Page 20 of Brain Damage

“Hello,” I say with a smile. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Leroy?”

I’m assuming the answer involves looking at groin fungus.

“Please call me Stan,” he says. “And I’m just here for a follow-up.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Are you still having symptoms?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. It’s all cleared up. Thanks to you, Doc.”

“All in a day’s work.” I shrug modestly. “You didn’t have to come back to tell me it was better though.”

Stan Leroy hesitates. “I know. I just…”

I frown, my fingers getting ready for another Stan Leroy revelation. The tissue box is in the back of the room.

“I actually wanted to thank you, Dr. McKenna,” he says, looking straight into my eyes. “You inspired me. Because of you, I lost twenty pounds, I got in shape, and… I feel a lot better about myself.”

Wow, score another point for Dr. McKenna today. I’m really on a roll. “That’s great. Really. You look great.”

Mr. Leroy takes a deep breath. “And I was just wondering…”

Uh oh.

“Do you think I might be able to take you to dinner sometime?” he asks. His brown eyes are hopeful, like a little puppy dog.

Dating patients is a big no-no. It’s the kind of thing that can lose you your license. I already made an exception for Clark Douglas, and look how badly that went. So there’s only one answer to Stan Leroy’s question.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not allowed to date patients. I could get in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh.” Mr. Leroy’s face falls. But unlike the jerk Clark, I know he’s not going to pressure me further. He’s not that kind of guy. “I understand.”

Hmm. I wonder if I could set him up with Regina Barry. He certainly seems light years better than that husband of hers.

No, I’ve always been a terrible matchmaker—better to stick to dermatology.

I wish Mr. Leroy the best of luck and send him on his way. I don’t put in a bill for his visit. I didn’t even touch the man, and I can’t in good conscience charge the insurance for a failed date request, no matter how much the lack of a bill will irritate Roger.

It isn’t until I’m logging back into a computer to look up my next patient that I feel a twinge of regret. I wonder if I made a mistake turning him down. I’m still smarting from my date with Clark last week—I was so excited for my first date in over a year with this incredibly attractive man, and I had to send him packing before we even got out the door. It was bona fide disaster.

But it wouldn’t necessarily be that way with Stan Leroy. I could see in his eyes that he’s a genuinely nice man. He wouldn’t spend the night pissed off because my bad luck cat scratched him. Kitty wouldn’t scratch him in the first place, most likely. And having seen him for a skin infection months ago doesn’t really make him my patient, per se, especially if I discharge him. I mean, it’s a grey area.

Maybe it’s not too late to change my mind.

Before I can second guess myself, I lock my computer screen and rush out into the waiting room. I push past the heavy door that leads into our waiting area, a small, brightly lit room with about a dozen wooden chairs, littered with every magazine known to man. But before I have a chance to scan the room for Mr. Leroy, another unfamiliar man quickly steps in front of me.

“Dr. McKenna!” the man booms.

I’ve never seen this man before in my life. I’ve seen more patients in my day than you can imagine, but I know I’d remember this one. He’s at least a head taller than me, even in my heels, with a shiny bald pate and the burly frame of a football player.

And all I can see from the look in his eyes that this man wants to hurt me.

This man wants to wrap his fingers around my neck.

14

AFTER

Every day, I go to a group where we play games to help us remember things. Sometimes, for example, we play Jeopardy. Except that instead of questions about famous novels or figures in history, the questions are about where we live or when our birthday is.