Mortis

15.

15.

John hadn't even fully regained consciousness when a tired Doctor Vega approached us just outside the recovery room. It had been about two hours since he got out surgery and he was no longer adorned in green scrubs. His face appeared neutral, stone-like. He scratched at his bald and shiny head with a trembling hand.

"Vivianne, may I speak with you in private?" Doctor Vega asked with a hint of reluctance in his tone. He nodded towards Julie and she smiled in return. His left eye twitched ever so slightly, sending his statuette façade to crumble. His knuckles were white as he clutched what I believed to be John's medical charts.

This did not smell right.

Vivianne was oblivious, she got up with a smile, bid Julie and I a polite "excuse me," and walked away with Doctor Vega.

Julie placed her hand on my leg and squeezed gently. I could hear her release a sigh.

"That didn't seem like good news to me," I whispered.

"Why are you so smart and observant?"

"I'm going to assume I got it from my lovely aunt. Let's face it, Astrid is talented, but not very observant. And, Mr. Marshall? Well, not much is known of the sperm donor."

Julie chuckled. It was a dark chuckle. "Someone's become a little bit of a cynic."

"Blame this place. It's done nothing but chip away at my little life since I walked through the doors. I'm also sleep deprived." I could feel my own left eye twitch with exhaustion. My jaw was clenched tightly and my mouth was dry.

Julie sighed again and squeezed my leg again, "Everything is going to be okay. I'm sure it can't all be bad news. They just removed a tumor for God sakes. Besides, let's look on the bright side, at least John's father is gone."

"Amen. I just never really thought he was a real person, you know?"

Julie chuckled. It was a sarcastic sound from thin lips. "Is that right?"

"You know what I mean. I always thought he was like my dad. Like sure the guy is real, but in my mind, he doesn't really exist. I have no memories with him. If I were in John's place, I don't even think he'd ever know. He was just someone who had sex with Astrid and ran off when things got ugly. I don't even know what he looks like."

"I think I understand what you mean now," Julie's tone was short. Her arms were crossed over her mid-section tightly. She was uncomfortable. Julie hardly ever crossed her arms over her mid-section.

I remember something I had heard on a TV show once. A behavior analyst and corporate executive were discussing the threads of their romantic affair and how it was affecting their work environment. I remember the way the female executive (who reminded me a lot of Julie) became visibly uncomfortable and crossed her arms over her mid-section. In that instant, she wasn't the bold and precocious woman who ran an empire. In that instant, she was vulnerable with a false sense of confidence that laid over her entire being like a sheer blanket that gave way to all the curvatures of her face and body. It couldn't hide her fears. It was a lot like the young child that hid behind the curtain during hide and go seek whose feet were perfectly visible from under the curtain.

The behavior analyst then affectionately unraveled her crossed arms and reminded her that crossing her arms over her belly was an unconscious sign of protecting her most vulnerable area from attack.