BED RIDDEN

Chapter Three:

Chapter Three:

“Mr. Chase is in need of a caregiver.”

The nursing assistant looked up and gave a little start. The doctor was eyeing her breasts again. She swallowed. “What list should I give him?”

Erin had exceptionally good breasts. Large and nicely shaped.

The doctor looked carefully, assessing the girl, indifferent to her humiliation. Erin brought back a memory of Cloey naked on the operating table. Her pretty t**s were not as large as Erin’s but nicely matched with lofty n*****s as ‘round as a stack of dimes, and also there was that wisp of ash-blond silk between Cloey’s legs. The doctor came to a decision: “Give Mr. Chase the list with my name on it, Erin. And excuse my asking, but just how long has it been since you started working our reception desk?”

“Almost a year, doctor.”

Was that a flash of hope, or hopelessness shining in her eyes? “That long. My– my. Far time we got together, don’t you think? To further discuss your options for working here in the United States.”

The nursing assistant felt the eyes roving across her chest again and a stab or revulsion pricked her stomach. She had already been down on her knees once, at the beginning of her tenure and she had hoped that would be the end of it, but it appeared it was time to renew her contract. She looked down at her hands. “Yes doctor.”

The doctor watched Erin’s breasts shift beneath her blouse as she struggled with her emotions. Not wearing a bra, the doctor thought and wondered how much Erin’s breasts would command in the Far East where the supple swede-like skin of a woman’s breast was held in high regard. Any wealthy China-man would be proud to carry his coins in a purse fashioned from one of Erin’s breasts. Especially if he also had a nude photograph of the girl, taken before she had been forced to donate the organ. “Yes. Far time we got together, Erin.”

“Yes,” Erin repeated.

Nick closed the door to his office and, sitting at his desk, he reviewed the list of caregivers Doctor Evans’ red-headed receptionist had placed in his hand. The list was surprisingly short. Only four women, with phone numbers listed in a second column. He started at the top.

“Mrs. Tory? My name is Nic...” The machine cut him off.

“You have reached Irene Tory. I’m with a patient and can not be reached. If this is an emergency, dial 911. If this is concerning an appointment, be advised, at the present time, I am not accepting new patients. Thank you.”

The phone went dead. Nick looked at it a moment, realizing there hadn’t even been an opportunity to leave a message. It wasn’t a very auspicious start. He dialed the second number.

“Hello,” he said sharply when the woman answered, “my name is Nickolas Chase.” He had always thought his name, Nickolas Chase, commanded a certain authority but everyone just called him Nick and unfortunately, that didn’t carry the same impact.

“Look, if this is about the money owing on the car, I already told you. I’m tapped out.” Nick heard the sound of ice tinkling in a glass. “So go ahead,” she continued to rave, “and repo the sucker if you think it will help you out any. But that means I can’t work and that means you won’t be able to collect on any of the other fuckin’ bills you keep hounding me about. So bugger-off why don’t you. And while you’re at it, stop calling me.”

“Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.” And Nick dropped the phone into the cradle and poured himself a coffee before looking at the final names on the list. Two down, two to go.

The third woman sounded rather nice. Friendly even.

Encouraged, Nick started to explain. “I’m looking for a caregiver, you understand...”

“Well sure,” her voice was melodic, if not a touch breathy, “that’s what I do best. What was it you had in mind?”

“The usual, I guess. Massage, baths and toilet.”

“O-oh, water sports. You don’t sound the type, Nick, but that’s okay. Look, I give a very nice, full body massage for fifty bucks. You want a bath after? Sure, I can do that...”

“No,” Nick stumbled out. “It’s for my wife.”

“Your wife. My, you are kinky. Look sweetie, I don’t usually do women but you sound like a decent sort. Is she a looker at least? A three-way will cost you extra, you know. You got a king-sized bed?” And the woman laughed.

Nick quickly hung up realizing the doctor hadn’t reviewed his list of caregivers in a long time.

One name left. Nick took a breath and punched in the number.

A woman picked up. “Hello?” She sounded rather timid which for Nick, by this time, was a nice change.

“Mrs. Brownridge? Helen?”

“Yes?” she replied cautiously.

Probably thinks I’m selling something, Nick thought. “Helen, my name is Nickolas. My wife was in a horrible auto accident. She’s bed ridden.”

“Oh, the poor dear.” Mrs. Brownridge eased a little, “Paralyses? Quad?”

“From the neck down,” Nick confirmed.

“My-my. And she’s young, isn’t she...”

“Yes. It’s a terrible blow,” Nick said, thinking Mrs. Brownridge was pretty astute and he crossed his fingers. “She needs home care and you were recommended to me.”

