laptop sitting on the white wicker table next to a matching rocking chair in the front entry. When I took a closer look, I saw that the browser was open at Jeff’s poker blog—something he rarely updated. After all, I was the online multi-media professional: writer, blogger, and graphic artist. I read the entry there, with a link to a video he’d posted.
The text said, “Don’t watch unless you have the stomach for it.” So, of course, I clicked on the link. And what I saw filled me with fury, disgust, and hate. It was a video of my husband dressed in my missing red blouse and matching red shorts, with my red purse on his arm, prancing around to some seductive music. And in the background, a neon sign flashed, “The Blue Diamond Saloon.”
Early in our relationship he had revealed how he struggled with his weight when he was younger, and so he took pride in being able to wear my size twelve clothes. In spite of what the fashion industry wanted to believe, I was still below the average size fourteen that most U.S. women wore. I worked hard at keeping my weight down.
But Gabrielle mustn’t be any larger than a size eight, my best guess after viewing Gabrielle wearing nothing but a satin black thong, matching low cut silk black bra, and Jeff’s tie. I recognized it from one of our cruises. She maneuvered a sexy move behind him, danced around him, and smiled into the camera taunting me. A swift kick to my gut told me that today was not the first time they had met.
Then he peered directly into the camera, and snarled, “This is for Sam.” And then right in front of me, in front of the camera, he started making rude fondling movements on Gabrielle’s body while she fondled him in return. I’m a voyeur as much as the next person, but I couldn’t watch anymore. And when I closed the browser window, a message written like a handwritten note said, “RIP, darling,” and then a mock newspaper headline flashed. It said, “Jealous Wife Found Dead at The Blue Diamond Saloon wearing nothing but black pumps.”
Feeling a second swift kick to my gut, I peeked in the closets, the pantry, the cabinets and the rooms upstairs to make sure nobody was in there, waiting for me. Because I was afraid that this time he would make good his idle threats and I’d be dead. Maybe not by his own hands, but I suspected he knew people in low places and somebody someday would murder me. I’d had enough and I knew that it was up to me to remain alive, to get away before tomorrow arrived.
I may appear stupid for hanging around this long, but I wasn’t about to stay any longer, in case my luck had run out. I was afraid the next death threat, the next slap on the face, the next infidelity would mean the end of me.
At the same time, I asked myself, “Why? What did my husband have against me? What had I done to him?” The years of our marriage punched through my mind like a ticker tape, and then I knew. He had never forgiven me for not loving him as much as I had loved Sam—the one man who’d eluded me. I loved how his name rolled on my tongue—Sam, Sam Sullivan. It played the right notes to my ear like a private dick in some mystery novel. Maybe I had stayed with Jeff for so long out of guilt that somehow I deserved this mistreatment. After all, wasn’t it a sin not to love your husband more than any other man in the world?
So Jeff taunted me, jealous of any man so much as glanced at me, paying me back by flirting with other women and inviting them to our house. And then later when we broke into the inevitable fight his mustache would curl around his lips, and he’d stare at me, and peer into my soul with those devil-green eyes and say, “I’m the best you’re ever going to have” and somehow I believed him. After all, my own father had rejected me—I couldn’t let the one man who was willing to be with me abandon me, too.
I hung on year after year until I noticed the taunts were getting more serious. And now he had gone too far. He had behaved despicably in front of my half-sister—the one person I wanted to think well of me. And it wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t been drawn into his web, making it worse until that night, after I left The Blue Diamond Saloon and found that message on his laptop.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t been spurned forward to race down to The Blue Diamond Saloon to confront them—confront him, for I knew he had set it up—that he had lured her into being on his side. After all, weren’t they both jealous of me—resented me? Gabrielle, when she discovered she wasn’t her darling daddy’s only daughter, and Jeff, well, Jeff, because he couldn’t own me.
But when I got there, all mad as hell, ready to cause a scene, the doorman was off-duty. I had no problem entering the place. I was armed with the ammo of my fury, but when I glanced around the room, nothing untoward was occurring anywhere. People were milling around, playing slot machines, eating, drinking. And then my eyes located Jeff and Gabrielle playing a quiet game of video poker, laughing, but looking bored. Maybe their fun had been putting on a show for me. They both glanced up and smiled innocently at me when I stood in front of them, energized by the expression on my face, as if asking for a confrontation.
