Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
The nurse’s brows furrow as she checks her paperwork. “Raimondo,” she confirms two seconds later.
“Then that would be me.” Valeria squeezes my arm with her perfectly manicured nails before she saunters away, leaving a trail of expensive perfume in her wake.
As the door to the examination rooms swings shut, I let out the breath I’ve been holding before searching for a vacant chair in the crowded waiting room. My stomach grumbles when I sit next to a couple who smell like fresh basil, tomatoes, and garlic. They must be here for a procedure that doesn’t require fasting. I haven’t eaten since last night.
Starving, I pray each time the head nurse appears for her to say my name.
Regrettably, she consistently calls in someone else.
I try to distract myself. I count the tiles on the floor and reread the pamphlet about my procedure, but my mind keeps drifting.
Thankfully, they mainly center on my mom.
She’s so frail now that every hour away from her feels like I’m losing seven. As I glance at the clock ticking impatiently behind the reception desk, I recall the promise I made to her this morning.
If they don’t call me in soon, I won’t make the last train to Carlisle.
The thought of my mother needing me while I’m not in the same zip code hurts my heart. It’s so firm that I get impatient. Leaping up, I make a beeline for the receptionist. She sees me coming but still answers her ringing phone. Her ignorance makes me furious, but before one-tenth of the death stares I’m shooting her way find their target, my name is finally called.
Well, it’s close to my name.
“Raimondi?” I check, even though I’m confident Valeria left hours ago.
“Yes, sorry,” the head nurse says.
I’m led to a small room, given a gown, and then guided toward a changing area at the side of the cramped space.
“Do you have someone to drive you home?” a nurse I’ve not met previously asks when I exit the changing room.
Preferring to lie without words, I nod.
“Fabulous.” She instructs me to hop onto the bed I’ve been dreading for the past six weeks before she places an intravenous line into my arm. “The IV is for the sedation. We use a combination of medication, but most commonly we stick to propofol. It will provide deep sedation, so you won’t feel any pain or remember the procedure.”
“Great,” I reply, my tone low but grateful. I’d prefer to forget than relive the procedure as I have my run-in with the handsome stranger over the past several weeks.
As the nurse increases the dosage, clouding my head with wooziness, I wonder what the stranger is doing. Is he assisting Valeria into bed for rest after her procedure? Doting over her as a partner should? Or was his sighting today just another thread in the tangled web of fate that keeps pulling us together and then tearing us apart?
I could hunt for an answer, but I’m too afraid I won’t like the outcome of my hunt.
The nurse with oddly nurturing laugh lines returns my focus to her. “Are you ready, Ms. Raimondo?”
I attempt to correct her, to tell her she has me mistaken for the raven-haired beauty who left hours ago, but the sedative is too good. Within seconds, I drift into a blissful abyss where there are no sick mothers or men who beat the women they claim to love. And there is definitely no such thing as cancer.
I wake slowly. The world is fuzzy and distant, and the ceiling above me is unfamiliar. When a nurse gently rubs my chest, waking me further, I blink before trying to gather my bearings. My head is groggy, but I recognize her face. She is the nurse who mistook me with Valeria.
After a quick swallow to soothe my dry throat, I take stock of my surroundings and the aches of my body. I’m sore but not in a heap of pain. The main discomfort is from the restraints on my ankles and at the opening of my vagina—and that’s when the truth smacks into me.
I just donated a living part of myself for money.
While informing me that the procedure went well, the nurse helps me sit up before steadying my sways with her plump frame. “Would you like some tea? A sandwich, perhaps?”
Suddenly mindful of my ravenous state before my procedure, I dip my chin.
I scoff down the food she arrives with minutes later, grateful for something to distract me from my thoughts, then change back into my clothes.
“Once your support person arrives, you’re free to go,” the nurse says, clearing away my empty sandwich container and disposable cup.
Humiliation prickles my skin that I don’t have anyone waiting for me, but I hide it well since my focus is elsewhere. “Um… about the payment? How long does it usually take for the receptionist to process the payment?”