by C. M. Lally
“I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out sounding like a foreign language and I bite my tongue. “Outh.”
“Ava, your lips are swelling and you’ve got hives on your face,” he exclaims in panic. “Your color is fading. What are you allergic too?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nuffing,” I try to say, but it comes out gruff and breathy. He shakes his head like he can’t make out what I’m saying. I turn quickly and grab a pen and sticky note, writing ‘no allergies’ on it. He grabs the phone on my desk and dials 9-1-1 just as the coughing and wheezing starts. I try to take a long sip of my water but start to choke. He starts patting me on the back to help my air flow. I can hear him calmly tell the operator where we are. He tells whoever is on the line that he’ll take me to the lobby and wait for the paramedics, and then he hangs up the phone. He darts out my office door yelling, “Does anyone have any Benadryl or an Epi-pen?” No one responds. Everyone must be at lunch.
I race down the hallway in the direction of his voice hollering and slam into him as he rounds the corner. I’m clutching my throat and wheezing loudly; his face flushes with panic. He slaps the down button on the elevator, but it’s running too slow. He grabs my hand and we both race to the stairwell. Our feet are a mangled mess as we stomp down each stair, rounding each bend in a push and pull manner with our hands intertwined. His legs are longer than mine, so he’s ahead of me slightly pulling me along. I’m used to descending stairs in my workout, but I’ll admit, this is so much harder when you have to fight for every breath.
We finally reach the final exit door marked ‘Lobby’ and he pulls it open effortlessly. His adrenaline has kicked in, not even slightly winded from five flights of running. The wailing of the ambulance roars closer and I watch it screech to a halt in the circular driveway just as we near the front doors. Dante pulls me back to let them enter instead of me going out. “Stay here,” he commands. “It’s hot out there. You might as well have air conditioning to help you breathe easier.” He motions to them that I’m the one who needs assistance, and suddenly I’m surrounded by everyone in the lobby. Our hands fall apart and he steps back, letting them work on me as the paramedics lay me down on a stretcher.
They are efficient in their movements. They don’t ask too many questions, understanding that I can’t talk. I look up and see Dante speaking to a member of their team, probably giving them the full story of what I ate. He hands the paramedic the sticky note I gave him. I feel the sting of the Epi-pen as it injects into my thigh and the prick of the I.V.
The next thing I know, I’m wheeled outside through the double doors towards the ambulance. Someone must have retrieved my purse because it’s stuffed into my side and strapped in with me. Tears well up in my eyes. I’m scared beyond belief, and can’t talk. My eyes dart back and forth trying to gain the attention of someone, anyone that will pay attention. My lips feel like the thin layers of my skin are singed and peeling back from my face. People die of anaphylaxis, and no one is telling me I’m going to be okay. Am I going to be okay?
“Ava,” Dante says, placing his hand on my shoulder. “They are going to take you to Mercy Hospital, okay? I’ll be with you the entire time. I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to be okay.” He pats my shoulder in assurance, squeezing it tight. I shake my head in agreement, letting him know I understand. He steps back as they lift me up into the rear of the vehicle, and climbs in after me.
He settles on the bench that’s built into the rear, and reaches out taking my hand in his. His thumb draws circles on my inner wrist, sending goosebumps up my arm. The constant swirling relaxes me for the ride. We race through the city street lights as the siren blares. All I can think of is that I want to crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment. I’m sure my face is a frightened mess.
The paramedic checks my vital signs again, and scribbles down some notes on his clipboard. He asks Dante more specific and personal questions about me that he doesn’t know the answer to. I reach inside my purse and feel around for my wallet, handing it to the man to review my driver’s license. The look on Dante’s face is pure appreciation.
We arrive within a few minutes and they take me inside quickly. The whole intake process is seamless and efficient. Within moments of arriving, I’m branded allergic with a large red label wrapped around my wrist. My face goes hot again with more embarrassment, only this time I feel dizzy. Now I know how cows feel when they get tagged and branded. It’s humiliating to wear a label, and I want to let my tears rain down my face, but I can’t. I have a feeling I’m about to be poked and prodded, and right now, tears won’t help so I keep them welled up inside.
