Sorry I got the last version of the story out so late. With the forum changes, a mainstream story I had to get to an editor, and going home to make sure my grandmother’s garage didn’t fall down, I didn’t have much time to write. Warning: make sure you have Kleenex.
Previous versions. (Note the links in the previous versions still refer to the old board. Come back to this chapter to navigate to previous chapters.
Life and Death Choices Made Casually: Day Seven
by Write and Left
“Angela, it’s time to wake up.”
Bridget stirred and looked toward her bedroom door where her mother was standing. “I’m up,” she said. She looked at her clock. It was already 9:30. She normal had to catch the school bus at eight.
“I let you sleep in. Your doctor’s appointment isn’t until eleven, but you should probably get up now.”
Bridget got out of bed and rushed to the bathroom for her shower. She undressed and looked in the mirror. Her diaper was soaked almost to the point of leaking. The bedwetting needed to stop. Hopefully the doctor would have something to say about it. She hoped it was something that wasn’t embarrassing. The daytime problems only happened when she was near the terrorist. She would still need her pull-ups when she was actively hunting him.
She went to the mirror and started to dress. Her pull-up would be obvious if the doctor had her undressed. She was tempted to go to her room and get some panties, but maybe the pull-ups would help the doctor know how serious her bladder problems were. Jeans and a cute t-shirt would be enough for clothes; the doctor probably wouldn’t care what she wore.
She emerged from the bathroom and went to her room for her schoolbag. She would need it when her mother dropped her off at school after her appointment. Even though Bridget thought the appointment should help her she dreaded it. At least it would be a doctor and not someone good looking. Even so, she looked in the mirror and attempted to make her hair look nice. She also added make-up.
“Angela, are you almost ready?” asked her mother.
Bridget exited her room. “I’m ready.”
“Good, let’s go,” said her mother. They went downstairs and got into the maroon Taurus. The last time she had ridden in this car, at least in the passenger seat, she had been a poopy mess. This time she was clean and she would remain clean because of her pull-up. At least she hoped.
During the ride to the doctor’s office her mother constantly talked about her control issues. “Now no matter what the doctor says, we’ll still love you,” her mother said. “You’ve been very responsible about not fighting me about wearing protection.”
“Well I still don’t want to be known as the girl who pees herself with or without the diapers,” said Bridget. “I want my normal bedtime routine back.”
“Well, the doctor will find out what is wrong and treat you,” said her mother.
Before Bridget knew it, they had pulled into the doctor’s office. Bridget got out of the car and looked around nervously. Her mother held the door to the doctor’s office open for her and they went in. The waiting room had rows of chairs. There were about four of five patients in the room. Two were children with their mothers. Two others were old ladies and then there was a man of about thirty. Bridget hoped they didn’t know why she was here. She didn’t know why they were there so it was reasonable to expect that they didn’t know why she was there.
She sat in her chair and read the Scarlet Letter some more while she was waiting while her mother filled out the paperwork. She was really wondering if Chillingworth was going to do something bad to the preacher, but then she heard her name being called.
“Angela Murphy.” The man was older and he was wearing scrubs. He had gray hair and he just looked old. Bridget felt comfortable now. Sure it would be embarrassing to tell him about the wetting, but at least he wasn’t a cute guy.
“Dr. Ulman,” she said as she followed him down the hall.
“Actually, I’m Dr. Vance. Dr. Ulman will be with you later. Go into this room.” He pointed to an examination room. Bridget went inside and sat on the examination table. The paper on the table crinkled as she scooted up on it. Dr Vance put her folder in the pocket on the door and shut it leaving her in privacy.
Bridget sat bored. She looked around at all the posters on the wall. There were pictures of the heart, the lungs, and many of the other organs. There was also a picture of a man on a sailboat. Bridget didn’t think it fit in with the other images, but she shrugged. She thought the man looked kind of cute.
The door opened and a man in a white lab coat entered. He was the cute man on the sailboat. He wore a stethoscope around his neck and he was smiling. “Hi. What seems to be the problem?”
“Problem?” asked Bridget. “What problem? I’m just here for a checkup.” There was no way she could tell this guy that she couldn’t keep her bed dry and that she wet her pants sometimes.
The doctor looked at her chart. “It says here you are having some control issues. Is that correct?”
Bridget felt her face burn. She nodded and hung her head.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he said. “Lots of people have bladder control problems sometime in their lives. If you don’t tell your doctor, then I can’t help you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. If he hadn’t been so cute, she would have told him.
“Your mother said it is mainly a nighttime problem, but you had a few accidents during the day.”
“Does it burn when you pee?”
