Have you ever wondered what would Michael Jackson's life look like if some events didn't happen to him? If he had someone he trusted by his side through everything? Someone that had the power to save him from his tormented life?
Hayley "Brit" Thame...
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It was a weird feeling, setting foot in the hospital for a different reason than working. This time, I was on a mission: finding a way to reach out to Michael Jackson.
We took the elevator to go to the third floor where the Pediatric Service was, and once there, the look on the nurses' faces reminded me that I shouldn't be here. Indeed, when you leave a five days coma, people don't expect you to be on walking freely on your two feet the next day.
"Act a bit more sick," Al advised in a whisper, as she was walking next to me. "And walk slower."
"This feels so wrong," I hissed, a this was all a part of our plan. "Do we really have to do this?"
"You want to find him or not?" Al asked back, but I didn't have time to answer, as Carl was approaching the both of us.
"Hayley! What the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay home for a week!" he exclaimed, as he stopped just in front of the both of us. He looked at me from head to toes, and started to stare like I was some kind of alien.
"I'm going to find Baker," Al whispered next to me.
She didn't even look at Carl, and just acted like he wasn't here. To be honest, this was the wisest thing she had to do. Knowing Al, she would have beat his ass if he tried to talk to her, and my boss knew it. However, if she did or said something inappropriate to him, Alice knew she could get some trouble, and she loved her job too much to ruin everything because of him.
"Always a pleasure, Ms. Garner," he rolled his eyes, after he watched her leave the hallway where we were standing.
"It's best this way," I assured him, and he simply nodded his head.
"And what is wrong with you?" he asked in a harsh tone.
"Uh, excuse me?"
"You left against medical advice after you've been through a five days coma? Are you sure you're a doctor?" he asked, and I cool feel the anger in his voice.
"I felt fine, and I am fine. As you said, I'm a doctor, I know what I'm doing," I retorted in that same harsh tone he used.
"Come with me," he commanded, walking passed me to an examination room. I rolled my eyes and followed behind him in the room in question, and he closed the door behind the both of us. "Sit here."
"What do you think you're about to do?"
"I'm doing my job. Don't ask questions, and sit there while I examine you," he commanded again, and I sat on the hospital bed. "Any vomitting? Head spinning? Nausea?" he asked, as he put his stethoscope over my heart.
"Nope."
"Any trouble with your speech ability? Any signs of cerebral palsy?" he continued questioning me, and asked me to follow his little flashlight with my eyes.
