Now That You Mention It
Page 67
Ironically, I was more angry that he hadn’t mentioned Boomer. Forget the my-ex-was-crazy-but-I-loved-her-so lie. Boomer was pure love. Boomer was perfect. If Bobby wanted to date Gloria, well, he had great taste in women. She was smart, gorgeous, funny. And let’s not forget—he did love a good chase, so her unwillingness to tell all would definitely have grabbed his interest. Same as how I wouldn’t sleep with him the first few months we dated.
But Boomer... What kind of a dick doesn’t mention his faithful dog by name?
I said hello to Mrs. Behring, who’d gotten over her shock that I’d turned out okay and even liked me a little bit now, especially since I brought in homemade, delicious yet nutritious oatmeal cookies every Wednesday. Amelia poked her head out of her office. “Hello, my dear!” she said. I had to give it to her—she was always so happy. And that matte lipstick...something I could never pull off.
“How are you, Amelia?”
“Wonderful! Darling, come in a minute, won’t you?” I went into her office, which was beautifully furnished with sleek, comfortable furniture and a cool oil painting that was just splashes and swirls of color.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, taking a seat.
“Darling, you’re planning to stay how long on our fair island? September?”
“Mid-August. I’m staying on the island until my sister gets back.”
“She’s in prison, yes?”
I flinched. I hadn’t realized Amelia knew. “Yes.”
“Is there any way I could convince you to stay till Christmas? The doctor who was supposed to come in this fall has abandoned us, leaving our little ship uncaptained through what is sure to be a stormy season.”
Since the off-season months were morgue quiet, I was pretty sure she might be exaggerating just a touch. “I’m sorry, Amelia. My leave of absence is only until August 30.”
“Very well. Of course, you have a fabulous career back in Boston! And wonderful for you. All right, then, carry on!”
“Thank you for asking, though,” I said.
“Let me know if you change your mind. You’re a lovely addition to Team Ames!”
“Amelia,” I began, then paused.
“What is it, dear?”
“Well, if you’ll let me get a little personal...”
“Go right ahead, darling!”
“Have you thought about getting treatment?”
“For what, dear?”
“For your drinking.”
Her smile froze, and a flicker of sadness crossed her face. She looked down at her desk, then back up at me. “I’ve been in treatment many times. This is about the best I’ve been able to manage.” She paused. “I’m so sorry about my behavior at your dinner party. I was mortified to throw up on that young man.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I think I may have goofed with the, uh, butter. But I worry about you, Amelia.”
She smiled. “Thank you. You’re so kind.”
“If I can ever help...”
“Thank you,” she said again, her voice quiet, and I felt both sorry for her and full of respect. It wasn’t easy, God knew, being an alcoholic. Especially if you were once brilliant and smart enough to realize what you’d lost. It took guts for her to show up here every day, full of good cheer, knowing she couldn’t practice anymore.
“I’d better get to work,” I said.
“Wonderful!” she said, smiling firmly again. “Just call if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Let’s have lunch one day this week.”
“I would love that,” she said.
I went into the main part of the clinic to see what was up.
“Explosive diarrhea in Room One,” Gloria said, handing me a folder.
“And good morning to you,” I said with a smile.
“Morning.” She didn’t smile back.
My smile slid away. “Gloria, we should probably talk, don’t you think? About Bobby?”
“Robert and I talked last night,” she said. “I think I’m all set.”
Wow. I closed my mouth. “Okay, then. Actually, not okay. I think I should tell you a few things.”
“Not necessary. Thanks, anyway.” She turned and walked away.
Message received. Just not expected.
I went into Room One and got to work. It was explosive, all right. The poor woman had eaten undercooked lobster, and that lobster had wanted out and fast.
Because Gloria had been here longer and because I was essentially a temp, she’d always triaged the cases. If she could do the job—say, a throat swab for strep—she’d do it and let me know. If the day was quiet, I’d pop in and have a chat. If the patient’s presentation was more complicated, she’d assign the case to me, or we’d do it together.
Today, however, I got them all. And it was a very busy day.
