“Go to the ER,” she says.
“How about something less drastic,” I say, picturing how embarrassing such a trip would be—especially since my name is Fanny.
For the rest of their lives, the nurses would tell everyone, “The patient’s name was Fanny, and she had a toy stuck in her fanny.”
Ava takes an audible breath. “Do you have any abdominal pain?”
“No.”
“How about bleeding?”
All blood drains from my face. “This just happened. You think there could be bleeding?”
“Unlikely, if there’s no pain. Just make sure not to reach in there with tongs or anything that could cut or bruise the area. That includes your nails.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m not an idiot. At least not more of an idiot.”
“Okay, but just keep in mind: There are cases where tongs have gotten stuck along with the original object.”
“No tongs,” I say firmly. “What can I do, though?”
“Other than going to the ER? You can try to poop it out.”
I feel a pang of hope. “You think that would work?”
“If it’s small enough, it should come out the way it came in.”
I look at the empty box from the toy. “How small is small enough?”
“I have no idea. Did it go in easy?”
My face reddens. “Kind of.”
“Then maybe it’ll be a case of easy come, easy go.”
Ugh. “This isn’t funny!”
“Look, I’ve really got to run. Keep me posted. If you decide to go to the ER, come here, to Presbyterian.”
I grimace. “I’m trying the poop method first.”
“Eat some fiber,” she says. “Better yet, a laxative.”
With that useful advice, she hangs up.
As I place Precious back on the bed, I see something on the work phone that chills my bones.
The help call looks to have connected somewhere.
“Hello?” I squeak into the receiver. “Is someone there?”
“Ms. Pack,” says a familiar, Russian-accented voice. “I strongly disagree with your plans and am on my way to take you to the ER immediately.”
Chapter Seven
“No, don’t! I’ll call 911. Don’t come here!”
No reply. He hung up.
Growling in frustration, I click the help button again.
A sound resembling a dial tone emanates from the phone once more, but when I wait and wait, it doesn’t connect anywhere.
Maybe I can call him directly?
Sure. Just as soon as I magically figure out what his cell phone number is. Unless… maybe Sandra knows?
Ugh, no. I don’t want her involved. She’ll either have a heart attack from thinking the project has gone awry, or from laughter when she learns what’s happened.
How does the Impaler even know where I live? Did the app access the work phone GPS, or did he simply take a look at my employee file?
Anyway, the how is not important. The fact that he’s going to be here is. It’s bad enough he overheard the whole “squirrel in my butt” conversation with Ava—a fact that makes me want to crawl into a ditch and die. If he comes here and needs to rescue my ass—literally—I might just melt from mortification.
There’s only one thing to do.
I must poop out the squirrel.
Having a clear-cut goal feels good, so I cautiously stand up.
Still no abdominal pain, so that’s good. Unfortunately, the squirrel doesn’t start moving down with the pull of gravity—on some level, I was hoping it might.
Fine.
I shuffle to the bathroom with a stiff gait. So this is why they call this style of locomotion “having something stuck up the butt.”
I get on the toilet and wait.
Nothing happens.
I strain.
Nada.
After a few minutes of pointless waiting, I recall Ava talking about fiber. Getting up, I stiffly shuffle into the kitchen and grab an apple.
Crunching it, I return to my white throne.
Nope.
Oh, who am I kidding? I know fiber needs more than minutes to do its thing.
Getting up, I try pacing the apartment.
Doesn’t help.
I roll out my yoga mat and do a Standing Forward Bend.
Not even a little stomach cramp.
Doing other poses doesn’t work either—neither the Downward-Facing Dog, nor the Triangle, nor the Seated and Supine Twists.
Monkey watches me do all this with an unreadable expression.
“Don’t judge,” I tell her and prepare for the big guns: the Wind-Removing Pose, where you’re on your back and your knees touch your chest.
Even this mighty yoga weapon doesn’t work.
Okay. I need to be ready for the eventuality of seeing the Impaler—and I’m a mess in ways beyond foreign objects in my rear end.
I quickly change my drab casual dress for a prettier one, grab my makeup kit and a mirror, and perch on the toilet (hope springs eternal) to make myself look semi-human.
Lipstick is easy. Lashes too. But no matter how hard I work on the missing eyebrow, I fail to make it look like the sister of the other—barely a second cousin is the best I can do.
Maybe I should get rid of the remaining one right now? Problem is, I don’t own a razor, and I don’t dare play with the hair removal cream under the current circumstances. The last thing I want is to end up with bald spots on my head or hair removal cream in my butt. Or worse.
The eyebrow situation adds to my frustration.
Who does he think he is, coming here like this?
Well, I guess he thinks he’s my boss squared. Probably realizes that having the power to fire me allows him to do what he wants. Probably doesn’t like the sound of the lawsuit my parents would file if I somehow died because of the squirrel. Still—
The doorbell rings, sending my pulse through the stratosphere.
He’s here!
Even the prospect of the upcoming humiliation doesn’t loosen anything up—so much for stories of people soiling themselves out of fear. Then again, there’s also a conflicting “anus clenching in fear”—so maybe that’s what’s happening here?
My work phone rings. Then Precious joins in.
Feeling like I’m about to die, I answer.
“How are you feeling?” the Impaler asks.
I gulp. Is that genuine concern in his voice? “Never better. You didn’t need to come. I got this—”
“We’re going to the ER.” The statement is a command with no room for negotiation. “Do you need help coming out?”
Am I hearing a threat in that question? Will he break my door down if I answer the wrong thing?
Nah. His kind need to be officially invited to enter someone’s home.
I rub my burning cheeks. “I can walk.”
“See you soon then.” He hangs up.
I text Ava an update, grab both phones, shuffle over to the door, and put on a pair of sneakers.
Here goes nothing.
I open the door.
He’s here, in all his mouthwatering glory.
He meets my gaze, and something—probably shame—makes my knees go weak.
His strong hand grasps my elbow.
Electricity shoots up my arm from his touch, and I nearly stumble.