“Oh my,” she repeated. “I’ve been retired for close on five years, dear. I don’t do that kind of work anymore.”

Nick felt his heart slip south. “I pay well,” he heard the desperation in his own voice, “and you sound perfect for Cloey. That’s my wife’s name– Cloey.”

“It’s not about the money. It’s the arthritis. Rheumatoid arthritis. My hands are crippled. I’m afraid I’d be of no use to your wife. I am sorry, Nickolas.”

“Please no– you were my last hope, Helen.”

“It’s difficult, I know, finding anyone, let alone someone who you can invite into your home and trust with a loved one. Someone who will become an integral part of your life. A member of your family, as it were. But I am sorry, Nickolas, that I am unable to help you.”

“Thank you, Helen. I appreciate that, really I do, but I am all out of options, here. Is there anyone you can possibly recommend to me?”

There was a pause.

The woman was thinking and Nick uncrossed and recrossed his fingers.

“I might have someone for you,” the woman finally spoke up. “Her name is Inga Ingersol. She’s at the University.”

Nick’s spirit lifted. “A nursing student?”

Helen chuckled sweetly. “No– no. More like a teacher’s aide. She is a qualified nurse, you understand, from the old country. And Inga is working at the University to get her certification here in the States. But in the meantime, she helps out, with the students. And I know she could use some extra money. You are interested?”

“Very,” Nick confirmed.

“Then I suggest the three of us meet in a public place.”

Nick felt he was making a date with the massage lady. “A public place?”

“Yes, Nickolas. One can’t be too careful in this day and age.”

“Of course,” Nick quickly agreed, “I understand perfectly. Name a time and place.”

“You know The Terrace Café?”

“Near the Medical Arts Building? Yes. Been several times.”

“Good. Tomorrow at one. We’ll have ourselves a nice lunch and a cup of tea.”

Cloey’s hospital bed arrived the following morning. The men off-loaded from the truck and Nick had them set the bed up in front of the picture window where Cloey would get an unobstructed view of the world outside. She would be able to watch her favorite birds bouncing in the bushes, the pesky squirrel that boldly came to their door to beg a peanut and the children racing up and down the street on their bikes and skateboards.

After the men had gone Nick made up the bed with crisp white sheets. He had seen enough hospital corners, folded and tucked, in the past twelve weeks to know what it was about. Then he sat down with Peaches and explained the situation as it had been explained to him by Doctor Evans. “Mommy is coming home,” he told the inquisitive puppy. “And it will be up to us to make her well again.” Peaches c****d her head and seemed to frown. “I need you to do your part. Understand? Lots of love and affection.” The puppy thumped a tail against his thigh, yawned, then jumped down to sniff at the shiny new contrivance that had suddenly appeared unannounced in the front room.

Nick checked his watch.

The Terrace Café held no surprises. It was snuggled into a jungley rooftop garden located in the Union Street Station shopping district. Nick arrived ten minutes early and tipped the maître d’ twenty bucks for a table on the second tier where there was a better view of the pedestrian mall. He debated ordering a beer to enjoy as he waited but remembered Mrs. Brownridge sounding very specific when she mentioned her beverage of choice and Nick wondered if Helen Brownridge might not approve of him drinking alcohol so, thinking better of it, he hedged his bets and sipped sparkling water while glancing over the luncheon menu.

There was a perceptible shift in the room when the big blonde stepped from the elevator. Nick looked up and it was like she had sucked all of the air outta his lungs. Nick was taking a longer, second look, when he noticed the older woman step up to the maître d’ station and quiz the man. The blonde stood idly by, drumming trim buffed nails on the counter top.

A goofy smile spread across his face when the maître d’ nodded in his direction.

Of all the damned luck!

Watching Mrs. Brownridge leading Inga across the room was like watching a rusty tow-truck pulling a white Corvette convertible and Nick did the typical guy thing– he mentally compared Inga’s body to his wife’s. Inga was everything Cloey wasn’t:

The blonde was tall and muscular and Nick immediately thought of winter sports. Her China-girl bangs were cut blunt across dark eyebrows; the rest of her hair was pulled back in a loose plat that switched like a cat’s tail just above her waistline; swinging lazily as she strode toward his table. But it was her chest that held his attention. Unlike Cloey’s conical mounds, Inga’s breasts were heavy, pear-shaped, and moved indiscriminately beneath her blouse. She had Nick preening, checking the hair about his ears, until feeling chagrin, he realized every guy in the bloody restaurant was doing the exact same thing. He had already claimed proprietary rights on the woman and was feeling defensive when he stood to greet his guests.