Tattoo

If yesterday was difficult to get through, today began  starting to look as if it would  be worse. It was.

Angie stormed into my office this morning and demanded that I come remove ‘Babycake’s from hers. Babycakes is the name we coined for Harry’s mutated Venus Flytrap. An experimental hybrid of Dr. Green’s, it surprised us when it seemed to enjoy my blood, shed in anger, into one of its toothy leaves. Regularly, Harry insisted, (as a scientific investigation, he said) that I continue to feed it.

Well, finally I put my foot down yesterday, and we began feeding it protein shakes.  You’d think the damn plant would have been grateful for a full meal instead of the few drops of blood a week I’d been giving it.

“It ate some of my African Violet’s, Lee!” Angie was on the verge of tears. Her African Violets were the stuff of legend, started from rather pathetic looking plants on clearance from a local grocer, into massive, gloriously abundant plants full of lush leaves and blooms. They had even appeared in the local paper!

Of course she was upset as she showed me two of them in her arms, almost shredded to bits.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked, “it’s simple enough.  Move your plants someplace else.”

“They like where they are, Lee! Why can’t  the flytrap go in the Admiral’s office? Why mine?”

“Because the outer office is also his,” I muttered, only belatedly realizing that she’d called me ‘Lee’,  Battle Station warning  if ever there was one and I was unprepared.

“I mean it , Lee. If you won’t move it,  I’ll tell Chip where you hid his grandmother’s shortbread cookies!”

“You know about that, hmm?” I had to grin after the revelation that she knew about my stash of some of the items from the  ‘care packages’ he got from home.

“I’m Nelson’s Administrative Assistant. I know everything. Well, okay, not the top secret stuff, but I sure as hell know what goes on here, so there.”

“Okay, okay…”

I was glad it was morning and Harry  was at the golf course with Admiral Starke ,who’d flown in last night.  Oh joy. So when he did return to his office, Harry would find the move it a ‘fait accompli’.

I chose to place it in the corner of his panoramic window overlooking the bay. A nice sunny window like it had had in Angie’s office. So it wouldn’t come to any harm. I couldn’t say the same for me as my hands and arms brushed against some of the leafy spikes, drawing blood, like a cactus. I decided that while it was on a diet of protein shakes now, I might as well let it have  a couple drops of me for dessert.

My duty done to avert blackmail, as  I returned to the outer office, sucking on one of my still dripping fingers, she asked me if she should offer us her congratulations. After all, Lola had had that Dr.'s appointment yesterday.

“Huh?” I asked, confused. “She’s allergic to Doc’s tofu barley muffins…”

“Oh,” Angie’s face fell, “then she’s not….er….”she paused.

There are times when even Submarine Captains can be stupid. This was such a time.

“You don’t know, do you?” she said, “you didn’t even suspect?”

“Suspect what? Look, Angie, she’s fine…I just can bring any of Doc’s health stuff home to her…”

She took a sorrowing look at me and told me if I couldn’t add nausea  and morning together, she wondered how I managed to keep Seaview from running into undersea mountains. Of course, the boat  had, on occasion done so, but those were instrumentation and mechanical failures, not my errors.

 Then what else she’d said struck me. Lola had been getting sick. Sick in the morning. Morning Sickness?

“Omygod,” I think I said before my vision faded and I woke to find myself on the thick carpet, my face being slapped  gently and she holding ammonia under my nose. Then I felt her press hard against the back of my head, which had apparently hit the edge of the coffee table.

“Oh swell,” I muttered as I saw her bloody hands grab more gauze from the First Aid kit to  staunch the flow of blood.

“Easy Captain. Lie still. I’ve called for Doc.”

“No…I’m fine,” I managed to sit up, “embarrassed, but fine,” I took over holding the gauze over the cut, “I’ll use the Admiral’s head to clean up. I’ll bring a clean towel back for the carpet,” I added, as blood and the fluffy white shag rug under the coffee table didn’t exactly mix. He was proud of the little rug which had been made from the sheared off wool of a llama. It had been purchased by his late mother and was one of the few items he’d brought from Boston when he’d laid down the foundations for NIMR.

“No,” she said. “You’ll ruin it.  I’ll take it to the cleaners.”

“But he’ll notice it’s not here,” I headed to Nelson’s office.

“Captain Crane,” she said firmly, “it was an accident. He’ll hardly blame you.”

“But it is my fault. How could I have not noticed that Lola might have been….”I still couldn’t say the word.

“Well, she isn’t so it’s a moot point. Now, you go get cleaned up and…”

“What happened?” Will Jamieson arrived, along with two corpsmen and a stretcher.

 I looked to Angie for help.

“Must be low blood sugar,” she lied pointedly as he approached, grabbed my arm and began to poke, prod and examine by eyes with that little pen light I hate.

“Stop squirming and let me see!” he ordered.

“I’m fine!”

“Maybe, maybe not. I keep telling you to eat regular meals. Now, come along. I want to check your blood sugar.”

“Can’t you just take my word for it?”

“No!”

And so I spent the better half of the morning in the Med. Center as Doc checked all my vitals, and finally determined that I was fine except for the slight, and I do mean slight, concussion and cut to my scalp, and released me to the custody of Lola. I didn’t mind that. We had to have that little talk I’d been promising myself to put to her ever since we become lovers. We still need that talk.

First, she wanted to know why I went to the Dr. yesterday. (Angie had told her I’d gone there) So I told her. Bad move. While  my consultation regarding the removal of my tattoo hadn’t been all that hopeful, ( I mean, why go through 12 to 14 sessions of agony for something that, in my case, would only have a 60% success rate), she was angry that I had even thought about the procedure without telling her.

I responded that we weren’t married and I didn’t have to get her permission for every little thing I do.

Well, in a nutshell, I soon found myself locked out of the bedroom, until she came out a few minutes later, suitcase in hand, and slammed out of the apartment. The sound of her crying had made  me feel like a first class  heel. I mean, I hadn’t planned on asking her to marry me. Well,  okay, I'm not at that point yet, but we did need to talk about the possibility of  children. Do we want them? Do we not want them? We don’t always use protection. Now, however, I doubt we’ll need it if she’s going to make such an issue over me getting rid of my tattoo and locks me out. And it’s not as if she even likes it. But i guess it had been something that she felt privileged to know about first hand. A bedroom secret.

Only time will tell if we’ll get back together again. I packed up a few of my things to come back to my own apartment, and left her a note that I’ll be getting my first treatment  to remove my tattoo tomorrow. I don’t actually have an appointment, but she doesn’t know that. I’m just so pissed off that she thinks she can tell me what to do or not with my own tattoo!

It’s almost midnight now and my apartment’s a lonely  empty place, devoid of laughter and happy memories. God, I miss her. Maybe I should call Harry. By now I’m sure he’s been informed about my little accident and the rug, not to mention that Babycakes is in his own office now. 

I just need somebody to talk to.

About her.

The tattoo can wait.