“Well that doesn’t rule out a bladder infection, but I am going to run a test just to make sure.” He handed her a plastic cup and opened the door for her. He led her to a bathroom. “Just fill that up for me, please.” He shut the door leaving her alone.
Bridget sat down and peed in the cup. When it was full she finished peeing in the toilet. She adjusted her clothing, washed her hands and carried the cup out to Dr. Ulman.
He took the cup. Wait in the exam room while I check this for you. Bridget had no choice but to do what he said. Soon he came back.
“I didn’t see any bacteria in the sample,” he said. “Are you waking up wet or waking up as you are wetting the bed.”
“I wake up wet. I have a dream and then wake up wet,” she said.
“Oh, the classic dream where you dream you are going to the bathroom? That is common.” He wrote something down.
“Not exactly,” she said. “I have nightmares every night. Not really going-to-the-bathroom related.”
“I see,” he said. “Do you know what is causing these nightmares?”
“Yes,” said Bridget. No, he will ask me about it, she thought. “No, I mean. Just bad, scary stuff.”
“Maybe I can refer you to a psychologist,” he said.
Bridget shook her head vigorously, “No, no,” she said. “No shrinks.” A shrink would find out who she really was. Maybe they would execute her if they knew she had jumped bodies. She shivered.
“It helps to talk things. I think your problem is psychological. A psychologist could help. It’s probably just stress and he can give you ways to manage stress.”
“Do you have pills you can give me to make me stop wetting the bed,” she said. “Yes, pills.”
“There are pills,” he said and looked at her chart, “but you are allergic to one of the ingredients. Maybe when the summer starts you’ll see a reprieve from the bed wetting. Until then, wear protection. I still recommend you talk to a psychologist though. We’ll still run a few more tests.”
It took another hour of being poked and prodded before the doctor was satisfied. Bridget walked out off the office feeling upset. She hoped the doctor could find a medical reason she was wetting the bed. He probably suspected the root of the problem when she mentioned the bad dreams. “I’m done,” she said to her mother.
As Dr. Ulman and her mother talked for a little while, Bridget felt her face burn with embarrassment. When her mother said the words bed wetting or accidents, she felt like everyone in the waiting room was staring at her. It was probably just her imagination, but it sure felt like it. Finally they finished and Bridget rushed her mother to the car.
“That was certainly embarrassing,” said Bridget.
“Well, at least you know what you need to do,” said her mother. “Dr. Ulman gave me the name of a psychologist. I can make an appointment. Do you want me to do that Angela?”
“No.” Bridget remembered the psychologist she talked to after being arrested. He showed her stupid ink blots and expected her to tell them what she thought they looked like. They all looked like explosions to her, but she answered, “a pretty butterfly,” or something equally tame. At the time her attorneys were trying to get her off on an insanity plea, but she thought her only way to get the terrorist caught was to tell her story at trial. She’d been wrong. “I’m not talking to a psychologist.”
“Would you rather talk to a psychologist or wear diapers to bed?” asked her mother.
Bridget thought for a second. “Diapers. I know that seems silly, but I can’t talk to a psychologist. I just can’t.”
“Okay, Angela,” said her mother. “Let’s just get something to eat. We’ll talk about this later.”
They had Burger King for lunch. Bridget bought the biggest Angus burger they had. It felt good to eat real food instead of cafeteria slop. While they were eating, Bridget watched as protesters gathered outside. They had signs that read “Murder King” and “Meat is murder.”
“What are those bozos up to?” asked a guy at the next table.
“Oh those are those PETA crazies. They protest a different fast food restaurant every week,” he said. “I belong to the other PETA: People for the Eating of Tasty Animals.” He took a bite of his burger.
As Bridget finished her burger, she scanned the protesters outside. There were just five of them. They held signs as people drove by and gave them the finger. One of the guys looked like the terrorist’s friend from the movie theater.
Suddenly, she had to go the bathroom urgently. She pushed her chair back from the table and walked swiftly to the bathroom with her hand in her crotch. She took the first stall, pulled down her pants and peed. “That was close.” She felt the crotch of her pull-up. Thankfully it was still dry.
She ate the rest of her food without saying anything. When she took the last bite, she said. “Let’s go. Please.”
Her mother followed her to the car and they got in. “Did you have an accident?”
“No, I made it.” She pointed toward where the protesters were. “Let’s avoid those guys,” she said. They knew the terrorist too. She didn’t share her thoughts with her mother. Even if she could somehow get past the body snatching aspect of her weird week she had been in Angela’s body, surely people would think she was schizophrenic if she was so paranoid she had wetting accidents when she spotted the terrorist or his compatriots.
