The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (19 page)

And even though

both of us see a nurse

dashing down the hall

to try to get here before the doors close,

neither one of us

makes a move

to press the button

that would hold them open.

The doors slip closed,

like the velvet curtains

of a confessional.

We

are completely

alone.

As we begin

our ascent,

Griffin turns to gaze at me.

I don't know

which is rising faster—

the elevator or my blood pressure.

We pass the second floor…

the third floor…

the fourth floor…

And then, without warning, we jolt

to a halt between the fourth

and fifth floors!

My knees

nearly buckle

as a slow smile

spreads across Griffin's face—

a smile

that somehow makes me feel

like he's the wolf

and I'm Little Red Riding Hood.

Or maybe
I'm
the wolf!

Or…
shit!
Maybe I'm the
grandmother…

Oh,
I
don't know.

It's all so confusing…

Griffin strokes his chin, studying me.

Then he cocks his head to the side,

points a slender finger at me, and asks,

“Is
someone
a little claustrophobic…?”

And a split

second later—

the lights flicker,

sizzle,

and go out!

But that's the least of my troubles.

I am so lit with terror and temptation,

I'm surprised I'm not glowing in the dark.

“I'm…fine,” I manage to squeak.

A faint red emergency button

pulses on the wall next to me,

like the dim tip

of a cigarette,

barely casting enough light

for me to make out

Griffin's silhouette

as he takes a step closer to me.

I scramble to press the button.

Nothing happens.

I press it again…Nothing.

“Damn it!”
I hiss.

“Are you okay?” Griffin asks in a throaty voice.

“No! I am
not
okay!” I say,

struggling to catch my breath.

“There are
so
many reasons I am not okay…”

“Don't worry,” he murmurs, “I'm right here…”

“I know!” I say, “That's one of the reasons!”

And I guess he thinks that's pretty funny,

because all of a sudden—

he's chuckling.

That please-God-make-it-stop

chuckle of his—

so shrill, so earsplitting,

so divinely ardor-dampening,

my path

becomes blazingly clear:

if I want to be able

to resist Griffin's charms

I am going to have to keep him

chuckling.

Grasping at straws,

I tell him one of the cheesy jokes

the cabbie told me

in the taxi on the way over here—

the one about

what the doctor says

to the invisible man in his waiting room:

“Sorry. I can't see you now.”

Amazingly, this totally cracks him up!

So I tell him the one about the nurse

who tiptoes past the medicine cabinet because

she doesn't want to wake the sleeping pills.

And the one about

what one doctor says to the other doctor

when they greet each other in the hall:

“You are fine. How am I?”

But then,

while I'm wracking my brain

to remember more of the cabbie's jokes—

Griffin. Stops. Chuckling.

That's when I notice

the delicious woodsy scent

of his aftershave…

pine…

and spice…and smoke…

and rum…

and…
oh, geez!

He smells exactly

like Peter Levine—

the boy

I had an obsessive crush on

in ninth grade!

“I love a woman

with a good sense of humor,” he says.

I tell him my
husband
does too. But this does not deter him.

He comes closer…

And closer still…

And, suddenly,

Griffin's hands are on my shoulders!

“Aw…” he says. “You're shaking…

You
are
claustrophobic.”

My heart's beating so fast

it could win a world's record.

“You need a hug…” Griffin says.

“Come here…”

He starts to wrap

his arms around me.

And it would be

so easy…

so easy to just let myself

melt into them

and give in

to this urge…

this wicked urge

to press my lips to his

and devour them

like a prisoner devouring

her last meal…

I think of Michael…

of his paint-speckled cheeks…

and I force myself

to push Griffin away.

“Please…” I say.

“Don't.”

But Griffin

doesn't seem to have heard me.

He reaches for me

again.

“Stop!”
I say.

But Griffin doesn't stop.

He places his hands

back on my shoulders…

and then…

then…

And the elevator

lurches to life—

carrying us safely up

to the fifth floor.

When the doors slide open,

I burst through them with my honor,

my self-respect, and my marriage

miraculously intact.

An instant later, I whirl around,

and Griffin's right behind me.

I stare into his deep brown eyes,

flash him my sultriest smile, and ask,

“What did the woman say to the doctor

after he tried to take advantage of her

while they were trapped together

in an elevator?”

