For some reason, my mother had turned her head to look at me.
Then after what looked like several conflicted seconds, she shook her head.
I didn’t know much about that sister. Only that she was wild to the point that she wasn’t invited to the funeral when granddaddy died. My dad had remained silent about grandpa’s funeral. But I guess not inviting her to grandma’s must have sat on his conscience. I overheard them arguing about it when I came downstairs for a glass of water the night before grandma’s funeral.
“It just doesn’t seem right to me, Mari.”
“What would be right about inviting her? That heifer left in the middle of the night and we haven’t heard from her ever since.”
“She sent that letter apologizing…”
“If she was really sorry, she would have come down here and said it to Mama’s face.”
“But…” Dad had started to argue.
“And who’s to even know if she’s still off the bottle like that letter said?” Mama had asked before he could finish that sentence. “For all we know she’s out there somewhere turning tricks to get another bottle.”
“But…” Dad had tried again.
“Don’t but me, Mac. Just don’t. My mama is dead and the last person I want to deal with is my sister on top. And don’t you forget, she could ruin everything!”
Dad had opened his mouth to argue again, but then he saw me standing there in the kitchen door. “Aw, pumpkin, how long have you been standing there watching us go on?”
Pumpkin. That was what he always called me, whether he was happy, angry, or sad.
“I came down to get a glass of water,” I had answered, squinting at Mama. She seemed frozen in place, like someone who’d been caught doing something bad. Which had made me suspicious enough to ask, “Why would she ruin everything?”
“Let me get you that water, sweetie.” Mama had turned around with what she called her “make pretty smile.” Because as she’d put it, “I’m not anything to look at until I put on a pretty smile and a pleasant attitude. That smile’s what made your daddy fall for me at first sight. And my pleasant attitude is what keeps him loving me to this day.”
I’d been doing pageants since the age of six, so I knew I was pretty, whether I smiled or not. And I’d always thought Mama was pretty too. But whenever I’d tried to tell her that, she’d said, “Stop that now. I’m just all right. Like my mama told me, growing up, one beauty in the family is quite enough.”
I’d always assumed she’d said that because in the old black and white photos, anyone could see grandma had been the kind of pretty that turned heads back in the day. But as I had watched my mother fetch the glass of water, a new thought had occurred to me.
Had the younger sister been the designated beautiful one? The one I’d never seen a picture of…the one she was refusing to invite to grandmama’s funeral?
Instead of answering my question about her sister ruining everything, my mother had handed me the glass of water and said, “There you go. Now get back to bed. We got to be up early tomorrow to make all of Mama’s arrangements.”
I’d gone back to bed, but I wondered about the sister who wasn’t invited to either of her parents’ funerals for days afterward.
“Yes, I’ll have some, thank you.”
The Fine Prince’s acceptance of my invitation drew me out of my memory. And took me by complete surprise.
If that fireman I dated for a few seconds had only eaten dinner at steakhouses, Dr. Prince struck me as someone who wouldn’t let anything that wasn’t presented on fine china pass his lips. He had an air of refinement about him that you really didn’t see often in St. Louis, even with the visiting fellows.
But okay…
I grabbed one of the paper bowls from the cabinet and used a spoon to put half my Chinese food in a bowl.
He took it, but his face fell when he saw what was in the Styrofoam dish. “Ah, I thought you were having Chinese food.”
“That is Chinese food,” I answer.
“Then why is it covered in gravy?” he asks.
I laughed. “Welcome to Black St. Louis, Dr. Prince. Our version of Chinese food is a mashup of the basic boring kind you find in most places and Black soul food. So that’s basically pork fried rice smothered in Egg Foo Young gravy.”
“Oh, I see.” Dr. Prince nods as if he understands. But then he asks, “And could you explain to me what Egg Foo Young gravy is?”
Once again I found myself trying not to laugh. “They don’t have that in England?”
“No, they don’t have this particular dish where I come from.”
