Everybody who came into my operating room was guilty of something. I knew that better than anyone, except maybe Vale or the people who paid my salary. But the way she moved gave me some pause. She wasn’t as smooth as I imagined a CEO co-conspirator would be. There was something not quite right about her. Maybe it was the way she looked to her husband for the answer to my question, the way a natural submissive would. She didn’t seem like the mastermind type.
Orders were orders, though.
I led them to the operating room table.
“This is the heart monitor, breathing monitor, blood pressure. We’ll check all vital stats throughout the procedure to make sure nothing goes wrong. I’ll be your anesthesiologist and get you all set up before the surgeon comes in.”
I used to be a great anesthesiologist. It had gotten harder and harder as I went. I put people under, and it was getting too tempting to let them stay there if they deserved it. But that was a long time ago.
“Where are the other staff?” Mrs. Steadhill asked. She looked at me with an expression that made me think she knew who I was. There was no way she knew who I was. There was no way she would have walked into my office if she had known.
“No other staff,” I said brightly. “It’s only me and the surgeon. That’s what you’re paying for, isn’t it? Privacy?”
“Yes,” Mr. Steadhill said, walking to the window. “And I hear you’re the best at that.”
“Absolutely, sir,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman glance at me. Was she suspicious? Or was I paranoid? Maybe she was interested in me. Women often were. Especially married women.
“Nice view you have here,” Mr. Steadhill said.
“One-way glass, of course,” I said. “We can see them, they can’t see us.”
“Perfect. So I’m going to be here on this table the whole time?”
“Yes. I’ll leave you to change into your medical gown,” I said. “Mrs. Steadhill?”
“I’ll be out there waiting for you, dear,” she said to her husband. He leaned towards her and gave her a small kiss on the corner of her lips. I noticed she turned her head slightly away as he kissed her.
“Right this way,” I said, leading her back through the door to the waiting room. I closed the door behind us, then turned to find her staring at the glass globe full of brain tissue.
“Do you like it?” I asked.
“It’s… it’s beautiful,” she said, bending to peer through the glass. Her dress lifted slightly and revealed a glimpse of her creamy thighs. In the mirrored wall, I could see her face intent on the sculpture. The concentration on her face was even more beautiful than the back view of her.
“Beautiful,” I said, the word catching in my throat as I stepped forward. I would have her. She had walked straight into my trap, and now she was mine.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The sculpture,” she said, still staring through the glass. The first person to ever notice. The first person ever to ask. “What is it?”
Sara
When the anesthesiologist touched my hand, I was deeply immersed in the part of Susan. I realized what Susan would do if an attractive young doctor started to flirt with her.
She would flirt right back.
“It’s a plastic sculpture,” Dr. Damore said. “Abstract art. I never understood it.”
He was standing close to me, and I stood back up, shifting my weight closer to him. Our shoulders were almost touching, and I could feel the heat coming off of his body. As long as I didn’t turn toward him, though, I could pretend as though I wasn’t trying to touch him. Anyway, I could check him out in the mirror.
I wanted to, though. The one touch of his hand had sent thrills through me. And Susan’s husband—my husband—was such a boring guy. Always at work. I deserved a little fun, didn’t I? I had never felt so drawn to a person.
“The best art tells a story. But I think it’s impossible to understand art like this,” I said, tilting my head and studying the sculpture. The small pink-gray pieces of plastic seemed to connect together at points, like an organism growing out of its glass bowl. “It can mean anything. And whatever you think it means, the artist probably had a different meaning in mind.”
“What do you think this artist meant?” the doctor asked. His voice was smooth, like honey. When I turned to face him, we were only a foot apart. My heart leapt in my chest.
“I think that whoever made this was trying to escape,” I said, letting the bullshit flow off of my tongue. “He must have felt trapped.”