“I don't know…” he says coyly.

“What
did
she say?”

I lean in, letting my lips graze his earlobe,

and whisper, “You're…fired!”

I take a quick step back,

so I can see his jaw drop.

Then I dash down the hall,

yank open the stairwell door,

and chuckle

my way

down all

five flights.

It turns out that when you

casually mention sexual harassment

to the powers that be in a hospital

it's shockingly simple

to get your mother transferred

to another wing.

Before the end of the day,

she's been installed

in a freshly renovated private room

replete with sheer curtains, a flat screen TV,

and wallpaper so flowery

it could give you hay fever.

Now that she has no roommate

chanting “help me, God,”

my mother seems calmer.

Though she also seems bewildered.

“This hotel is
trés chic
,” she says,

“but why are all the maids dressed like nurses?”

My mother's new attending physician,

Dr. Gold, taps on the door,

then steps into the room to introduce himself.

We have to spend a few minutes

convincing my mother that he's not

the hotel's general manager.

But once that's accomplished,

she stops tearing at the hem

of her hospital gown,

and Dr. Gold starts asking her questions:

“How many children do you have, Myra?”

“And how many grandchildren?”

She warms right up to him, telling him

about me and about Sam and about how much

she treasures her Thanksgiving visits with us.

I warm right up to him, too—

he's at least seventy years old,

short, round, bald:

perfect.

And it's such a relief

to not even have to worry for a split second

about what he
really
means

by “talk.”

He offers me

a cup of peppermint tea.

And I offer him

one of Samantha's brownies.

When he takes the first bite,

his whole being lights up.

“Wow…” he says. “If
these
don't get

your mother eating again,
nothing
will.”

“Actually,” I say, “I offered her one yesterday,

but she said…she said she wasn't hungry.”

And suddenly I feel so overwhelmed

that I begin sobbing.

Dr. Gold hands me a box of tissues.

And a moment later, when I glance over at him,

I see that he's wiping away a tear of his own.

This man isn't just a doctor—he's a saint.

On Sunday morning, I'm trying

to coax my mother into eating a brownie,

when Dr. Gold arrives to examine her.

She regards him warily,

tugging hard

on a strand of her hair.

He asks her to close her eyes

and touch her right forefinger to her nose.

Then, to do the same with her left forefinger.

“Do you know why I'm asking you to do this?” he says.

And when my mother shakes her head,

he tells her he's checking her brain function.

“Your brain is functioning very well indeed,” he says.

Then he gives her a kindly smile,

and she stops tugging on her hair.

Next, he takes a small hammer out of his pocket

and lightly taps each one of her knees.

“Do you know why I'm doing
this?”
he asks.

“To test my reflexes?” my mother says.

“That's exactly right,” he says.

“And your reflexes are perfect.”

Then he places his hand

on her left earlobe and gives it a gentle tug.

“Do you know why I'm doing
this?”
he asks.

When my mother says she doesn't,

Dr. Gold shrugs and says,

“Neither do I.”

And when, for the first time all weekend,

my mother bursts out laughing,

I want to fling my arms around

this brilliant little potato dumpling of a man.

Dr. Gold meets with me to discuss her options.

He tells me that the Prozac doesn't seem to be working.

And that if my mother isn't eating within two days,

he's afraid they'll be forced to insert a feeding tube.

“So,” he says, with a sympathetic smile,

“since we don't have the time

to try a new antidepressant,

I think we should consider shock treatments.”

“Shock treatments…?!”

An image flashes through my head—

my mother strapped to a table, her eyes bulging,

her body rigid, arching…

“I know people think they're barbaric,” he says.

“But, really, they're not anything like in the movies.

And the results can be dramatic—we might even

see some improvement after just one treatment.”

“Are there any side effects?” I ask, swallowing hard.

“Maybe some short-term memory loss,” he says.

“But if all goes well, she'll be out of here in time

to commandeer your kitchen at Thanksgiving.”

I picture Samantha,

arriving home for the long weekend,

flinging herself into

her beaming grandma's arms.

And when Dr. Gold

hands me the consent form,

I scribble down my name

before I can change my mind.