They wheel me back to a private area separate from the other emergency room pens, and I watch another red ‘allergic’ label get taped to the outside curtain. Branded. I don’t like it. It eats at the very core of me. It’s no different than ‘weird’ or ‘ugly’ or ‘fat’. Ugh. Labels are for bullies. Might as well slap a bumper sticker on me that reads ‘she’s different and therefore, unworthy’.
I thought I had left all of my labels behind from my childhood. I fought so hard to shake them by putting all of my effort into being ‘normal’.
Every action and thought is methodical so that I’m not made fun of. I eat right and exercise daily. I dress professionally, and I don’t follow trends that go out of style quickly leaving me to look like a fool. I also work hard at being a team player for my colleagues; working quickly through obstacles that might hinder me.
Those childhood labels seem to have been traded for other ‘adult’ labels. New labels that are more business oriented, but I’m proud of one of them: corporate ladder climber. It’s just a slang term for goal-oriented, and that’s something I definitely am. The other more unsavory labels I ignore because they’re petty: gold-digger, ass kisser, and bitch. I don’t quite know where ‘allergic’ is going to fit in, but it still makes me seem weak, and I don’t like it.
A beautiful woman in a gorgeous gold dress pulls the curtain back, and smiles first at Dante and then me. He stands and shakes her hand before they both step towards me. “Hi, Miss Kimball. I’m Dr. Rojas. How are you feeling?” she asks.
They both wait patiently for me to respond. “I’m fine,” I breathe, harshly.
“Okay, don’t speak any further. You’re vocal chords are still inflamed, and we don’t want to cause any further damage in having you speak,” she advises. “As you are probably aware, you’ve eaten something, an allergen, which your body is trying to attack as a foreign substance, causing this massive inflammation and wheezing, known as anaphylaxis. With proper monitoring and medical care, you will recover quickly and be on your way shortly. You’ve been given an antihistamine to reduce your symptoms, and steroids to keep your airways open to assist with normal breathing. They should not return, but within the next five to seven days, I highly advise you to make an appointment with an allergist for testing to check the extent of your allergies to avoid them in the future. Knowledge is power and will keep you alive. Understand?”
I shake my head, and watch her type a few notes into the computer system before turning to smile and leave. As soon as she is gone, a nurse comes in with some ice and a water pitcher offering me something to drink, finally. I take a long draw of the cool water through the straw, completely parched. Dante watches in amusement, chuckling as I practically drink the entire cup in one drink. He quickly refills it from the pitcher and places it in front of me again.
“Wow. You must be dehydrated. Drink up if you have to,” he chuckles again under his breath. I narrow my eyes at him, getting angry. “Don’t tease me,” I whisper in the harshest voice possible. “I don’t like it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, snapping his heels together and saluting me like I’m a general giving commands.
All I can do is snap and wag my index finger at him, mouthing the word ‘stop’. He notes the angry set of my jaw and my narrowed eyes, as he plucks a white tissue from the box and waves it at me. Truce. Yes, Dante, truce. I’m
too tired to fight right now. I close my eyes and shut out the world.
Chapter 7 – Dante
SLEEPING BEAUTY. THAT’S what I’m going to call her from now on. Too bad I’m not the prince that gets to kiss those sweet lips and wake her from her sleep. For now, I’ll settle for being the lucky man that gets her all to myself behind this curtain.
I don’t know when they will release her from here or how we’re getting home, but for now, I’m content to just sit and watch her breathe. Her chest rises and falls softly in the dull blue hospital gown someone else helped her into before I was allowed to come back and sit with her. A small, jagged scar puckers the skin under her chin and suddenly I want to hear the story of how it came to mar her delicate skin. Her cheeks still glow with a light rose tint, illuminating her entire face. It looks like she’s constantly bathed in moonlight. I wonder what she does look like in the moonlight. Her eye shadow shimmers in the harsh light of the room with the slight twitching of her eyelids; she must be dreaming.
