Bad Doctor

26

Older people know exactly where they were and what they were doing the moment they heard President Kennedy was shot. Younger ones remember the terrorist attacks of 9/11. And everyone remembers their first love.

I’m in the cafeteria, eating a cup of vanilla pudding, when the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen walks over to my table, sits down, and extends her hand.

“Hello, Dr. Box,” she says in a voice I’m certain will haunt me the rest of my life.

I take her hand, and a current of energy flows through my body.

“You’re my new assistant?” I ask.

“One of them,” she says.

“Your name?”

“Rose.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rose.”

“Thank you, Dr. Box.”

“Have the gods seen fit to give you a last name?”

“Stout.”

“Rose Stout?”

She nods.

“A misnomer if ever I heard one,” I say. “What’s that you’re holding?”

“Birch bark tea,” she says.

“Is it good?”

“It’s ghastly.”

I laugh. “Then why drink it?”

“It’s not for me, it’s for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, “but I’m not a tea drinker.”

She places the cup on the table in front of me. “Drink this now, while I watch. I’ll brew you some more every four hours. By morning you’ll feel like a new man.”

“Are you serious?” I say.

“Quite.”

“Three things,” I say. “First, I don’t believe in homeopathic remedies. Second, it concerns me greatly that a nurse I’m relying on does believe in something the entire scientific community has disproved time and again. And third, you won’t be brewing tea for me every four hours because I’m heading home soon and you have no idea where I live.”

She pats my hand, stands, and takes the empty cup away.

“See you soon, Dr. Box,” she says.

Empty cup?