And that made me even more furious. Gabrielle, I dismissed. But Jeff, oh, Jeff had it coming. I lifted my right hand, pulled back, and with all the fury of the past five cruel, miserable years, I slapped him. I slapped him hard. I slapped him so hard, blood trickled down from his lip—those full luscious lips he took such pride in. He stood up, angry, and slapped me back, “You bitch. You made my lip bleed. You’ll have to pay for that.”
But I’d had enough. I turned around and ran. I ran so fast, not stopping to see if anybody was following me. I ran back to the house, while calling a cab from my cell phone. I threw together a few of my most important items, like my red purse, but it didn’t take long because the only item of importance was me. And five minutes later when the cab arrived, I jumped in, and told the driver to take me to the airport.
“Lady, are you all right?” he asked, dodging the dozen or so Harleys that rumbled past the house. Too bad I didn’t have my own Harley so I might disappear into the desert.
“I am now,” I said as I met the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he peeled out, sensing my distress and urgency, as I left my past behind in the dust.
I took the first flight to San Francisco where I had lived before I met Jeff, where I hoped I still had friends. I charged the plane fare to my Visa, although I knew Jeff would be able to trace the charge and know where I had gone. But I wouldn’t worry about that now. It was important to get myself as far away from Vegas, as far away from Jeff, as far away from my past as I could.
I was burned by my past, yet hopeful that I could build a Disney World kind of life for myself. I closed that dark, dreary, scary door, and I made a vow to never open it again. And when humpty dumpty fell off that great wall, you might not ever rebuild humpty dumpty ever again. But from now on, people would see a strong, confident, happy, positive-thinking woman.
What I didn’t know was that as soon as you make a vow, the world will do everything in its power to tempt you into breaking it.
The world talks a lot about showing love to people but they also have their own definition of love. The truth is, it’s only by telling people the truth do we show love – not denying truth and enabling people to live a life of lies. And so I’m reposting this now because it becomes truer and truer every day.
Myths of the Fatherless still sells and I’m pleased by that – especially now that our culture has swung so far from an awareness of this issue that it’s hard to remember the motivation for writing it.
But it all started after we’d first moved to Portland, Oregon from the San Francisco Bay Area 12 years ago. There was an article in the Oregonian about adoption records being opened and some birth mothers were upset by it. I’d often related to the adoption issue because I’d never known my biological father growing up and had been raised by a step dad – a man I thought was my dad until a cousin spilled the beans.
Soon after the Oregonian article, I took more than the few halfhearted steps I’d taken before to find my father. With the help of others, I found my father, we met, and started a relationship ten years ago. All of this gave me insight into the truth I’d been denying and I documented it in Myths…
Hollywood studio executive, author, motivation coach and speaker Libby Gill encouraged me to write the book, telling me that my experience made me an expert on the subject. And so I wrote it, published it, and opened myself up to encourage others to do the same via the “fatherless” blog. But when I look around at our world today, it’s hard to believe any of it was possible.
I was already fighting an uphill battle because the world encourages us to think that bio dads don’t matter, that there’s no issue in being adopted or being raised by a step dad. That was then.
Ten years later our world praises “single moms” as if that’s the goal. I’m thrilled to see single mothers being supported, because, as a woman, I can imagine myself as a single mom. But let’s not think that that’s the goal or the solution.
Ten years later, the world supports adoption for gay couples. Obviously, a child raised by a gay couple is not being raised by his/her biological parents – one at most – but not both. Twenty Things Adopted Kids Wished Their Adopted Parents Knew is a fabulous book about adoption issues.
Ten years later, it’s far more common for egg donors and sperm donors to help create babies who will not know the genetic parents they come from.
In the spirit of supporting women and gays, we are forgetting the rights of any human child – to know their own parents, if at all possible. I speak from experience and my heart goes out to the children. We are moving so far from supporting these kids in the way they need to be supported and that makes me sad. We are complicating an already complex issue. These kids are a blessing but they are going to need our understanding/insights into their issues even more going forward.
