Liar Liar

‘A motorcycle,’ the doc answers. ‘He came off at a very low speed, which would account for the lack of other injuries. He has a concussion and a small wound on his head as a result of hitting it on a metal rail, once he’d taken off his helmet, following a dizzy spell.’

‘Is the concussion from the railing?’ I ask haltingly.

‘More likely from falling from the motorcycle.’

‘Could it have been from something else?’

‘Like what?’ His gaze narrows.

‘I was just thinking,’ I reply, all wide-eyed and forced innocence. Thinking about the damage I could’ve done with the dildo and how his head might’ve met with the railing outside of my house.

Felony by dildo. Would that be a thing?

I glance at the doctor again, my brow furrowed. I’d watched a TV program recently about football players and the risks they face from concussions and traumatic brain injuries. It was pretty scary. ‘Is he going to be okay?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ My frown deepens at his terse tone. ‘How do you not know what kind of bike he owns?’

‘It must be a new hobby,’ I mumble, wondering if I’m imagining how the patient’s expression seems to become purposely blank every time the doctor looks his way. Meanwhile, he looks at me as though he’s struggling to contain his amusement.

Probably because I wear every one of my feelings on my face.

‘If you could next ask him if he knows where he is, please.’

It’s a stupid question and one that also happens to be beyond my French-speaking capabilities.

‘Ou es . . .’ where is ‘Ou es . . . vous?’ Where is you? That’s near enough, I suppose, though I try to mime the question with a flutter of my hands, hoping this might help somehow. It turns out that it does, even if he does look like he’s struggling not to laugh. But even the doctor is able to determine his eventual answer.

‘Hôpital.’

‘Very good.’ The doctor’s attention falls to his tablet again as Remy settles his head back on the pillow, his gaze seeming to drink me in. ‘Could you ask him if he remembers why he’s in the hospital?’

I clear my throat, ignoring Remy’s very eloquent expression. ‘J’ai . . . mal à la tête?’ Another middle school gem which roughly translates to: I have a headache. Yeah, I know; why would I have a headache when he’s the one with the concussion? But I don’t know how to turn the statement into a question, which is kind of a headache in itself.

At this, he launches into a litany of Frenchness that would, on any other occasion, have me kneeling at his feet. And my fingers on his zipper, possibly. But as the doctor interjects this vociferousness with a dozen questions of his own, cautioning Remy against becoming agitated, along with wondering aloud what on earth I could’ve said to upset him, I find I’m unable to speak.

The room suddenly falls quiet, two pairs of eyes turning to me.

‘He says yes,’ I answer, my voice small. ‘He also says he has a headache.’

The man in the bed sets off laughing, laughter that turns almost immediately to a groan, and a groan that then turns to profanity.

‘Fils de putain!’ His hands clutch his head. The doctor moves closer to the man in the bed, but it’s my hand Remy squeezes as he processes the wave of pain.

‘I really don’t think you need me to translate that.’ It’s a pity really because I can translate cursing, no problem. Son of a whore, if you’re interested, though technically it’s more like everyone’s favourite; fuck.

As Remy’s grip slackens, his features relaxing as the pain dissipates, the good doctor turns to face me.

‘I’m beginning to think you don’t really speak French at all.’

‘Not a lot,’ I agree, drawing myself up to my full five-eight high heel-aided height. I cock my hip a little and begin to toy with the end of one of my dark braids, the movement making my coat gape a little at my chest. Can you say boobalicious, Doctor? ‘You might say our bond is a little less meeting of the minds, and a little more physical, if you know what I mean.’

And judging by the way he blushes, he does.

* * *

It turns out the French-Canadian nurse is available to translate for the rest of Remy’s cognitive testing, testing where Remy insists on clinging to my hand. Gone are the flirty smiles and the saucy winking. Instead, he looks to be in a serious amount of pain.

‘Are you sure he doesn’t need a scan?’ Out of the room now, I drop my purse to the nurses’ station, hurriedly shoving the can of pepper spray back as it almost rolls onto the countertop. ‘He looks like he should be in the hospital.’

‘It’s natural to be worried, but clinically, he’s fine.’ The doctor barely glances up from his pile of paperwork this time. ‘Of course, if there’s any change in his condition, you’re to contact us right away. Here.’ He passes over a leaflet. ‘Some information on what to expect. What to look out for.’