“Well Egg Foo Young’s kind of like this fried egg pancakey omelet sort of dish. We also make a sandwich called the St. Paul with it—it’s pretty famous, at least around here. But anyway when you have egg foo young alone, this is the gravy they put over it. And if you’re real St. Louis like my roommate, you order pork fried rice and gravy off menu. St. Louis Style Chinese food is like a whole Food Network documentary. So, why don’t you just try it and tell me what you think?”
I sat down at the table and beckoned him forward. Like I did with my junior-high-school-age twin stepsiblings when I was encouraging them to try new things.
“Do you at least have chopsticks?”
“Man, you are not in London anymore,” I answered. “Sit your butt down and try this on already.”
He sat down across from me with the bowl I’d given him. And I had to suppress a smile at the way he hesitantly dipped the spoon into the dish, lifted it slowly, then finally gave it the smallest of nibbles.
I took back what I said about him being like the twins. He was even worse.
But then his eyes widened. “It’s good,” he exclaimed. “It’s actually good!”
I laughed, loving his reaction to the comfort food that had gotten me through so many twelve-hour shifts. “When I came to St. Louis for nursing school after growing up in Guadalajara, I wanted to slap my mama for never telling me Chinese food could taste so good. She grew up here.”
He raises his eyebrows. “So you grew up in Mexico, but your mother is from St. Louis?”
“No, I grew up in Guadalajara, Missouri. It’s a small town, a couple hours west of here. Missouri also has towns called Paris, Amsterdam, and Cairo. My mom went to high school in a city called Normandy and lived in a neighborhood called Beverly Hills. Missouri loves borrowing names like that.”
He finishes his bite before responding with, “You’re naming conventions are certainly more interesting than the ones in England. For most of my formative years, I attended a very English boarding school in a very English town. No whimsy about it.”
“Wow, that sounds boring.”
“It was actually,” he agreed with a laugh.
God, he’s handsome when he laughs. The thought comes without warning. And suddenly it feels like I’m in high school again. Back when I was still capable of things like crushes and being surprised when a boy I thought was cute turned out to like me too.
We continued eating in comfortable silence after that. But then he asked, “The Fine Prince? Is that truly what they call me behind my back.”
“Yup,” I answered. “But not me. I just call you plain old Dr. Prince.”
“You also have a nickname if you didn’t know already,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “And a reputation.”
I raised both my eyebrows right on back at him. “For real?”
“Yes, for real,” he said. His tone stayed casual, but I was pretty sure I detected an underlying note of petty glee. “If you’re wondering about my cool attitude toward you, it’s because I’ve been warned by quite a few of your spurned admirers not to pursue anything with Nurse America.”
I had to give him credit. As clapbacks went, his wasn’t half-bad. But then he ruined the effect by screwing up his face and admitting, “I don’t understand the nickname, but I have heard you called that.”
I shrugged and shook my head. “It’s a reference
to this dumb thing I did a couple of years ago. A national pageant called Beauty Queen of America—though most people call it Queen America for short. I was crowned Princess Missouri before that, but when I competed in the big Queen America competition I didn’t win. So calling me Nurse America isn’t exactly right.”
“Ah…” he said with a nod. “Then I won’t call you that. Even behind your back.”
Something warm fluttered in her chest. “Thank you.”
I graced him with a beauty queen smile before returning to my food. I was down to my last few bites. And for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I found myself eating way slower. Taking the time to chew each and every spoonful instead of wolfing down my post-shift reward meal like I usually do.
Lingering.
The word floated into my head like a third-grade spelling challenge.
Yes, I admitted to myself. I was lingering. Wanting this unexpected meal with The Fine Prince to last longer than it needed.
He was eating slower too, I noticed. Maybe because he was full. Or maybe he, too, felt the tension hanging in the air between us. Tight with unspoken thoughts.
“You know, what you told your friends wasn’t correct,” he said, breaking the new silence first.
“What wasn’t?” I asked, pausing the spoon above my last bite of food.