One thing I’ve learned that is consistent is that many – if not most – of the world’s problems or issues can be traced to a missing or troubled relationship with a father. Because our relationship with our earthly father mirrors our relationship with our Heavenly Father. And those who have experienced this firsthand know this and speak it – I am not alone in speaking out.
My first published novel, Real Women Wear Red, reunites a birth mother with her daughter. Their story continues in the sequel – Real Women Sing the Blues. And now I’m writing songs that tell a similar story. One of the songs I’m working on now through my musicianship program is “Advocates in Heaven.”
I can’t wait to share it with you.
Thinking about yesterday’s Dear Kitten post and the “To Kitten, My Favorite Pussycat” from my high school yearbook, well, I had to smile. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately – looking back on my life and getting a warm feeling inside. I guess it comes with age. But it’s far better to look back on your life and smile, celebrate the past, instead of moan about it or regret it.
What made me smile was the idea of a “pussycat” and how it was in vogue back then. “What’s New Pussycat?” by Tom Jones was a hit song. Funny that years later I wrote The Tom Jones Club, set here in Las Vegas. There was something about the women seated in the first two rows that reminded me of my OC sisters in that first Tom Jones performance that sparked the idea of the book.
A co-worker told me that Tom Jones was before her time as if she couldn’t enjoy him because of that. Well, Tom Jones may be before your time and he’s certainly closer to my mother’s age than mine – she wasn’t into him – said he “walked like a horse,” but, believe me, the audience doesn’t know anything about a specific age requirement to enjoy Tom Jones. When I saw Tom Jones last, women and men of all ages were dancing in the aisles.
A younger co-worker from Silicon Valley has flown out here to Vegas just to see Tom Jones at least 10 times – and this is a guy. If you’re into baseball, picture San Francisco Giant Tim Lincecum – that’s just what he looked like the last time I saw him. Can you see that guy dancing in the aisles for Tom Jones? That’s just the kind of draw he has.
Here’s a video of the older Tom Jones singing What’s New Pussycat? – he only gets better with age.
I’ve been nostalgically revisiting my high school stomping grounds in Orange County, California, as I posted in BFF’s and the Women of Real Women Wear Red.
I’ve been working so hard on this, I’m getting in the mood to work on my manuscript-in-progress. Maybe because songwriting isn’t the only nostalgic inspiration from those times. My fiction is also inspired by then. In fact, my short story Dear Kitten… was inspired by another yearbook signing.
Fifty-something Kitty Arness hasn’t been called “Kitten” since her college days. So when a chance encounter reunites her with an old love on Laguna Beach, she realizes she longs to be “Kitten” one more time.
Still hurting from the breakup all these years later, she must make a hard choice: to hold onto her pride or forgive and forget, especially when she reads “Dear Kitten…” in the sand.
BUY NOW on amazon.com for Kindle.
Nashville is probably my favorite TV show – I love the music and I especially love the storyline of Maddie discovering that Deacon is her father. This week’s episode was totally awesome with lines that could only come from real life experience – exactly the words a daughter wants to hear her father say.
I wanted to write this post and share the song Deacon sang with Maddie in the audience, which was Deacon’s first attempt to actually be a father to Maddie.
As some of you know, this story is near and dear to my heart. I’ll always be thankful I grew up halfway between Disneyland the beach but my own father was just 30 miles away and it saddens me that I couldn’t know him growing up.
We had our big reunion and I wrote about it in Myths of the Fatherless and the best part was that hug good-bye when I pulled away first and he pulled me back and held me tight. I share this because I know there are many of you out there who are just like me.
Anyway, here’s the song and the scene I must have fantasized happening for me for most of my life because my father was a singer, too. No wonder “secret baby” is one of the most popular romance plots.
I rolled out of bed, still naked, and searched the room for a hint of Jon’s whereabouts. Perhaps he’d gone out to bring back breakfast. But this was L.A. and not New York and nobody really did that here.
A pit of disappointment lodged in my belly. The only evidence that he’d ever been in this room—his room—was a note on the desk next to the phone that said, “Last night was terrific, but business with the vineyard calls me to Hawaii. See ya ’round, kid.”
