Separate
Meeting Robert Romano was a complete and utter accident, in every sense of the word. It was the kind of evening that made Melora wish she lived in the mountains, far from cars and honking horns, far from people with cell phones glued to the sides of their heads, and very far from smog and the foul stenches wafting up from sewage grills in the sidewalk. She was lugging her cello across the busy, four-lane thoroughfare towards the bus stop, which was always fun, but even more so in the icy rain, which froze upon the wet ground. The coat she wore was insufficient, and she scolded herself for not wearing the thicker wool one. Her knit cap was only getting wet from the ice-cold rain; she hadn't brought an umbrella because it wasn't raining when she left home earlier that day and it was next to impossible to haul a cello and hold an umbrella at the same time, not to mention her oversized purse. Her old VW Bug was in the shop (again!), and the cello seemed to weigh a ton in its case. She had just managed to get off of one bus, hopefully in time to catch her other bus across the street.
As she hopped – or stumbled – off the bus, she could see the other bus she needed coming down the street towards her. She might be able to catch it, but she wouldn't have time to go down to the crosswalk; she'd just have to cross where she was. There was no traffic coming from either direction, so, holding the cello case in front of her, she cut between two cars; one was a Jaguar, and she sniffed at it disdainfully.
That is, until she smacked right into its owner as he was crossing around the front of it. He'd been looking down at his keys before Melora hopped off the sidewalk, brandishing her case like a shield. Unfortunately, it didn't act as one. It felt more like she'd run straight into a brick wall, and she fell backwards, first trying to step back onto the slippery, frozen asphalt to gain her footing. Her attempt was useless; it merely caused her to turn and fall on her side, twisting her ankle as she fell onto the curb, cello case crashing down on top of her.
"Christ almighty!" Robert Romano exclaimed as Melora tried to twist around and see just exactly where she was laying, and praying there was nothing extraordinarily awful under her. He lifted the cello off of her, and she sat up quickly, reaching for it. She didn't even look at him as he set leaned the case against the side of his car. Who was this clumsy little woman, he thought, and why the hell was she running around so dangerously with that cello case? "I see you carry around your own sarcophagus," he remarked. "Which is wise, because you're bound to kill yourself running blindly with it in front of you."
"My cello! Be careful!" Melora saw the bus she was trying to catch as it pulled away from the stop across the street, curious faces peering out at her as it rumbled past. She didn't know what she felt more: pain, frustration at missing the bus, or relief at not having to face those strangers after taking such a ridiculous pratfall. She looked up at Romano sarcastically. "Great. Thanks a lot. Thank you very much," she grumbled. "Now I'm going to miss early practice."
She eyed her assailant carefully. He looked to be a little taller than her, which wasn't saying much, since she was only 5'5". He looked like he was in his late thirties or early forties, and his face was very stern, with small eyes set back under his brow. He wore a dark hat – it wasn't quite a fedora or a bowler, but fell somewhere in between the two. His thick black overcoat came to about mid-calf, which was basically where Melora sat, silently judging him for making her miss her bus. His suit made her think that she had been knocked down by that evil of all evils, a businessman, the Exact Thing That Was Wrong With The World And This City In Particular. Probably a damn stockbroker or something. I wonder where the cell phone is. Or the briefcase. "Is this what you do for fun?"
"Yes," he replied, completely deadpan and serious. "I go out in search of soaking wet women running around with oversized musical instruments so I can wait for that one perfect moment and knock her down. It's a strange hobby, I know, but it's more exciting than golf." He made sure her cello was resting securely out of harm's way before turning back to her, angry at her clumsiness and nerve at blaming him for her own fall. He reached down. "Are you all right?"
"Sorry," Melora replied glumly, trying to sit up as he gave her a hand. She felt a sharp pain shoot up from her ankle as she sat back onto the sidewalk, and cried out.
"What? What hurts?" he asked quickly, his furrowed brow the only sign of concern visible on his face as he opened his umbrella and held it over them both.
She squinted back up at him through the rain as she bent forward and grasped her ankle, suddenly realizing her right side ached as well. "Just about everything," she breathed. "Mostly my ankle."
He looked down at her speculatively, hands on hips. "Probably twisted it a bit going down," he said as he lowered himself in front of her, reaching for her ankle.
Melora pushed his hand away. "Thanks, but I think I'll be-"
Women, he thought. Stubborn and stupid all at once, most of them. He looked at her and spoke as if to a misbehaving child. "I'm a doctor, now let's have a look." She still looked at him suspiciously, and he let out a tired sigh as he rolled his eyes and pulled a laminated card with a clip on it from his pocket and thrust it towards her. "There's my hospital ID. Satisfied?"
