Nurse Cameron

It was a warm fall evening, much too nice to stay indoors. We sat around the laptop in the front yard, surfing the web and playing games. A white car approached from the left. Everyone ignored it, but I was compelled to look at it. A man was driving slowly with the music up loud. We made eye contact and as he rolled past I heard him cock a handgun. He kept going but stopped a short distance down the street from the house. I looked at my brother, “We need to get inside. Did you see that car? Something’s not right.”

We gathered the computer and went inside. I told my brother and our friend what I saw. We knew this man was going to come after us. Other people were in the house; they grabbed a cell phone and hid in a bedroom closet. I noticed that the car was now parked in front of the house and the man was confidently approaching, gun in hand. I grabbed my cell phone and went down to the basement with the boys. The man seemed to be reading our minds; he went around to the back yard where there was an entrance to the basement.  I dialed 911 and waited desperately until someone answered. I whispered the address so the man couldn’t hear me but my brother hushed me.

He’s here.

The three of us huddled in a firewood bin: my brother in front, me behind him, and our friend next to me. The door opened and the man looked around the room. My brother silently started to sob. He’s a strong man; a former Marine. But he knew we didn’t stand a chance against the man with the gun. Having scanned the entire basement, finding nothing, the man slowly turned toward us. He knew we were there. He didn’t say a word. His face held no expression and there was total silence as he lifted the gun in our direction and fired. Two shots for my brother; two for our friend. The man paused briefly while he looked at me. There was mischief in his eyes. Then he shot me twice in the head.

We are all upstairs. Hostages. The man now has a partner, and they are talking to us. My head hurts terribly. My brother and his friend are sitting on the sofa, blood soaking through their shirts. They are pale and they look defeated. I stand and face the man, “I need to go to the hospital. You shot me in the head. Please. The hospital is just down the road.” He consults his friend, silently, the one staring at the other until an understanding is reached. “Go ahead,” they tell me. I’m confused; they’re actually going to let me go.

I step outside, wearing a wig the man gave me to hide the gunshot wounds. He doesn’t want me to draw any attention to myself. The walk to the hospital seems to take forever. I stop into a market to grab something to drink. “I like your hair!” says a girl behind me. I thank her and explain that I’ve been shot in the head. She smiles and walks away. Back outside, the sun is too bright. I have a migraine.

Reaching the hospital, I step up to the nurses’ desk in the emergency room. There are a few people in line, waiting patiently for their turn. People begin to chat. “Why are you here?” they all ask one another. One tells us that her baby is sick. Another admits that she clumsily fell down the stairs and broke her tailbone. Smilingly politely, they look at me. I’m embarrassed to tell them. “I got shot in the head. ” They both look a little stunned and implore me to go first. When the nurse comes around she tries to skip me because I look fine but I mumble to her, “But I got shot in the head.” She ignores me and starts talking to the lady with the sick baby. “I GOT SHOT! IN THE HEAD!” My urgent whisper finally gets her attention and I’m taken into an exam room.

I’m now in a hospital bed. My wig is gone and I don’t know if my head hurts. The man with the gun is seated next to me. My nurse comes in to check on me. It’s Cameron Diaz. My attacker chats pleasantly with her and flirts a little. He flashes me a conspiratorial grin. I never see him again.

Back at home I catch up with my brother and our friend. We are all recovered from our injuries and talking about what happened that day. While I was in the hospital they had found out that Cameron Diaz had gotten her nursing license and wanted to work in a small hospital where she wouldn’t be bothered by fans. The man with the gun had had a crush on her for years. Desperate to meet her, he plotted a way to meet her.

His attack on us that day was a ruse. He shot us and held us against our will. We were terrified of him. His allowing me to go to the hospital was a blessing. I knew I could not rat him out. He knew he would be able to visit me in the hospital so he could finally meet Cameron.