Chapter 9

The wheelchair made the sounds of a mouse caught in the claws of a cat as the orderly weaved me around beds and people and guys with big bins. I kept my elbows in and my feet close together, having learned my lesson after being clipped by a door and the edge of a wall. The orderly wasn’t aware that he was transporting a person. To him I was a package. To be picked up at point A and dumped at point B. Getting there in one piece was my problem.

The idea of me needing a wheelchair was stupid. Not as stupid as the scheduled test, but close. Dr. Grant, the doctor I’d seen the night before with my parents, thought so too, if the argument between him and my family doctor, Dr. Cheetham, was anything to go by.

Dr. Cheetham had known me all my life. I’d always loved his unassuming manner, his kind brown eyes and the fact that he’d stopped being bigger than me when I turned ten. Best of all was when I was really sick or nervous he’d squint up his slitted eyes to enhance their almond shape, lose his New Jersey accent and start talking like the sensei from the Karate Kid. It always cheered me up.

That wouldn’t do any good now. Now I was inclined to agree with Dr. Grant.

I so didn’t need a CAT scan.

I understood Dr. Cheetham’s motivation. My grandmother had gotten blood clots at a young age. She’d suffered a stroke when my mother was little and died soon after.

But as Dr. Grant had pointed out, my blood work didn’t indicate any cause for concern. Unfortunately he didn’t get the last word, so I was getting the scan. Good news was that if it came out clear he was letting me go.

Radiology was two floors down from my room. Not far, which was good. Any further and my next stop would have been intensive care.

The orderly parked me against the wall in front of a set of double doors and dumped the paperwork in a plastic receive slot on the wall. Then he left.

I wasn’t sorry to see him go.

Fifteen minutes of waiting and then the technician came for me. Without a word she moved to take control of the wheelchair.

I set my feet down and lifted my head. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather walk. I’ll be okay. Honest.”

The technician—whose nameplate identified as Annie Wentz—smiled at me, her face changing as though she’d just established that I was a human being. “Sure, if you’re feeling up to it.”

I stood and took the blanket off my lap to drape it over my shoulders. “I’m feeling fine. My head doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“That’s good to hear.” Annie said, sounding like she meant it. “Come on in and let’s get this over with. Cross our fingers for negatives on all counts so we can get you out of here.”

“That’s got to be the best plan I’ve heard yet.”