Melora studied it for a moment; it was from Cook County General Hospital. Well, it was his picture, all right. The stern, unsmiling face that looked out from the photo had a head of very short, reddish receding hair. She glanced at the name before handing it back to him. Dr. Robert Romano, Chief of Surgery, Chief of Staff. Seemed qualified, at least. "Well, Dr. Romano, go ahead. Knock your socks off." She removed her hands and he took a look at her booted ankle, turning it slowly to straighten it with his gloved hands. The pain sharpened even more and she let out another yell. "Ow! Be careful!" she admonished. "Um, please," she added, politely this time.
"Sorry," Romano said unconvincingly, still studying it and moving it from one side to the other. "Probably a sprain. I can't see too well through this rain, not to mention this boot. You may have torn a ligament." He stood up again, looking at his watch irritably. "Oh well, hop on in. Or hobble. Whatever. We'll have a look at it at the hospital." Another fabulous evening spent going back to that damn hospital, he thought. And to the ER, to boot. No pun intended. He pointed his key chain towards the Jaguar and pushed a button, causing the car to let out a loud chirp and clunk as the alarm was disarmed and the doors were unlocked.
She looked uncertainly towards the car. "I don't know. I have this weird thing about jumping into strange men's cars."
He shook his head impatiently. "Look, this isn't any fun for me, either. I'm going to miss the dinner and lecture downtown now, and all because I wanted to pick up a newspaper, for God's sake. Much as I'd like to just leave you here to make smart remarks to yourself, I took some stupid oath fifteen years ago and I can't do that. So if you want a free trip to the hospital and exam, I'll give it to you." Romano studied at Melora as she thought it over, realizing how that might have sounded and adding, "I'll get a nurse or an intern to help you out when we get there. Come on," he added, softening his tone and holding a hand down to her to help her stand. "This rain is freezing, and you're thoroughly soaked."
Looking up at him again, freezing and pathetic there on the sidewalk, Melora felt inexplicably embarrassed by the whole situation. It seemed highly unlikely that the Chief of Staff (and Surgery!) of a hospital would intentionally try to smooth-talk girls into his car and strangle them, and he looked too put-out to be a serious threat. She reluctantly reached her hand up towards him and stood, not putting any weight on her ankle as he helped her up and towards the car. "Okay," she agreed, nodding. "Thank you." Glancing at his car, she wondered aloud, "God, will my cello fit in that thing?"
"That thing, as you call it, can seat my dog pretty comfortably in the back, and she's no poodle. So I think it will. Hang on." Romano opened the passenger side door as Melora leaned against the hood of the car and rearranged things in the back seat to make room for the case, which he struggled with as he wedged it in the back seat. "God, do you have a body in there?" he asked as he backed out, tossing some newspapers on the passenger seat.
"Not yet," she mumbled, looking angrily at the newspapers, which were obviously meant to keep her from getting the seat wet. "It's a good thing this coat is black already."
"It's leather, what do you want me to do?" He helped her sit down and shut the door after her.
Romano got in and, looking a little guilty, reached into the back and presented her with a blanket. "You're look like you're freezing," he conceded, less annoyed and softening for a moment as he started the car. But just for a moment. "I don't need you catching pneumonia on top of everything else."
"Thanks," Melora replied grudgingly, in the manner of a teenager who is still mad at a friend but somewhat willing to call a truce. She slid her arms out of her coat sleeves, and wrapped the soft blanket around her, shivering as she realized how cold she was. The car was still warm inside from the heater, and the warmth seemed to bring out the knowledge that she was chilled to the bone. They pulled out into traffic. "Well, if I had to get knocked down, at least it was by a doctor," she said, offering a small, thin smile as a peace offering.
Romano acknowledged, "This must be your lucky day, Ms. … well, who are you, anyway?"
She pulled the blanket tightly around her, her long hair slipping from the pins she had used to pile it on top of her head. "Melora Weir. Glad to make your acquaintance," she said smartly, though smiling to let him know she was only kidding.
"Likewise, Ms. Weir," he replied, raising his eyebrows at her joke. "I'd say it was nice running into you, but that would be pretty awful." At least she was becoming civil. And now that she wasn't yelling at him, he could see that she was quite pretty for someone who'd just taken a spill on a soaking evening.
"I agree with you there." She started removing her hairpins, letting down her long platinum hair; it felt to her as if she had a bird's nest on her head at this point. "My mother tells me it's rude to brush your hair in public, but I think it's understandable at the moment, if you don't mind." She directed the heater vents in her direction, becoming more and more aware of how soaked she was. No wonder this guy offered to take me to the hospital, she thought to herself. He probably thinks I escaped from the Psych Ward.
