One of the doctors laughed. “If you mean a virgin, I doubt it.”
“A Virgo,” Stevens repeated. “I need a Virgo.”
“I’m a Virgo,” Honey said. “What’s the problem?”
He walked up to her. “The problem is that I have a goddam maniac on my hands. She won’t let anyone near her but a Virgo.”
Honey got up. “Ill go see her.”
“Thanks. Her name is Frances Gordon.”
Frances Gordon had just had a hip replacement. The moment Honey walked into the room, the woman looked up and said, “You’re a Virgo. Born on the cusp, right?”
Honey smiled. “That’s right.”
“Those Aquarians and Leos don’t know what the hell they’re doin’. They treat patients like they’re meat.”
“The doctors here are very good,” Honey protested. “They—”
“Ha! Most of them are in it for the money.” She looked at Honey more closely. “You’re different.”
Honey scanned the chart at the foot of the bed, a surprised look on her face.
“What’s the matter? What are you lookin’ at?”
Honey blinked. “It says here that your occupation is a…a psychic.”
Frances Gordon nodded. “That’s right. Don’t you believe in psychics?”
Honey shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“That’s too bad. Sit down a minute.”
Honey took a chair.
“Let me hold your hand.”
Honey shook her head. “I really don’t…”
“C’mon, give me your hand.”
Reluctantly, Honey let her take her hand.
Frances Gordon held it for a moment, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she said, “You’ve had a difficult life, haven’t you?”
Everyone has had a difficult life, Honey thought. Next she’ll be telling me that I’ll be taking a trip across the water.
“You’ve used a lot of men, haven’t you?”
Honey felt herself stiffen.
“There’s been some kind of change in you—just recently—hasn’t there?”
Honey could not wait to get out of the room. The woman was making her nervous. She started to pull away.
“You’re going to fall in love.”
Honey said, “I’m afraid I really have to…”
“He’s an artist.”
“I don’t know any artists.”
“You will.” Frances Gordon let go of her hand. “Come back and see me,” she commanded.
“Sure.”
Honey fled.
Honey stopped in to visit Mrs. Owens, a new patient, a thin woman who appeared to be in her late forties. Her chart noted that she was twenty-eight. She had a broken nose and two black eyes, and her face was puffy and bruised.
Honey walked up to the bed. “I’m Dr. Taft.”
The woman looked at her with dull, expressionless eyes. She remained silent.
“What happened to you?”
“I fell down some stairs.” When she opened her mouth, she revealed a gap where two front teeth were missing.
Honey glanced at the chart. “It says here that you have two broken ribs and a fractured pelvis.”
“Yeah. It was a bad fall.”
“How did you get the black eyes?”
“When I fell.”
“Are you married?”
“Yeah.”
“Any children?”
“Two.”
“What does your husband do?”
“Let’s leave my husband out of this, okay?”
“I’m afraid it’s not okay,” Honey said. “Is he the one who beat you up?”
“No one beat me up.”
“I’m going to have to file a police report.”
Mrs. Owens was suddenly panicky. “No! Please don’t!”
“Why not?”
“He’ll kill me! You don’t know him!”
“Has he beaten you up before?”
“Yes, but he…he doesn’t mean anything by it. He gets drunk and loses his temper.”
“Why haven’t you left him?”
Mrs. Owens shrugged, and the movement caused her pain. “The kids and I have nowhere to go.”
Honey was listening, furious. “You don’t have to take this, you know. There are shelters and agencies that will take care of you and protect you and the children.”
The woman shook her head in despair. “I have no money. I lost my job as a secretary when he started…” She could not go on.
Honey squeezed her hand. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
Five minutes later Honey marched into Dr. Wallace’s office. He was delighted to see her. He wondered what she had brought with her this time. At various times, she had used warm honey, hot water, melted chocolate, and—his favorite—maple syrup. Her ingenuity was boundless.