Page 57 of Leave Before I Love You

Maybe

The clock i n my dad’s SUV clicks to eight in the morning, and I groan as he pulls into the parking lot of my oral surgeon’s office in New Jersey for surgery day.

Of course, when I say my oral surgeon, I mean the oral surgeon for which Bruce found a coupon on Groupon, so who knows how in the hell this is going to go.

And, while I wish it were something fun like a pair of new boobs or a bionic arm, I’m disappointed to say I will just be the owner of one fewer tooth.

A tooth I don’t need, obviously, but still.

I feel like any type of surgery shouldn’t come with a twenty-percent-off discount, but I’m currently too tired to decide if it’s a bad omen or not.

It’s too early to be without coffee, and thanks to the mandatory twelve-hour fast, I can’t stop thinking about Dunkin’ Donuts.

And I have my dad sitting beside me in the driver’s seat, belting out the lyrics to “Isn’t She Lovely” as if he’s Stevie Wonder himself.

Basically, this morning is shit, and I’m grumpier than Bruce on a late-Gerbera-daisy-shipment day.

God help me.

“And everyone laughs over my need to have a car in New York,” Bruce says after he finishes singing the chorus. “Looks like it came in pretty handy today.”

He’s so proud of himself. The man who spends an insane amount of money just to park this fucking car in the city has driven it one day in the last two months to bring me to a discount surgeon, and he’s bragging about it.

Bruce pulls in front of the office, puts the car in park, and turns toward me before I can get out of the passenger seat to head toward my dismal fate of anesthesia and blood loss.

“Break a leg, Maybe!”

I groan. “Pretty sure that doesn’t apply in this scenario.”

“Knock their socks off!”

“Not that either.”

He grins. “Good luck, honey. I’ll be in the waiting room.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, climbing out of the relic that is his 2010 Hyundai Elantra, and head through the sliding glass doors at the entrance.

In no time at all, I’m standing in front of the receptionist’s desk giving a woman named Harriet my information.

She goes through her medical spiel, hands me a stack of forms to sign verifying my insurance information, and then gives me a look that, lack of caffeine or not, demands I dutifully listen to her instructions. I blink three times and steady myself by locking a clamp-like hand on to the counter.

“No cell phones, no headphones, no tablets, no food, no drinks, no loitering, no yelling, no nudity—”

No nudity? During oral surgery? What in the hell happened to make that one end up on the list?

She continues the insane list without even taking a breath. Clearly, she’s run through it hundreds of times. “No unauthorized medications, no drugs, no jewelry, no weapons, and absolutely no gum.”

It’s ironic that on a list with weapons, nudity, and drugs, chewing gum seems to be the biggest offender.

“The only other thing I need is the name and number of the person who will be taking you home from surgery.”

“Bruce Willis,” I answer, and her fingers stop suddenly on the keyboard. She looks above her wire-rimmed glasses and her eyes meet mine, and there is some serious annoyance behind them.

“And Frank Sinatra is coming back from the dead to take me to dinner after work,” she retorts sharply. “Who is picking you up today?”

“I’m actually serious,” I respond quickly, timidly offering a shrug and smile while silently cursing my dad for having the same name as a Hollywood action hero. “My dad’s name is Bruce Willis.”

She furrows her brow. “Your dad’s name is Bruce Willis?”

“It is.”

Harriet stares at me so hard, I actually consider breaking and telling her my dad’s name is something else. But, like…it is Bruce Willis. What am I supposed to do here?!

Sweat dots my brow, and the clock strikes noon and I put my hand to my pistol.

Okay, not really, but it does get really intense for a few seconds, and I start to feel a little steamy under my poorly planned polyester shirt.

But the showdown finally ends with a heavy sigh and a jerk of the chin from my opponent.

I scurry to a seat in the corner where I alternate between pretending to read a magazine and staring uncomfortably at my black Converse until a nurse calls me toward the back. I do not look in Harriet’s direction.

“Mabel Willis, we’re ready for you.”

I nod and set down the Cosmopolitan magazine in my hands on the communal coffee table and follow the blonde’s lead.

She looks to be close to my age, her name tag reads Sara, and her teeth are so white I start to have flashbacks of that Friends episode where Ross gets his teeth bleached.

“Once we get you settled in, the surgery itself shouldn’t take more than an hour.” The nurse smiles, and the room brightens. Literally brightens. The whiteness of her teeth defies logic, and they appear to emit their own light source.

“Well, that’s good news, I guess.”