“I don’t only date White girls, as you called them. I’m quite open. And if I seemed cold, I’m sorry.” He averts his eyes. “I find it difficult to interact with especially attractive women as they make me nervous. It’s a byproduct of spending my formative years at an all-boys boarding school I’m afraid.”
Especially attractive women…wait a minute, he’s talking about me!
My heart stuttered.
“Oh, really?” Oh, God, why was my voice squeaky and weak?
I cussed inwardly. Really, Princess Missouri, really? You can play piano flawlessly for millions of people around the world. But you can’t keep your voice from going all squeaky when a hot doc starts flirting with you?
“Yes, really.” He put his plastic spoon down on a napkin beside his bowl. “Perhaps we should talk further about your many misperceptions of me…over dinner.”
I scooped up my last bite of pork fried rice and gravy. Chewed it slowly and swallowed it down.
He waited patiently for me to finish, but I think we both knew even before he asked me out what my answer would be.
That night he took me out to Dressel’s, a popular farm-to-table restaurant that was just a five-minute drive from the hospital.
And that’s when I learned he had twelve names not three. “My mother is Welsh and my father is—well, it’s a long boring story. But I’d prefer if you called me Rhys.”
So I did.
Chapter Three
Three years later, that first date replays in my head as I say to Rhys,” This is my father’s practice! You can’t just fire me.”
Dr. Haim stands up from his desk to agree. “No, you can’t fire her. I mean, sure, she’s late. Rather perennially I’ll admit. But other than that, she’s an extraordinary nurse.”
“Thank you for handing over the keys to the practice,” Rhys answers as if he didn’t hear either of our protests. “I’ll be returning to the hotel now. Please get in contact with my lawyer if you have any other questions about the binding contract we’ve both signed and notarized.”
With that, he gathers what looks like an expensive wool coat and walks past me to the door. Without so much as a second look or word of acknowledgment.
Dr. Haim gapes after him. “I’m sorry, Cynda. I had no idea he would do that. I assumed he would keep you on. In fact, I’m still not sure why he fired you so automatically.”
“We used to work together. At Raines Jewish.” I shake my head in an unbelieving daze. How is he here? Why is he here?
“Oh, I see,” Dr. Haim answers, his voice weak with confusion. “Were you tardy then often too?”
“No, I was always on time,” I answer, still looking toward the door Rhys left out of. “In fact most days I was early.”
“Then why did he…”
I launch forward, running after Rhys before my former boss can finish asking that question.
I can’t. I can’t let him fire me. I need this job and I still don’t have a renter for the back house. My plan to move to Pittsburgh will be ruined if he fires me!
I run out of the office and cut left to chase after Rhys.
“Rhys! Rhys!” I yell, when I see him walking toward Guadalajara’s only hotel in his fine wool coat.
He keeps on walking.
“I know you hear me. Slow down, Rhys. Hold on!”
If anything, my words only make him walk faster. And I have to put more cardio than I’m used to these days into running fast enough to catch up with him.
I’m out of breath by the time I jump in front of him. “Wait, Rhys! Please listen to me. I’ve got two step-siblings depending on me. I need this job. So please don’t do this. Don’t fire me. I’m begging you.”
He looks down at me for a long, hard moment.
Then he hands me back a smile so cold, it chills me to the bone. “Thank you for begging. It makes my revenge that much sweeter. Now out of my way.”
I draw back, nearly choking on outrage.
“So this is about revenge?” I ask him. “Why? Because of that fling we had three years ago? How are you not over that?”
Rhys jerks, like I slapped him instead of asking him some perfectly reasonable questions about his completely insane actions.
Then he pushes past me. Again.
This time I don’t bother to run after him.
Oh, God, what just happened?
The answer to that question whips back into my face along with the cold March wind.
I’ve been fired.
And as for my beloved father’s practice…
My extremely bitter ex owns it now.
