What was Karla thinking?
This scene is from chapter two of Murder, It Seams. In this scene, Megan is picking up her frenemy, Karla, from the hospital after Karla’s unfortunate collision with a medicine ball.
Fun fact: Karla’s head injury is based on an actual head injury I suffered. Instead of a medicine ball, I was struck by a rogue volleyball that was spiked into the air by a super-strong sixteen year old boy.
First we have the scene as written in the book from Megan’s point of view. Then, we have the re-written scene from Karla’s point of view.
Megan’s point of view:
“Down the hall, past the nurses’ station, fourth curtain on the right.”
“Thank you,” I say to the auxiliary volunteer at the information desk.
As I approach the nurses’ station, there’s no need to count the curtains because Karla’s throaty laugh, like a beacon, guides me to her cubicle.
“Knock, knock,” I say to announce my presence.
“Hello!” The doctor sweeps aside the light blue curtain and smiles. “Are you here for Ms. Bell?”
“Yes,” I reply to the doctor while peering around him at Karla. “How is the patient doing?”
Karla sits upright on the hospital bed with her sculpted legs stretched in front of her, ankles crossed, feet tapping against each other non-stop. There isn’t a hair out of place on her chic blonde bob. Her hair is longer now. It used to be a sharp, angular line along her jaw, but today it dusts her shoulders. Her designer, black tank top and leggings coordinate with her black, brand-name athletic shoes. A teal bolero shrug covers her arms and ties in a loose knot under her chest. Even with a head injury, Karla looks perfect. She grins at me and waves. Then, behind the doctor’s back, she looks at him, widens her eyes, then looks at me, panting and fanning her face with her hand.
I narrow my gaze at her, and give my head a slight shake, disappointed but not shocked at her objectifying the handsome young doctor.
“… and you’ll stay with Ms. Bell overnight?”
The doctor’s question distracts me from Karla’s silent shenanigans. I missed whatever he said before he asked me about Karla’s overnight plans.
“No,” I reply, “someone else will stay with her. I’m here to drive her home.”
He hands me a faded photocopy titled Adult Head Injury Protocol and uses his pen to highlight the main points. Just when I think we’re done, the doctor flips the page, revealing an equally faded list of symptoms and side effects that, should they occur, warrant a return trip to the emergency room or a call to the paramedics.
“I think I’ve got it,” I say when the doctor asks if I have questions about his instructions.
“If you have questions,”––he circles a number at the bottom of the page–“phone this number twenty-four-seven.”
“Thank you.” I smile.
The doctor gives Karla some parting words of encouragement, reminds me she can have another dose of acetaminophen in four hours, and warns us she should avoid ibuprofen until tomorrow. He wishes me luck, instructs Karla to take her time standing, then sweeps out of the small cubicle with his white coat billowing behind him.
“Where’s Rita?” Karla asks.
“She couldn’t drive, and she didn’t want to leave Gucci,” I explain.
“Brownies?”
“One-and-a-half.”
We nod.
So far, so good. Karla is less abrasive than usual. Maybe the medicine ball broke the part of her brain that makes her say mean things.
“Well, thank you for coming to get me.”
Did Karla just thank me? Am I on one of those shows that prank people and records their reaction?
“No problem,” I say. “I was picking up a yarn order from Rita when you called.”
She looks me up and down as she stands and rubs the back of her neck.
“Well, I appreciate you dropping everything to rush over here without stopping to worry about how you look.”
There she is! The Karla Bell I know and don’t love is back! Her head will be fine.
I look down at my black, loose, off-the-shoulder, jersey-knit dress and rose gold sandals.
“I look fine,” I defend, petting my long brown curls and tucking a few stray coils behind my ear.
“Of course you do,” Karla says, tilting her head with a pitiful smile.
On the way to the lobby, Karla tells me about her collision with the medicine ball. She says it knocked her off her feet, but didn’t render her unconscious, though she admits it left her dazed for a while afterward. She says the gym manager insisted on driving her to the emergency room and she was unable to argue in her stunned state. Her wits returned as the triage nurse strapped a blood pressure cuff to her arm and Karla insisted to the gym manager that she would be fine and he should leave.