“A vineyard in Hawaii?” I tried to wrap my head around so many things at once. I fell back into bed and propped myself up against the pillows. I began ticking off on my fingers the mind-boggling events of the past few days.
(1) My mother appears out of nowhere and announces that my father is not my father.
(2) I leave my apartment and job and everything I know about my life in New York.
(3) I reunite with Jon.
(4) My mother shows up.
(5) Right behind my mother, this Monterey Jack, this man my mother claims is my father, appears.
(6) I have wild sex with Jon.
(7) Jon disappears, leaving a note, claiming to own a vineyard in Hawaii, of all places.
What the hell should I do now? The old Robin would have limped off, nursing her wounds when it came to her personal life, writing it all off as a failure. But the new Robin would take her old business aggressive self and use it in her personal life. Therefore, there was only one choice: chase Moondoggie all the way to Hawaii.
I showered, got dressed, and then made a few phone calls, culminating in a First Class ticket to Hawaii and a hotel reservation at the Halekulani. Then I went down to 25 Degrees to get some breakfast before the hotel limo shuttled me to LAX. Thank God I still had business connections and could make arrangements at such late notice. But my mother, Millie, had taught me everything I knew about getting things done. Everything in business, that is. It was time to put those Millie lessons into practice in my personal life and chase after the man I wanted.
Okay, so maybe my mother had let this Monterey Jack get away—I still didn’t know the exact details there. Perhaps, my mother had wanted to let him get away. But, apparently, something had changed because she was here and he was here with her.
Scanning the menu, my heart stopped when I noticed the chorizo egg quesadilla—the Latin breakfast brought back last night’s memories of my Latin lover—the same one who had fled this morning with nothing but that note “Last night was terrific, but business calls me to Hawaii” replaying in my mind. And then there was something else. Oh yea, something about “See ya ’round, kid” just like he used to say to me back in high school.
“I’m surprised to see you having breakfast here, Robin. I would have expected breakfast in bed with your Latin lover.”
I turned my head. My mother was dressed in a pair of white slacks and blue jacket, with red and white polka dot blouse tucked inside the slacks. A pair of red and white Spectator pumps completed her outfit, confusing me as to whether she was conducting business or pleasure this morning.
“I could say the same for you, Millie.” My mother preferred I call her by her first name in public, and I happily complied. There were times when I didn’t want to admit that Millie was my mother.
Millie gave her order to the waiter, a “Bloody Mary with Grey Goose vodka and a soft boiled egg” and said, “So, where is he this morning, Robin?”
“Monterey Jack or Jon?”
“I know where Jack is, but do you know where Jon is?”
“Hawaii. He had business in Hawaii.”
“Oh, Hawaii is it? Wonder what her name is this time? You didn’t buy that, did you? Because if you did, I’m embarrassed to think we’re even slightly-related.” Millie turned around, peeking to see who might over hear her and say, in a conspiratorial whisper, “Certainly, no daughter of mine.”
“Like mother, like daughter, I would say. Cuz I don’t see Monterey Jack here and if he had been, surely the two of you would be having, now what do you say, oh yes, breakfast in bed.”
Millie laughed, shook her head, sipped the Bloody Mary she’d ordered and said, “On second thought, isn’t Jack a form of Jon? Maybe we and our men are more alike than I’d thought.”
I sipped my coffee, “Our men?”
Millie ignored my question and asked one of her own, “Where are you headed now, dear daughter?” I knew I was in trouble now when she called me that.
I attempted to dive into my breakfast with the enthusiasm of the hungry, but after two bites, I realized I wasn’t hungry after all.
“Mother, I’m going to Hawaii,” I glanced at my cell phone and noted the time, “and my limo will take me to LAX in about twenty minutes, so I’ve got to run.”
I signed the bill, kissed my mother on both cheeks, and walked away, waving off any attempts at stopping me or going with me. The last thing I needed was for my mother to chase after my while I was chasing Moondoggie.
Excerpt from Real Women Sing the Blues – available FREE on amazon.com Oct. 22-24:
Cyn’s Guide to Dignity and Self-Respect
by Kate “Cyn” Francis
“Dignity and self-respect, dignity and self-respect.”