“I’ll drop you back at school. You should be able to get there in time for Spanish class.”
“Sounds good,” said Bridget. Burger King and the PETA protesters were behind her and now out of her mind by the time her mother dropped her off at school. She got out of the car and went straight to Spanish class.
She was still a little early, but most of her other classmates were there. David Krouse was laughing and joking with his friends. Julia Grass and Evan Fiscus were attached at the hip as usual. However she couldn’t find Lia anywhere. She turned to David. “Where’s Lia?” she asked.
He stopped laughing and his smile faded. “Um, she…”
“She was supposed to tell me what I missed when I was at my doctor’s appointment.”
Julia came over. “Yeah, I got your stuff.” She handed me the assignments that Lia had written down for me. “Her mother came and pulled her out of class this morning. Her father was hurt really bad at work.”
“He’s a lumberjack,” said David. “Some idiot environmentalist spiked a bunch of trees and when he cut one of them down, it broke his chainsaw.”
“No,” said Bridget. She put her bag down on her desk and sat down before her knees weakened and she fell down. This was her fault. The terrorist or one of his friends had to have done this because Bridget couldn’t convince anyone the terrorist was still at large. She had a whole week to warn everyone, but she had said nothing. “Will he be all right?”
“They say it doesn’t look good,” said Evan. “He’s probably not going to make it. That’s why Lia’s mother pulled her out of school.”
The bell rang and Senorita Faust called the class to order. “I know we’re all worried about Lia’s father, but we got conversations to get through. I’ll get a card for Lia that we all can sign tomorrow.”
Bridget was glad Lia and her had already done their conversation. Lia would have been a mess and Bridget had barely known what she was doing. Bridget could even concentrate on listening to the other conversations. She just dreamed of all the things she could do to that evil, evil terrorist. She had been idle far too long.
Study hall was no different. She could barely concentrate to do her homework but she managed to get through pre-calculus and physics. Nothing was left but reading on the Scarlet Letter, and Bridget just wasn’t up to it. She frowned and looked at the clock. There were five more minutes. She packed her bags and the study hall teacher glared at her. Mrs. Simkins was one of those teachers that hated when students packed their bags before the final bell rung.
Finally, class ended and Bridget left to go home. As she was switching books around in her locker, the kid with the locker next to her said, “Hurry up, accident girl.”
“Give it a rest for a few days, please,” said Julia Grass. “She’s Lia’s best friend. You heard what happened to Lia’s dad.”
“Thanks,” said Bridget.
“No problem,” said Julia. “When Lia comes back, though, it is back to normal.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Bridget. She hurried to catch her bus. When she got on the bus, it felt like a different place. No one yelled, “Pee girl,” as she boarded and people told her to wish Lia’s father to get well. It was funny riding the bus alone without Lia beside her like she did all that week.
After supper, Bridget called Lia. “Hi. It’s Angela.”
All she heard on the phone was sobs.
“You want me to come over? Where are you?”
The phone just hung up. Lia was really upset and probably didn’t want to talk to anyone. She would call Bridget back when she wanted to talk. A minute later Bridget’s phone rang out the tone that said she received a text message.
“Can’t talk. Yes. Come over. I am at home.”
Bridget went down stairs. “Mother, can I use the car. I need to go over to Lia’s”
“Are you sure she is home and she wants you over?”
“Yeah, she texted.”
“Okay.” She handed Bridget the keys.
Bridget wasted to time getting to Lia’s place. When she got there, there were cars and dirt caked pick-up trucks parked up and down the street. She had to park around the block. Bridget walked to the door and rung the doorbell. Lia’s mother answered. She wore black and she looked much older than when Bridget had seen her earlier in the week. “I’m here to see Lia,” she said.
“She’s in her room.” She led Bridget through a living room full of lumberjacks and their wives. Finally she got to Lia’s room and went inside.
Lia knelt at her bed and she was still sobbing. She turned around and Bridget could see her red and puffy eyes.
“Do you want Angela here with you, Lia?” asked Lia’s mother.
Bridget walked over and sat beside her friend and put an arm around her. “I’m here Lia. We’re best friends.”
“Angela, my daddy died,” said Lia through sobs. She buried face into Bridget’s shoulder and wailed.
Bridget swore in her heart that she would make the terrorist pay for this. If the terrorist was not responsible for spiking the trees that killed Lia’s dad, he probably knew them and she would make both killers regret they ever heard the name Bridget Addison. She was out for blood. She squeezed Lia gently in her arms and patted her softly on her back as she cried.