Ahead of us, an elderly patient gripping his IV pole with one hand and holding his hospital gown closed with the other tries to press the elevator button. Karla jogs ahead, presses the button for him, then smiling, waits for the elevator to arrive. She blocks the sensor to stop the door from closing as he shuffles across the threshold. Next, she asks him what floor he wants, and presses the button for him.
Do head injuries cause random acts of kindness? Is this a one-off, or have I misjudged Karla Bell’s capacity for kindness?
“How is your head now?” I ask when we resume walking.
“The pain meds helped,” she replies. “But I’m glad I have my sunglasses. The world is too bright right now.”
I use my keychain to unlock the car.
“Congratulations,” Karla says as she reaches for the door handle. “I heard you and Detective Hottie got married.”
“Thanks,” I reply, rolling my eyes behind my dark lenses when she refers to Eric by the crude nickname she gave him when he investigated her best friend’s murder.
“Rita showed me some photos from your wedding,” Karla continues, opening the door. “You were a beautiful bride.” She smiles. “I hardly recognized you.”
Karla drops into the passenger seat and closes the door.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, bracing myself for what I expect will be the longest fifteen-minute car ride of my life.
“I hear you’re moving in a few weeks,” I say, steering us out of the hospital parking lot.
“That’s right,” Karla confirms. “Will you miss me?” She grins.
“As much as possible,” I reply, also grinning.
Karla’s point of view:
“Knock, knock.” The familiar and unexpected voice interrupts us mid laugh.
I’d know the so-chipper-it’s-annoying voice behind that knock, knock anywhere. Megan Martel. Scratch that. She’s Megan Sloane now. Or, so I’m told. I wouldn’t know first hand since she didn’t invite me to the wedding.
“Hello!” The doctor sweeps aside the light blue curtain and smiles. “Are you here for Ms. Bell?”
“Yes,” Megan replies, peering around the doctor and giving me a not-so-subtle head-to-toe scan. “How is the patient?”
While Megan and the doctor talk about me like I’m not here, I listen to their conversation and wonder why Rita didn’t pick me up. Why did she send Megan?
My sneaker-clad feet tap against each other, keeping a fast rhythm. I’m sitting upright on the hospital bed with my legs stretched in front of me, ankles crossed.
For a brief moment, I worry how I look smoothing my blonde bob into place and straightening the bolero sweater that covers my black tank top. I wouldn’t want Megan to tell people I’m a mess, or disheveled, or something.
Geez, Karla! Stop worrying about your hair. You just sustained a head injury for Pete’s sake. No one cares if your hair is mussed or if your mascara is running. Gasp! Is my mascara running? I run my thumb under each eye, just in case.
While the doctor drones on about head injury protocol, Megan scans me from head to toe again. Then she grins at me and waves.
While Megan is still staring at me, I glare at the gorgeous doctor behind his back. I widen my eyes, then look at Megan, panting and fanning my face with my hand.
I laugh to myself when Megan rolls her eyes and shakes her head. As if she didn’t notice that he’s drop-dead gorgeous. I bet she wishes she’d worn pearls today. They would’ve given her something to clutch in the throes of righteous indignation.
She’s still shaking her head at me when she returns her attention to the doctor’s instructions.
“… and you’ll stay with Ms. Bell overnight?”
The doctor’s question catches us both off guard and puts an end to our wordless antics.
No way. I’m not spending the night at Megan’s house. And there’s no way she can stay with me. My house is a disaster. Three quarters of it is packed and the remaining quarter is a disorganized mess.
“No,” Megan replies, thank goodness. “Someone else will stay with her. I’m just driving her home.”
He hands her a faded photocopy of Adult Head Injury Protocol and explains it.
