Free The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus by Sonya Sones

them
    and give in
    to this urge…
    this wicked urge
    to press my lips to his
    and devour them
    like a prisoner devouring
    her last meal…

BUT THEN
    I think of Michael…
    of his paint-speckled cheeks…
    and I force myself
    to push Griffin away.
    â€œPlease…” I say.
    â€œDon’t.”
    But Griffin
    doesn’t seem to have heard me.
    He reaches for me
    again.
    â€œStop!” I say.
    But Griffin doesn’t stop.
    He places his hands
    back on my shoulders…
    and then…
    then…

THE LIGHTS FLICKER BACK ON!
    And the elevator
    lurches to life—
    carrying us safely up
    to the fifth floor.
    When the doors slide open,
    I burst through them with my honor,
    my self-respect, and my marriage
    miraculously intact.
    An instant later, I whirl around,
    and Griffin’s right behind me.
    I stare into his deep brown eyes,
    flash him my sultriest smile, and ask,
    â€œWhat did the woman say to the doctor
    after he tried to take advantage of her
    while they were trapped together
    in an elevator?”
    â€œI don’t know…” he says coyly.
    â€œWhat did she say?”
    I lean in, letting my lips graze his earlobe,
    and whisper, “You’re…fired!”
    I take a quick step back,
    so I can see his jaw drop.
    Then I dash down the hall,
    yank open the stairwell door,
    and chuckle
    my way
    down all
    five flights.

THE REALLY GOOD NEWS:
    It turns out that when you
    casually mention sexual harassment
    to the powers that be in a hospital
    it’s shockingly simple
    to get your mother transferred
    to another wing.
    Before the end of the day,
    she’s been installed
    in a freshly renovated private room
    replete with sheer curtains, a flat screen TV,
    and wallpaper so flowery
    it could give you hay fever.
    Now that she has no roommate
    chanting “help me, God,”
    my mother seems calmer.
    Though she also seems bewildered.
    â€œThis hotel is trés chic ,” she says,
    â€œbut why are all the maids dressed like nurses?”

BEFORE I CAN ANSWER HER QUESTION
    My mother’s new attending physician,
    Dr. Gold, taps on the door,
    then steps into the room to introduce himself.
    We have to spend a few minutes
    convincing my mother that he’s not
    the hotel’s general manager.
    But once that’s accomplished,
    she stops tearing at the hem
    of her hospital gown,
    and Dr. Gold starts asking her questions:
    â€œHow many children do you have, Myra?”
    â€œAnd how many grandchildren?”
    She warms right up to him, telling him
    about me and about Sam and about how much
    she treasures her Thanksgiving visits with us.
    I warm right up to him, too—
    he’s at least seventy years old,
    short, round, bald:
    perfect.

DR. GOLD INVITES ME TO HIS OFFICE TO TALK
    And it’s such a relief
    to not even have to worry for a split second
    about what he really means
    by “talk.”
    He offers me
    a cup of peppermint tea.
    And I offer him
    one of Samantha’s brownies.
    When he takes the first bite,
    his whole being lights up.
    â€œWow…” he says. “If these don’t get
    your mother eating again, nothing will.”
    â€œActually,” I say, “I offered her one yesterday,
    but she said…she said she wasn’t hungry.”
    And suddenly I feel so overwhelmed
    that I begin sobbing.
    Dr. Gold hands me a box of tissues.
    And a moment later, when I glance over at him,
    I see that he’s wiping away a tear of his own.
    This man isn’t just a doctor—he’s a saint.

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS DR. GOLD
    On Sunday morning, I’m trying
    to coax my mother into eating a brownie,
    when Dr. Gold arrives to examine her.
    She regards him warily,
    tugging hard
    on a strand of her hair.
    He asks her to close her eyes
    and touch her right forefinger to her nose.
    Then, to do the same with her left forefinger.
    â€œDo you know why I’m asking you to do this?” he says.
    And when my mother shakes her