"Be my guest. There's a mirror there on the other side of the sun visor. It'll light up once you open it."
Melora took her brush from her purse and brushed out her long tangled hair, water dripping onto her lap as it ran down the limp curls at its ends. She offered, "I'm sorry you're missing your dinner thing."
"It's not that important, really," he shrugged. He thought of how dull it would have been, and all the idiotic small talk he would have had to make. "I should be thanking you. It was one of those appearance things, you know. Some of the supervisors from the county are going, and some other surgeons I'd like to stay on good terms with." He glanced at her as she brushed her hair out; she actually was very striking…when not actually striking anything. "It's no great loss. I just hate going back to the hospital at night, especially the ER. Something inevitably comes up and they try to sucker me into working. Eleven hours is enough for one day." He thought of Kerry Weaver briefly. She would probably come hobbling after him with that cane of hers, exclaiming about how busy things were and that she was about to page him anyway, since the other doctors upstairs were busy. The same old song and dance.
"Eleven hours! Hmm. I guess that's why I never went into medicine." Melora took her brush from her purse and brushed out her tangled hair, water dripping onto her lap as it ran down the limp curls at its ends. She saw him looking at her hair in a puzzled way at a stop light. "Go ahead," she told him, knowing what he was thinking in advance. "Ask."
"Well, since you mention it, why are you running around in what appears to be Victorian undergarments?" he glanced at her outfit, peeking out from beneath her long but ineffective coat. Melora wore black and white striped tights underneath her white bloomers and black translucent petticoat, along with Victorian-style black ankle boots. A long white wispy buttoned shirt – also Victorian-looking - was worn partly open over a cream brocade corset, with ribbon-like straps reaching over her shoulders to the back, where laces criss-crossed and tied it together. "Have you escaped from an Edward Gorey drawing?" If it wasn't a costume, perhaps he'd be better off sending her straight up to Psych. He had no problem looking at this petite blond women in soaking clothes, but he couldn't imagine it was at all comfortable for her.
She smiled at his deadpan delivery, this time with actual surprise. "I wish! I love Gorey. As for the outfit – no, I don't normally dress quite to this extreme just to go to the market. My band is performing tonight and this – well, this is what we wear." Melora looked down more critically now. "Actually, it's not too far off from my everyday outfits. I guess I should have worn something warmer and just changed there." She sighed sadly. "It's all ruined now. The corset had better dry out okay, or that'll be $400 down the drain." She looked back up at him as he drove, eyes glued to the road. "I'll have to go home and get a new outfit before I head out there." She looked at her watch again. "I think I'll have time."
"A band?" Not looking away from the road, he gestured towards the cello. "What sort of music?"
"I would have to say it's a little of everything. Two cellos and a violin. Oh, and we have a drummer, too. I guess you'd say we're classically alternative. We're trying to get the term 'historical cello rock' to catch on, but ..." Melora smiled and shook her head. "Everyone wants a category."
Historical cello rock? None of those words went together, as far as he knew. This intrigued him, though. "And what is the name of this band?" He'd never heard of a band with classical instruments, except for those that used them as occasional back-up.
"Metronome." She made a tick-tock motion with her finger, indicating the instrument for keeping time.
"Sounds . . . interesting, Ms. Weir." He reminded himself to pick a more conventional woman to knock down next time. Then again, conventional tended to be tedious and boring, like almost every other woman he'd come across. Well, at least she was easy on the eyes and had a quick wit. The view from here is just fine.
He looked away quickly as she turned to him. "Seeing as how I almost fatally wounded you with my cello, you may call me Melora."
Romano shook his head. "Not if I'm going to examine that ankle. Call me whatever you want later, but it's Dr. Romano and Ms. Weir until then." The last thing he needed was some sort of ethical dilemma.
Melora shrugged, not really understanding what names had to do with it. "You're the expert." She looked out at the rain coming down and shivered despite the heater. "You don't suppose the hospital has a dryer handy, do you?"
Now she wanted to her laundry, he thought, shaking his head. "None corset-friendly, I'm afraid. We could loan you some scrubs. What the hell, keep 'em." He pulled into the hospital parking garage, opening the gate with a card-key and proceeding to his designated space.
"Don't try to get out alone, I'll be there in a second." Romano obligingly got out of the car and helped her out. "Try to remember about the whole ankle thing. You're not here for the nickel tour."
Melora replied wearily, "I'll try and remember." She accepted his assistance, taking his arm as they walked along to avoid putting much weight on her ankle as they followed signs towards the ER.
To be continued…