Page 67 of The Lies I Told
“Marisa Stockton.” The heavyset nurse was dressed in scrubs. She was in her late forties and wore dark-rimmed glasses.
I set down the magazine, shouldered my purse, and rose. “That’s me.”
The nurse smelled faintly of clean soap and antiseptic. “Follow me.”
I trailed behind her, not daring to glance toward the open exam rooms. When we reached my room, I gratefully ducked inside and sat on the exam table. The nurse took my temperature and blood pressure, then checked my pulse and vision. “Have you been drinking?”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to.”
A brow arched. “Have you?”
“No.”
“Smoking?”
“No.”
“Daily exercise?”
“My work is pretty active. I’ve always counted it as exercise.”
The nurse glanced at my chart. “Photographer.”
“Right.”
“The nurse tells me your vision checked out. Has it been consistently good?”
“None.”
“Sleep?”
“On and off. But that’s always been normal for me.”
“Okay, the doctor will be right in.” The nurse left me alone, and as I shifted to get comfortable, the thin paper topping the exam table crinkled. Seconds later, the door opened.
Dr.Webster was in her early sixties, wore her gray hair short, and never used makeup to brighten her pale skin. She extended her hand. “Marisa.”
I was always surprised by her strong grip. “Dr.Webster.”
“Is your sister Brit here today with you?”
“I’ve graduated to solo trips. Just bought a new car, so I’m mobile.”
“Good to hear that. Step in the right direction.” Dr.Webster glanced at her pad. “Not sleeping well?”
“Like I told the nurse, that’s normal for me.”
“How many hours a night?”
“Three. Maybe four.”
She frowned. “What about dreams?”
“Always.”
“Anything from around the time of the accident?”
“One,” I said. “I’m driving with my foot pressing hard on the accelerator, and I’m confused, having trouble focusing.”
