[Seven]
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The painting hung opposite of the guest chairs. Its cool tones were carefully layered – a virtue of the chosen medium, oil paints – into an abstract texture that likely cost the owner of the practice thousands of dollars just to own. Three thousand dollars, to be precise. Natalie knew this because she had been present when it was purchased, and she had been there when its owner hung it on this very wall. It spoke to her now about as much as it had spoken to her then, not at all. Which is exactly why she'd let her ex keep it in the divorce.
Just as she was about to judge its potential as a Rorschach test, a single tap sounded on the prefabricated wood door. Not even a second later, the door opened to reveal and friendly looking man in his early forties. Little betrayed his age, perhaps a hint of crow's feet in the corner of his eyes and a dusting of gray along his dark hairline, but Natalie knew that he was 42 and would be turning 43 the following month.
"Nat!" he greeted, seemingly pleased to see her.
"Michael," she managed a smile, "long time no see."
Although divorced, the pair of them remained friendly enough to make him her first call when she'd required diagnostic imaging of her spine. The threat of gossip had kept her away from recommendations provided to her by colleagues at the NIH – as she was quite aware that a frightening number of members of the medical community seemed to consider doctor-patient confidentiality void when speaking with one another.
"Wish it weren't under these circumstances," he already had the folder of the physical x-rays, of which he was currently digging through so he could throw up on the light box; she knew her MRI results would be on the computer.
She actually knew what circumstances he would have preferred. Their marriage, defined by three years of pleasant cohabitation, had not been destroyed by an affair or long work hours. It had been destroyed by one of the most fundamental incompatibilities of all. He'd wanted children, and when they began trying, she realized that she didn't. The divorce, while devastating, had not been bitter. She freed him up to meet a lovely woman named Carla, with whom he now had two daughters. The oldest of which, now three, smiled at Natalie during her incredibly scarce visits (because Carla was, if anything, a very old friend from college and a saint) and called her "Aunt Nati."
She'd heard of weirder arrangement, and in the five years since their divorce, had determined that she trusted him with her health, if not her privacy.
"Good news," he said to her, taking a seat on a stool and pointing at the two x-rays, "you didn't fracture anything. Let's not talk about the possibility that the post that hit you could have busted your C2."
Knowing that if that had been the case, she likely would have died beneath the rubble, Natalie decided to agree with him. There was no need to walk that hypothetical path.
"So, tell me what happened again?"
She'd told him over the phone, when she'd explained why she was having the imaging sent to his office, but she was aware the story was interesting. People likely wanted to hear about it, twice even.
"There was an earthquake," she said slowly, "and one of the ceiling support beams hit me on its way down. I was unconscious for several hours before a colleague found me."
Michael had the audacity to laugh, his brown eyes crinkling, "That was the most clinical retelling," but he seemed to sober, "Did you strike anything yourself when you fell?"
It was a lot harder to remember things that happened when you had been slipping into unconsciousness than when you hadn't, but she tried. She remembered the heavy weight of the wood slamming into her back, and perhaps, perhaps the table in front of her initially catching her fall?
"It's possible," she said at last, "I just don't remember."
He sighed, but nodded, "The MRI shows some damage to the soft tissues in your neck. I'm going to go ahead and say this was a moderate case of whiplash, which we both know can present well after the causal trauma. I don't think you'll need to worry about any complications, but I expect you'll be feeling soreness and experiencing headaches for some time. I am going to go ahead recommend light physical therapy, so you don't start restricting your movements…specifically on your right side, where the ligament was strained."
"Yes'sir," she saluted, cracking a smile.
Michael shared it, "Talk to Angie on the way out. She'll refer you to a friend of mine – a physical therapist – he'll get you sorted out in no time."
"That's the best news I've heard."
A moment passed, marked by a hesitation in her ex that Natalie was well aware of. He was about to bring up the subject she never wanted him to bring up. It had, perhaps, been the only point of contention in their marriage – it had led to her refusal to have children – to their inevitable divorce. She braced for impact.
"Have you been tested yet?"
"No," she said firmly.
"Nat," he muttered, disappointed, "You could know. If it's negative, it'll all be over. You can live your life again."
Aware that her jaw was clenching, that she was breathing more heavily through her nostrils, Natalie tried to calm herself. She wasn't angry with him, not really, but the very mention of this made her palms sweat. It made her pulse climb, "And if it's positive, I get to live the next ten to twenty years of my life knowing I'm a ticking time bomb."
The look he gave her was familiar and sad, "But you'd know."
Michael shuffled the files together, the silence stretching between them while he stood to leave, "Don't forget to talk to Angie."
Natalie stared at the painting for another handful of seconds after he left, frowning.