My Bad Boy Doctor

3

After a chat about broken rib care, concussions, and all the reasons I shouldn't spontaneously combust, the hospital sends me along my merry way with a prescription of Percocet and an order to see my primary care physician at my earliest convenience. The joke's on me though, because broken body parts aren't convenient, and I'm curious to know why Doctor Cole made a second visit when he had no obligation to bother.

I lean the passenger side seat back in the car as Dad drives me home in the Toyota and try to be as still as possible as he speaks. "So what happened this time?"

"Pick a scenario, any scenario," I jest, not in the mood to humor him. I love Dad, and he tries to be there for me, but I already know where this is going.

"I feel like I should have named you Gracie."

I snort, remembering a story on Wattpad about an accident-prone girl named Grace who fell in love with a young, fit Santa Claus. It's one of my favorite books on the platform, and the childish part of me wishes real life could be so whimsical.

Instead, I'm more like Miss Congeniality, destined to trip over my heels and have Benjamin Bratt's character dump me immediately in the sequel. Of course, I'm not a bad-ass in the FBI, undercover at a beauty pageant with a gun strapped to my thigh, but I make up for that in spunk and sass.

"Better than Wankum," I say with an eye roll, cringing at all the horrible taunts over the years. "You should have taken Mom's last name."

Dad shakes his head with a sigh as he focuses on the road. "Men didn't take women's last names in my generation. Besides, there are worse names out there like Mitch Mitchell or John Johnson or..."

"Talula Does the Hula?"

"What parent hated that child?" he asks with a laugh.

"Some couple in Hawaii. Judge made them change it because it was deemed cruel and unusual punishment." I won't say it, but Wankum isn't nearly as bad as a lot of other names out there. Maybe one day, I'll learn to appreciate it.

We have a good laugh for a moment before Dad comes back to the subject at hand. "The doctor said the break went all the way through. They also said the X-ray technician in the urgent care knocked you over. What were you doing by the door?"

"I went to close it," I hedge, leaving out the bit about eavesdropping on inappropriate work conversations.

"You know," he says thoughtfully, "you could file a lawsuit for negligence. They're supposed to knock before coming in."

And this is what's wrong with America. Everyone wants to take advantage of the system to make easy money. "No, Dad. They're paying the bill, and that's enough for me."

"And what about later? Say you develop complications from hitting your head or they kill someone next. You're already going to be out of work even longer, and you can't live off your unemployment forever. It was irresponsible."

I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing Dad wouldn't start this topic again. He works from home, running a full-time eBay business, so it pays the bills, but we aren't exactly living in the Foothills. As a former vet, the military covered his degree, but his bad heart doesn't allow him to work on his feet, and with his late wife's income gone, he relies solely on people spending money on unusual collectables. With so many people unemployed from the pandemic, all I can say is some months are better than others.

"Can we not have this conversation? I'm not suing the hospital."

"Then at least try to get one of your books published. You won't make any money from a free platform, and you're wasting your talent."