She sighs in her sleep and throws her hand out to her side, grazing mine. That slight skin to skin contact hardens my dick. The nurse comes in right at that moment to take her vitals, and I shift in my seat to cover my raging bulge. She stares at her hand on mine the whole time she pumps the blood pressure cuff, making me even more uncomfortable. She‘s probably wondering why I’m not holding her hand.
When did I start caring what other people thought of me? Or is it just today? Maybe it’s all things connected with Ava? Is this the invisible string that Tito was talking about? These little subtle changes that I’m noticing since she swept into my life— they all point to her.
The nurse notes her vitals in her chart, and turns to me. “As soon as she wakes up, you can take her home. Just let me know and I’ll bring her discharge papers in to sign,” she whispers.
“I can wake her. You probably need the space,” I reply, standing and stretching my back muscles.
“No, please don’t. She’s fine and needs to rest,” she assures me. “This is what we call the adrenaline crash. It always happens after anaphylaxis. The body gets all keyed up for fight or flight, and when the event is over the adrenaline subsides and the body crashes into exhaustion and sleeps. Please sit and rest. We aren’t that busy.”
I do as she instructs, but pull my chair closer to the bed. My own body is tired. Ava woke me up earlier than expected and I had my own adrenaline rush going on trying to get her some help. I fold my arms over onto the bed and rest my head against them, blocking out the light in the room.
FINGERNAILS ARE SOFTLY scraping the hair on the nape of my neck in long even strokes. Every few light caresses, the hair on the top of my head is played with, pushing it to the one side of my forehead. I twitch slightly in my dream; the touch is ticklish and light like a teasing lover’s touch. When one of the caresses touches my ear, I jerk awake. Sitting up, I look around through squinted eyes as the fluorescent light casts a halo around the room.
Ava’s face comes into focus with her shy smile beaming. Warmth floods my chest as I realize she was the one caressing me in my dream. No, in reality. Her hand was mid-air getting ready to push my hair off my forehead again. She lowers it down to her side bashfully, and plays with some loose strings hanging from the blanket. Her almond-shaped eyes are lowered, keeping her shyness contained. “Hey, how are you feeling?” I ask, pushing myself to sit up straight.
“I feel much better, thank you. I don’t know what came over me, but all of the sudden I couldn’t keep my eyes open,” she explains, her voice is clearer but still a little rough and tight. She wipes at her eyes to remove the last signs of sleep from them. Her hand comes up to her mouth to cover a very big yawn. I yawn too and she starts to giggle.
“What are you giggling at?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing. It’s just a family game that I play with my little brother about yawning. It’s silly,” she says, and starts fiddling with her hair by removing her ponytail holder and raking her fingers through it; she’s attempting to change the subject but I’m not going to let her.
“C’mon, tell me the game? I love games. I’ll play it with you,” I practically beg. She looks at me out of the side of her eye, probably trying to gauge if I’m serious or not. Her almond-shaped eyes are soft and endearing, making me want to play anything with her. “Unless you’re afraid you’ll lose?”
“I’m darn good at it since I’ve been playing it for years,” she exclaims, clearly challenging me. “I’m sure I’ll win, but you’re pretty cocky for a man that doesn’t even know the rules.”
You’d never know this woman just went through an epic health event, but she threw down the challenge and I’m going to accept. “Bring it on,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, sitting up straighter and preparing for battle. “When someone yawns, you have to do whatever you can to make that person stop yawning...like pinching their nose or making them laugh, and sometimes it gets as crazy as dancing. The object of the game is to get them to stop yawning because it’s contagious. You don’t want to start yawning too. Understand?”
“And what happens if I start to yawn?” I ask. She finishes twisting her hair around her ponytail and tucks it into the banding.