Sun poisoning on a teenager who didn’t like sunscreen, a sprained ankle on a seven-year-old, a vitamin B shot for an elderly woman, a mono diagnosis and a birth control prescription for a young waitress, accompanied by a firm lecture on the necessity of condoms, too. Two stitches in the chin for a boy who’d fallen off his bike.
“Trouble walking,” Gloria snapped. “Room Four.”
“Got it.” I went into the exam room, where a rather shabby old man sat in a chair. Ernest Banks, his chart said. The name wasn’t familiar. He had the unmistakable odor of a person who didn’t wash regularly, and his hair and beard were gray with grease.
“Hi, Mr. Banks, I’m Nora Stuart.” I offered my hand, and he took it. His blue eyes were a little confused. “What seems to be the problem today?”
“It hurts when I walk.”
I washed my hands and asked him a few questions about his home situation—did he live alone (yes), did he eat regularly (yes, he said, but his skinniness told the truth), was he healthy otherwise (yes...but again, a lie)?
His shoes were shabby, his socks were gray and damp. I took them off slowly and carefully, noticing his wince.
It wasn’t uncommon for elderly people to neglect their feet. It could be hard to reach their toes, and taking a shower or bath might be a risk they didn’t want to take.
But my God. Mr. Banks’s feet were the worst I’d seen. His toenails were so long they’d curled over his toes and dug into the soles of his swollen feet.
And the smell. There was infection here, oozing and green.
“We’ll take good care of you, sir,” I said, looking up at him with a smile. “I think we can definitely make you feel better. Hang on one second while I get some supplies.”
Gloria wasn’t around. What Mr. Banks needed was a shower, a medical pedicure, some oral antibiotics and a topical antibiotic for his feet. “Where’s Gloria?” I asked Mrs. Behring.
“She taking a late lunch.”
“Super.” I knocked on Amelia’s door. “Can you give me a hand, Amelia? We have an elderly gentleman who needs some help.”
For the next hour, Amelia and I did the work that I’d never do in a big-city hospital. We soaked Mr. Banks’s feet in warm water and hydrogen peroxide, and I cut his toenails bit by bit. They were thick and hard, more like barnacles than something that grew on a human. The clinic had a shower, and we took him there, undressed him gently, layer by layer, and lathered him up a few times. He had a few more cuts and bruises, and he was seriously underweight.
But Boomer... What kind of a dick doesn’t mention his faithful dog by name?
I said hello to Mrs. Behring, who’d gotten over her shock that I’d turned out okay and even liked me a little bit now, especially since I brought in homemade, delicious yet nutritious oatmeal cookies every Wednesday. Amelia poked her head out of her office. “Hello, my dear!” she said. I had to give it to her—she was always so happy. And that matte lipstick...something I could never pull off.
“How are you, Amelia?”
“Wonderful! Darling, come in a minute, won’t you?” I went into her office, which was beautifully furnished with sleek, comfortable furniture and a cool oil painting that was just splashes and swirls of color.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, taking a seat.
“Darling, you’re planning to stay how long on our fair island? September?”
“Mid-August. I’m staying on the island until my sister gets back.”
“She’s in prison, yes?”
I flinched. I hadn’t realized Amelia knew. “Yes.”
“Is there any way I could convince you to stay till Christmas? The doctor who was supposed to come in this fall has abandoned us, leaving our little ship uncaptained through what is sure to be a stormy season.”
Since the off-season months were morgue quiet, I was pretty sure she might be exaggerating just a touch. “I’m sorry, Amelia. My leave of absence is only until August 30.”
“Very well. Of course, you have a fabulous career back in Boston! And wonderful for you. All right, then, carry on!”
“Thank you for asking, though,” I said.
“Let me know if you change your mind. You’re a lovely addition to Team Ames!”
“Amelia,” I began, then paused.
“What is it, dear?”
“Well, if you’ll let me get a little personal...”
“Go right ahead, darling!”
“Have you thought about getting treatment?”
“For what, dear?”
“For your drinking.”
