Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [55]
Until a minute later when a shock of pain tore up my arm from the mutilated finger. By now the others were kneeling in a circle around my lost fingertip. One had a cup of ice. “Go ahead, pick it up!” “Maybe they can sew it back on!” “No, I don’t want to ruin it!” “It’s already ruined!” “No, you pick it up.”
The next thing I knew, I was in the car with the stage director on my way to the emergency room. They stitched it up and we left. It hurt like hell, but I didn’t think it was all that serious.
The next morning, though, my hand had swollen to the size of a cantaloupe—a blue cantaloupe. And it throbbed so hard I could almost hear it. I took a cab back to the hospital. The ER doctor admitted me immediately.
When the doctor on call came into my room, my jaw dropped. He was drop-dead gorgeous. So gorgeous I actually forgot about my hand for a moment. He touched his fingers to my forehead and smiled right into my eyes.
“Don’t tell me: you were in a fistfight,” he said with a laugh.
“Yeah, but I went down swinging!” I replied.
He examined my hand. “What’s your diagnosis?” I asked.
“In medical lingo, we call this a complete mess.”
I laughed.
“Keep your sense of humor, but don’t take this lightly, Miss Cannon. Can I call you Dyan?”
“Yes, Doctor!”
“I’m Dr. Steve Mandell. But you can call me Dr. Steve. You’ll be fine as long as you do as I tell you. This really has to be cared for properly or it could turn gangrenous. And I’d really hate to see a beautiful gal like you turn green from head to toe.”
“Oy. So what do I have to do?”
“Nothing, for a few days. You’re staying put here. We’ll do the rest.”
“I have to stay? I’m in a play!”
“Then this is a great day for your understudy. It’s not negotiable, Dyan. I don’t want to go to the theater a year from now and see you playing Captain Hook. So relax. Watch TV, read, and enjoy our exquisite hospital cuisine. You’re going to be here for a little while.”
As it turned out, I was there for more than a little while. Seven days. A friend from the company took Bangs in. I missed her, but the days weren’t too bad, really, because I had a steady stream of visitors from the cast and crew. The nights, though, were pretty boring. But in the meantime, I was definitely getting some special attention from Dr. Dazzle. His timing was perfect. He always seemed to drop by when I was on the phone with Cary, who called two or three times a day. I was a little disappointed that Cary didn’t fly in to see me, but I had to accept it; he was a busy man.
One afternoon, Dr. Dazzle came into the room with a white sack as I was picking at my lunch.
“I brought you a little something,” he said, taking a huge sandwich out of the bag. “Best pastrami in Chicago.”
“It looks delicious,” I said just as the phone rang.
It was Cary. “Why is that man always there?” he snapped, hearing Dr. Steve in the background. “I tell you, he’s interested in far more than your finger. He’s after you.”
“You think that about everybody!” I whispered.
“You watch yourself around him,” Cary said. “If he wants to play doctor,