“Go ahead and take a seat right there,” she says as she points to the dentist chair in the center of the room before heading to the counter and washing her hands at the sink.

The plastic leather of the chair squeaks and groans as I slide my yoga-pants-covered ass into place. Another blond, female nurse steps into the room to assist Sara.

The two women rummage around in the cabinets and drawers surrounding the sink until they’re content with their medical loot, and then move toward me.

For the second time since my arrival to this office, instructions fly at me like dicks in a dildo factory.

“First, we’re going to take your vitals.”

“Then, we’re going to start an IV.”

“We need the IV so we can sedate you for the surgery.”

“Do you have any allergies?” Sara asks, but it takes me too long to answer for her liking. So, she asks again. “Mabel, do you have any allergies?”

Holy hell. “Um…no.”

Her responding smile nearly blinds me. “Fabulous.”

Fabulous? That’s an odd word to come out of a medical professional’s mouth…

Molly, the other nurse, scrubs at my right arm with something that smells like alcohol, and Sara takes my left arm and wraps a blood pressure cuff around it.

Holy crap, they’re coming at me from all angles.

“It’s just going to be a little stick, okay?” she asks, but she gives me zero time to respond.

No countdown. No warning. No time is apparently being wasted today at this medical practice. Taking teeth is our name, and fast is our game.

Without preamble, Molly shoves a sharp needle into my arm, and the pain is so instant, so intense, I damn near levitate off the dentist chair.

“Holy flapjacks!” The words shoot from my mouth, and I have to bite my lip so I don’t start screaming out in pain.

Is she starting my IV with a shiv?

“Sorry about that. I’ll be done in…” I’m expecting her sentence to actually finish with something like in a jiff , but instead, it trails off into nothingness. Panic sets in immediately.

“You’ll be done in…?” Soon? For the love of everything, tell me you’ll be done soon.

“Hmm…” Molly mutters to herself while she fiddles around with the needle that’s still in my arm.

To the left, to the left. To the right, to the right.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to reenact the Electric Slide with a needle dancing around inside my arm. It’s not even that fun of a dance at weddings, but at least then there’s alcohol!

Jiminy Cricket! I yell in my head as Molly rotates the needle again.

“Sara,” Molly whispers, making weird eyes down at me and then back up again. Feeling like a third wheel at my own goddamn surgery date, I decide to just shut my eyes while these bitches do whatever it is they’re doing.

“Yeah?” Sara responds.

“Does this look right?”

“Uh…” Sara pauses. “Yeah, I think so?”

I think so? Holy shit.

“I guess I’ll just hook it up to the fluids to see,” Molly responds, and I feel a small tug and pull on my arm.

“Oh my God,” Sara says a little too loud, and my eyes pop open. “I think you put it in her artery instead of her vein.”

Wait… what?

I glance down at my arm and follow the blood-red path of IV tubing until it reaches the bag of fluids hanging above me.

I know zip about medical shit, but I’ve watched every single episode of Grey’s Anatomy, and I’m pretty sure, unless you’re getting a fucking blood transfusion, IV tubing shouldn’t have blood inside it.

Nor should it be filling the IV fluid bag.

The room turns to chaos in a matter of seconds.

“Shit,” Sara mumbles and quickly yanks the IV out of my arm and holds pressure. The blood-stained IV fluid shoots out of the tubing and onto the floor, and Molly scrambles around for gauze pads and God only knows what else.

Circus music plays inside my head, and blood loss aids in the hallucination of an elephant or two on my chest.

“Sorry about that, Mabel,” Sara says and grabs more IV supplies, which I can only assume will be used on my opposite arm.

Surely, the first arm is momentarily out of blood.

“Sometimes these things happen with IVs, but we’ll get you all set here in a few minutes.”

Freaking Bruce and freaking Groupon. After this, I am done with questionable discounts on retail.

I mean, what’s next? Is a monkey with cymbals going to bounce into the room to remove my tooth?

Fuck, I hope not.

Dear God, it’s me. Maybe. Please get me out of this surgery alive.

“Not going to lie,” I whisper past the nausea that is now creeping its way up my throat. “I’m not feeling so hot right now.”

“Oh dear.” Sara’s eyes go wide when she makes eye contact with me. “You look a little pale.”

I’d say that’s par for the course at this point.

“Just take some deep breaths,” Molly encourages like she knows what she’s doing. She talks a good game compared to her actual skills. “Once we get a fresh IV in you, we’ll give you some medicine to make you feel better.”

My eyes turn to saucers. “You’re going to do another IV?”