“The game continues until the yawning completely stops, and the winner is whoever stopped the last yawn,” she states, using the remote to raise the back of the bed to a sitting position. “I warn you though; this game can go on for a long time. It continues on until someone declares themselves the winner.”
And with perfect Solis timing, I yawn again—that shit is contagious. She reaches over and taps my nose, completely surprising me. “Alright, game on,” I say, smiling. “Oh! I almost forgot. The nurse said we can go when you wake up. Do you want to push the button to call her in? She has discharge papers for you.”
“Heck yeah. I want to go home,” she blurts out, and pushes the button hanging from the side of the bed. “How long do you think we have before she comes in? It’s 4:13 p.m. now.”
“I don’t know. Maybe two or three minutes,” I answer, sounding confused and not sure why she’s asking.
“I bet you one dollar that she takes longer than four minutes to respond,” she says, winking at me.
Who is this person sitting here with me? This is not the hard-nosed businesswoman from the radio station. She pulls the covers back to sit on the side of the bed and starts to swing her legs over, but mid-swing, her gown rides up allowing me to see the soft flesh of her inner thighs. My eyes creep further and I see the lace of her white panties. I quickly look down at my feet, pretending to not notice, but my dick bulges in my pants again, pushing against my zipper. I’m so uncomfortable right now. I need a distraction.
“You’re on,” I say, holding my fist out to bump hers. I really like this girl because when she returns my fist bump, she splays out her fingers in an explosion, just like my buddies and I do. I look up at her and her eyes are shining with amusement. How in the hell did I ever cause those doe-eyes to cry?
I stand and turn to reach for her clothes to help, but she quickly says, “Don’t bother, I’ll get them.” As she picks them up, the strap of her bra falls out of the neatly folded clothes, and she jostles to tuck it back in and out of my sight. I guess she thinks I’m not used to seeing lingerie. I’ve probably seen more lingerie in my lifetime than she has.
I move to the side and give her some space to get dressed, turning my back to her. The space is tiny enough as it is with the bed and chair. The sun has moved from the window and is hanging over the ocean. It’s definitely late afternoon. I can see her partial reflection in the glass, but ignore the temptation of sneaking a peek at her body with every bit of mental strength I have.
I bend over and stretch my arms to the floor, trying to loosen the tight muscles in my back from sleeping bent over. When I stand up again, she’s sliding her pants up under the hospital gown. I hear the zing of the zipper closing the front securely. I hear a slight elongated sighing noise escape her throat
. Out of the corner of my eye, I see she’s still messing with the buttons on her shirt, so I don’t dare turn around. Instead, I pick up one of the magazines sitting on the window sill and smack it against the window with a loud thud. She startles and jumps.
“Excuse me, but did you just yawn?” I ask, tapping the rolled up magazine against the palm of my hand waiting for her response.
She laughs, “Umm, yeah. I did. Darn it. Guess I lost that round.”
The curtain pulls back and the nurse strolls in. We both immediately look at the clock. It’s 4:16 p.m. “I win!” I exclaim. Her eyes fall, and she grudgingly reaches for her purse to fish out a one dollar bill. The nurse gives us both a quizzical look, but starts explaining the discharge instructions. She slaps the dollar bill in my hand and rolls her eyes, sighing loudly in aggravation for losing.
I tap the Lyft app on my phone and enter my address. It says someone could be here within five minutes, so I go ahead and schedule the ride.
Within fifteen minutes we are getting dropped off at her building. We both thank the driver, and I tap my phone app again to pay her with a nice tip. “Thanks for going with me today. I appreciate it,” Ava says, lowering her eyes and shuffling her feet on the broken concrete. “It was nice not to be alone.”
“Can I walk you upstairs just to make sure you get in safely?” I ask. “I want to make sure you don’t get weak with all that walking.”
“Sure, if you can handle five flights of stairs,” she teases me. “Be my guest.” She unlocks the door and I hold it open for her to pass through first. We both trudge up the stairs, getting more tired with each passing flight, but finally arrive at her door. We both lean against the wall, resting.