Just when I think we’re done, and I’m about to free myself from this lumpy hospital mattress, the doctor flips the page and launches into a long winded, detailed, description of symptoms and side effects that, should they occur, warrant a return trip to the emergency room or a call to the paramedics.
“I think I’ve got it,” Megan says when the doctor asks if she has questions about his instructions.
“If you have questions,”––he circles a number at the bottom of the page–“phone this number twenty-four-seven.”
“Thank you.” she smiles.
The doctor gives me some final words of encouragement, reminds Megan that I can have another dose of acetaminophen in four hours, and warns me to avoid ibuprofen until tomorrow. He wishes Megan good luck,––which I find odd, since I’m the one with the head injury––instructs me to take my time standing and walking to the car, then sweeps out of the small cubicle like a superhero with his white cape billowing behind him.
“Where’s Rita?” I ask.
“She couldn’t drive, and she didn’t want to leave Gucci,” Megan explains.
“Brownies?”
“One-and-a-half.”
We nod.
So far, so good. She’s keeping her perpetual optimism and aggressive friendliness to a minimum. Maybe it's because of my head injury. Maybe I needed a bump on the noggin to tolerate the Pollyannas of the world.
“Well, thank you for coming to get me.”
“No problem,” Megan says. “I was picking up a yarn order from Rita when you called.”
I look her up and down as I stand and rub the ache in the back of my neck.
“Well, I appreciate you dropping everything to rush over here without stopping to worry about how you look.”
Gah! Why do I do this? Why do I intend to say something complimentary, then phrase it like an insult? What is wrong with me? Where was I when the universe handed out social skills?
Confused or possibly hurt by my remark, Megan looks down at her black, loose, off-the-shoulder, jersey-knit dress and rose gold sandals.
“I look fine,” she challenges, patting her long brown curls and tucking the strays behind her ear.
“Of course you do,” I say, tilting my head with a smile that I hope says, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m awkward.
On the way to the lobby, I tell Megan about my collision with the medicine ball. I tell her how it knocked me off my feet, but didn’t render me unconscious. It did, however, leave me dazed and confused for a while afterward. I explain how the gym manager insisted on driving me to the emergency room under threat of calling an ambulance if I refused. Too stunned to argue, I agreed. I explain how my wits returned when the triage nurse strapped the blood pressure cuff to my arm. I told the gym manager that I was fine and he could leave. I promised not to sue him or the gym because of the accident.
Ahead of us, an elderly patient gripping his IV pole with one hand and holding his hospital gown closed with the other tries to press the elevator button. I jog ahead and press it for him. Then, smiling, we wait together until it arrives. I extend my arm to block the sensor so the elevator door won’t close on him as he shuffles across the threshold. Next, I ask him what floor he wants, and press the button for him.
I hate to see elderly people struggle by themselves. Honestly, they deserve better. Our society doesn’t give seniors the honour and respect they deserve. If my grandmother ever struggles with an IV pole and an elevator, I hope someone decent steps forward to help her.
“How is your head now?” Megan asks when we resume walking.
“The pain meds helped,” I reply. “But I’m glad I have my sunglasses. The world is too bright right now.”
She presses her keychain, and a nearby vehicle chirps in response.
“Congratulations,” I say, reaching for the door handle. “I heard you and Detective Hottie got married.”
“Thanks,” Megan replies flatly.
Maybe I shouldn’t have called him Detective Hottie. I thought it would be a cute reminder of the first time we met. I think it backfired. Maybe I should have called him Eric or Chief Sloane instead.
“Rita showed me some photos from your wedding,” I continue, opening the car door. “You were a beautiful bride.” I smile. “I hardly recognized you.”
Fudge! That sounds completely different out loud than in my head.
I drop into the passenger seat and close the door.
Gripping the door handle, Megan lifts her face to the sky and takes a deep breath before getting into the car.
“I hear you’re moving in a few weeks,” she says, steering us out of the hospital parking lot.
“That’s right,” I confirm. “Will you miss me?” I grin.
“As much as possible,” she replies, also grinning.
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