Her smile froze, and a flicker of sadness crossed her face. She looked down at her desk, then back up at me. “I’ve been in treatment many times. This is about the best I’ve been able to manage.” She paused. “I’m so sorry about my behavior at your dinner party. I was mortified to throw up on that young man.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I think I may have goofed with the, uh, butter. But I worry about you, Amelia.”
She smiled. “Thank you. You’re so kind.”
“If I can ever help...”
“Thank you,” she said again, her voice quiet, and I felt both sorry for her and full of respect. It wasn’t easy, God knew, being an alcoholic. Especially if you were once brilliant and smart enough to realize what you’d lost. It took guts for her to show up here every day, full of good cheer, knowing she couldn’t practice anymore.
“I’d better get to work,” I said.
“Wonderful!” she said, smiling firmly again. “Just call if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Let’s have lunch one day this week.”
“I would love that,” she said.
I went into the main part of the clinic to see what was up.
“Explosive diarrhea in Room One,” Gloria said, handing me a folder.
“And good morning to you,” I said with a smile.
“Morning.” She didn’t smile back.
My smile slid away. “Gloria, we should probably talk, don’t you think? About Bobby?”
“Robert and I talked last night,” she said. “I think I’m all set.”
Wow. I closed my mouth. “Okay, then. Actually, not okay. I think I should tell you a few things.”
“Not necessary. Thanks, anyway.” She turned and walked away.
Message received. Just not expected.
I went into Room One and got to work. It was explosive, all right. The poor woman had eaten undercooked lobster, and that lobster had wanted out and fast.
Because Gloria had been here longer and because I was essentially a temp, she’d always triaged the cases. If she could do the job—say, a throat swab for strep—she’d do it and let me know. If the day was quiet, I’d pop in and have a chat. If the patient’s presentation was more complicated, she’d assign the case to me, or we’d do it together.
Today, however, I got them all. And it was a very busy day.
Sun poisoning on a teenager who didn’t like sunscreen, a sprained ankle on a seven-year-old, a vitamin B shot for an elderly woman, a mono diagnosis and a birth control prescription for a young waitress, accompanied by a firm lecture on the necessity of condoms, too. Two stitches in the chin for a boy who’d fallen off his bike.
“Trouble walking,” Gloria snapped. “Room Four.”
“Got it.” I went into the exam room, where a rather shabby old man sat in a chair. Ernest Banks, his chart said. The name wasn’t familiar. He had the unmistakable odor of a person who didn’t wash regularly, and his hair and beard were gray with grease.
“Hi, Mr. Banks, I’m Nora Stuart.” I offered my hand, and he took it. His blue eyes were a little confused. “What seems to be the problem today?”
“It hurts when I walk.”
I washed my hands and asked him a few questions about his home situation—did he live alone (yes), did he eat regularly (yes, he said, but his skinniness told the truth), was he healthy otherwise (yes...but again, a lie)?
His shoes were shabby, his socks were gray and damp. I took them off slowly and carefully, noticing his wince.
It wasn’t uncommon for elderly people to neglect their feet. It could be hard to reach their toes, and taking a shower or bath might be a risk they didn’t want to take.
But my God. Mr. Banks’s feet were the worst I’d seen. His toenails were so long they’d curled over his toes and dug into the soles of his swollen feet.
And the smell. There was infection here, oozing and green.
“We’ll take good care of you, sir,” I said, looking up at him with a smile. “I think we can definitely make you feel better. Hang on one second while I get some supplies.”
Gloria wasn’t around. What Mr. Banks needed was a shower, a medical pedicure, some oral antibiotics and a topical antibiotic for his feet. “Where’s Gloria?” I asked Mrs. Behring.
“She taking a late lunch.”
“Super.” I knocked on Amelia’s door. “Can you give me a hand, Amelia? We have an elderly gentleman who needs some help.”
For the next hour, Amelia and I did the work that I’d never do in a big-city hospital. We soaked Mr. Banks’s feet in warm water and hydrogen peroxide, and I cut his toenails bit by bit. They were thick and hard, more like barnacles than something that grew on a human. The clinic had a shower, and we took him there, undressed him gently, layer by layer, and lathered him up a few times. He had a few more cuts and bruises, and he was seriously underweight.