After my showdown with Rhys, I immediately head across town to Guadalajara Baptist Hospital to apply for a job. Thank goodness for GuacBap as us Guacamoles call it.
When I decided to stay on in Guadalajara after my father’s death, I made a conscious decision to work for Dr. Haim instead of applying there. The pay was much, much shittier, but it was my father’s practice. Also, Dr. Haim ended his office hours at four unless there was an unexpected emergency, which meant I had more time to spend with the twins after they got home from school. Besides GuacBap was all the way on the opposite side of town, which meant I’d never be able to walk to work. I figured a job at the hospital would always be there if I needed it.
And now I needed it.
Driving over there, I’m a little happy Rhys fired me. I wouldn’t have wanted to work with his crazy behind anyway. And the hospital’s pay scale for RNs was almost double what I made with Dr. Haim. A job with GuacBap would mean I’d be able to save enough money for the apartment in Pittsburgh and pay all our bills for as long as it took for me to sell the house.
Take that Rhys! I thought to myself as I strode through the hospital’s sliding doors.
But as it turns out, I was wrong about how easy it would be to score a job at the only hospital between my house and St. Louis.
“Sorry, girl,” my friend Yolanda told me as soon as I asked her if there was anything available.
Yolanda and I had attended school together all the way from first grade to high school, and we’d even roomed together when we both moved to St. Louis to attend SLU’s School of Nursing.
Technically, she worked in Case Management, not the Emergency Department. But us Black Guacs tended to bypass pesky little obstacles like HR and go straight to our longtime friends for the hook up when it came to jobs. “You know, normally I’d make sure your application went straight to the top of the pile, but with this COVID mess on, there’s been a hiring freeze. So far nobody here has it…”
“That we know of,” I feel obligated to point out.
“That’s for sure right,” Yolanda agrees, raising
a church hand. “But everybody’s afraid to come to the hospital because they don’t want to get it. And for all we know, they’ll be calling all our behinds into St. Louis if there’s a huge outbreak there. So right now the administration’s answer to all that uncertainty is not hiring anybody till we get these patient numbers up. But if I hear of something, you know you’ll be my first call.”
I thank her and promise to send her my resume. Then I trudge back out to my car. What am I going to do?
The sound of a horn interrupts my self-pity party, just as I’m reaching for my door handle.
“Hey, Princess Missouri, what you doing on this side of town?”
I look up to find Mavis, an organic farmer who lives about forty miles outside of town, leaning out the window of her old Chevy truck like she can’t wait to hear my answer. Over the years, I’ve become used to seeing the older Black woman at least once a month while assisting Dr. Haim on the Saturday rounds for the farmers who live way outside of town. And I know for a fact that she’s in her late sixties. But she’s wearing a long curly red wig underneath her bandana, and that makes her look decades younger.
“Visiting with a friend,” I lie as I dutifully walk over to her truck to talk. I’ve dropped a lot of the polite manners my mom insisted I pretend to have growing up. But I know she’d strike me dead from heaven if I didn’t show my Black elder the proper respect.
“In the middle of the day? Is everything alright with you and Doc Haim?”
I inwardly roll my eyes. I don’t know how they act in the real Guadalajara, but Missouri Guacs will literally stop in the middle of the road to get that gossip.
“How about you?” I ask instead of answering her question. “What are you doing over here?”
“Just passin’ through actually. I’m headed into St. Louis for the weekend. Wanted to get these wares to the Lafayette Farmers Market before they try to shut us all down because of that Rona virus.”
My heart pangs. Rhys and I had spent many a lazy Saturday at the Lafayette Farmers’ Market. We’d sample the wares and talk very seriously about eating something other than takeout “when we had time.“ But I always cut that fantasy scenario short before we reached Mavis’s organic stand. I’d told myself it was because I didn’t want to give Mavis any gossip to carry back to Guadalajara….
Cynda and the City Doctor: 50 Loving States, Missouri (QUARANTALES Book 1) Page 3
