The woman on the left, who appears to have just started her shift, stands up straight with understanding in her dark brown eyes. “A little,” she says. “Can we help you?”
The nurse from earlier says something to her colleague. Everyone looks at me again.
“I think there was a misunderstanding.” I make sure to speak slowly and enunciate, so there will be no misunderstandings this time. “I want to see Ian Mathers.”
They don’t roll their eyes in Japan. Or at least I’ve never witnessed it on the few occasions I’ve graced the country’s soil. So when the one woman who speaks some English hears me say this, I can tell she’s using every trick in her little book of nursing protocol to not broadcast how irked she is with my foreigner ass.
“You are not family,” she says so flatly that I’ve been reduced to a 2-D mess.
“Actually,” I say with all my fake, mustered confidence. “I’m his wife.”
The nurses consult this affirmation. Meanwhile, my head is running with the idea that I am Mrs. Mathers, the wife to a billionaire heir and future real estate and hospitality mogul. Never mind all of my own accomplishments. Never mind he only has about fifty million more than me sitting in some bank account he doesn’t get to touch until he’s “retired.” Never mind he and I argue over whose family is actually wealthier. (Because what else do rich kids argue about at one in the morning… when they’re not fucking, anyway?) His family is actively making money and investments, but mine has been sitting on some crazy investments since the name Alison first touched American shores. There’s a reason my father hasn’t had to do jack shit his whole life except get married and procreate to keep the riches going. I don’t even know how we made all of our money. Although with money as old as ours, I’m assuming it was pretty disgusting stuff, and explains one of the reasons I spend so much of my youth helping those far less fortunate than I am.
That stupid guilt I’ve been carrying my whole life. I drank, snorted, and fucked it out of my peripheral vision for most of my adolescence. Nowadays I confront it head on.
Nevertheless, I don’t feel guilty right now. Every once in a while I let myself indulge in so much of my accumulated privilege that I am incapable of feeling an ounce of guilt. I become the Kathryn adolescent me probably would have gone on to become if I didn’t have a wake-up call my senior year of undergrad. Granted, the Kathryn I was on track to becoming would probably be perpetually drunk and high on coke (and its favorite typo cock) so let’s consider the version of me standing at this nurses’ station as the happy marriage of Decent Human Being Kathryn and Fucking Out Of Her Mind Privileged Cunt Kathryn. Either way, my mother is bound to approve.
“Did you not understand? I said that I am his wife.”
The nurse puts her hand on the counter. “We need proof.”
Is this because I said I wasn’t related to him earlier? Or standard procedure? Or do they not like the tear tracts on my face? Either way, I present her with one of the most damning photos on my phone.
“It’s our marriage license,” I say. “I keep a picture in case of bullshit like this.”
Yeah, remember when Ian and I got fucked up in Vegas and accidentally got married? We had to take pictures of that cursed piece of paper to send to our lawyers. I never deleted mine. Guess I considered it punishment to look at. Punishment for being so stupid.
Not so stupid now, is it?
Never mind the marriage was annulled as soon as we could get it done. These women don’t know that. As far as they’re concerned, this is so valid they should be calling me Mrs. Mathers even though the title makes me cringe.
They study the photo before the woman on the left asks me to email it to the computer in front of her. I do as told without hesitation. They can find out it’s fake later. By then, Ian and I will be out of the country.
I’m rather ruthless when I let Privileged Cunt Kathryn out of the closet, aren’t I?
“Your passport, please.”
I hand them my passport for so they can make copies. Naturally, they point out that my last name is not Mathers. What’s wrong with me? Not having my husband’s name, that is. Thanks for the cute reminder why I don’t want to fuck with marriage and its cultural trappings.
But I will start claiming we have three human children if it means I get to see him. I’ll tell Eva to send over three child actors to play it up. Even better if two are blond and one has dark hair like his. That should get my point across, right? Because I’m not leaving this hospital until I’ve seen my husband.
After more conferring in a language I do not understand, the English-speaking nurse looks up at me and says, “Follow me. Sorry for not understanding.”