When I left my ex-husband, Alec, my two favorite words were “dignity” and “self-respect.” From that moment on, I was going to run as fast as I could from anything that even ever so slightly put either one of those two at risk. It became my mantra of sorts. I would mutter to myself, “dignity and self-respect, dignity and self-respect” whenever I felt slightly threatened or insecure.
So there I was two days before the flight to Miami lying on the doctor’s table with my legs spread as far apart as they physically could. Actually, farther I was sure. With my feet in stirrups and almost every part of my voluptuous body exposed because the two pink paper napkins they gave me, one for my large breasts and the other for my ample bottom, had ripped apart and were flying through the air.
I asked myself whatever happened to dignity and self-respect? Should I throw on my clothes and drive away as quickly as I could or did I endure it, escape to some place pleasant in my mind and get it over with? Because it took all of my courage to even show up for this appointment without cancelling at the last minute. I dreaded this appointment more than ever since my divorce.
Maybe it was the part where they asked about my nonexistent sex life.
But back to the indignity of lying here on the GYN table. After all, the doctor, female I might add, had appeared. I wasn’t sure I was happy with another female poking around my body so intimately. But I also wasn’t sure a male doctor would make me feel any better. Not unless he offered a better dressing gown. But why take a chance? Next time, I’d bring my own.
I closed my eyes and held my breath as she poked around commenting on my privates, “You’re a bit red and dry.”
I quickly offered, “Must be my bath soap. I showered right before I came in.
“No, no. It happens at your age, you know.”
I was thinking “Dry? No way. That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about, even at my age.” Then she asked, for the second time, “Do you do regular monthly breast exams?”
Then I did say, “Are you kidding me? With these giant globes, my breasts get more action than a Vegas casino on a Saturday night.” And I winked. Didn’t know where that came from. Guess my usual way of using humor in uncomfortable or overly sterile situations. The good doctor didn’t even crack a smile. Just looked at me underneath her glasses riding halfway down her nose.
The truth was, my body hadn’t had much action since, and I hated to admit it, I discovered my divorce attorney ex-husband having an affair with one of his clients–a woman going through a divorce. How original.
And as quickly as the doctor appeared, she disappeared. I was told to get dressed. And as I clasped my bra, she knocked again, fully expecting me to be finished. It took a little more time than that to put us all back together.
I didn’t answer the knock, trying desperately to get my top back on but she entered anyway. “Oh, I thought you’d be done.” I smiled knowingly to myself. Guess she really didn’t know what my life was all about. Because, believe me, there was no chance I wasn’t going to know what was going on with my breasts and my body was well lubricated, thank you very much. Even at my age. Maybe, especially at my age. Maybe I hadn’t had much action here lately but my years of living had given me the experience to get to know my body quite well.
She looked over my chart and said, “Well your blood pressure and cholesterol levels are all quite good” as if she was disappointed. She then gazed at me through her reading glasses, looking rather surprised, and said, “Guess you’ve got good genes.”
At my weight and age (who made up those weight charts anyway?), I think she expected something else. Something her medical books told her:
- If a patient is over 20 pounds “overweight,” check for health risks A, B, and C.
- If a patient is over 40 years-old, check for health risks, X, Y, and Z.
- If a patient does not fit our diagnostics, shake your head.
Having heard that piece of good news, I sucked up enough courage to ask the question I really wanted to know and why I had kept this appointment right before the cruise. If I was going to execute “operation boy toy.”
“Uh, doctor,” I began as I cleared my throat, “am I still young enough to get pregnant?”
She looked at me below the rims of her glasses again and said, “Only if you have sex.” Ha! So the doctor did have a sense of humor.
I walked out of the doctor’s office with a spring in my step, happy to be exactly where I was, where I had come from, and where I was going. And I was meeting Maggie for drinks. My reward for following through on the appointment most dreaded by women everywhere.
I mean, I walked in there feeling confident, and came out of there feeling confident but in-between going in and coming out was another story. But all of that was behind me. It was time to enjoy the anticipation of embarking on a new adventure.