The Nurse's Not-So-Secret Scandal

by Wendy S. Marcus

  About a minute later Roxie strolled in with a brightly colored “Feel Better Soon” balloon floating from a red ribbon wrapped around her palm. “You’ve got Helen all in a tizzy. For a seemingly laid-back guy, you are one terrible patient.” She plopped a grocery bag with his clothes on the foot of his bed.

  “Take this out of me, will you?” Fig held up his left arm to show her his IV.

  “I’m not on duty, and I’m not your nurse.”

  Fig tried to pick at the tape, only to find his right hand next to useless.

  “Stop that.”

  Fig looked up at her, waited until her eyes met his so she’d know he was serious. “I am going home.” He retched. Damn it.

  Roxie grabbed the bowl and thrust it under his chin. He spit.

  “He’s having a bad reaction to anesthesia.” His nurse returned. “Since it’s so late, Dr. Rosen wants to admit him overnight.”

  “I am not staying. Take this out.” He held up his left arm. Or he’d find a way to rip it out himself. “You can’t keep me here. I know my rights.”

  His nurse shook her head.

  “Tell Dr. Rosen he can release Fig to my care. Ask him to prescribe a couple of Phenergan suppositories.”

  “I don’t need to be released into anyone’s care.” Just dump him in his bed, let him sleep off this whole experience and he’d be back to normal come morning. Fig slid his legs over the side of the bed and fought against a swirl of dizziness to remain upright.

  “Tell me what I need to know,” Roxie said to the nurse, who handed her some papers.

  “The surgery went well. The splint stays on for seven to ten days. He needs to call Dr. Rosen’s office on Monday to schedule his first post-op visit. If all goes well, he’ll likely be placed in a hard cast for six weeks.” She sorted through the papers she’d handed Roxie and pulled one out. “He needs to begin active digit and shoulder range of motion exercises daily as of tomorrow. This is the instruction sheet. Oral pain medication every four to six hours as needed.” The nurse looked at him. “If he can tolerate it.”

  “Stop talking like I’m not here.” He dumped out the bag. Bless Roxie for bringing him sweatpants and a loose tee with big armholes so he could dress himself. He stood. Wobbled.

  Roxie caught him up against her. “What’s your rush? Got a hot date?”

  He flashed her the best smile he could manage considering he felt so crappy. “Smokin’ hot,” he said, because Roxie was.

  “Keep the arm elevated,” the nurse went on. “Check nail beds and report any deepening or change in color. Sling with elbow at ninety-degrees flexion. You know all this stuff,” she added.

  “Yeah, but I want him to hear it.” She pivoted Fig back to the bed and he sat. “Is it okay with you if I discontinue the IV?” Roxie asked the nurse.

  “Go ahead.” The plump woman turned away. “I’ll call in for the new med orders.”

  Roxie removed the annoying tube from his arm and, after applying pressure, put on a gauze-and-tape dressing. “I’ll help you get dressed,” she offered.

  “I don’t need help,” Fig said. He relied on no one. Trusted no one.

  “All righty, then,” she said, plopping into the chair facing his bed, leaning back and crossing her legs. “Get to it.”

  She wasn’t going to force her assistance on him or lecture him about accepting help when he needed it? Well, what d’ya know? He decided to put on his pants first. Unfortunately for him, in the aftermath of his surgery and interminable retching, the simple act of untangling his clothing and shaking out his sweatpants tired him out. Pushing through it, he held the waistband in his left hand, leaned forward, planning to thread his feet into the leg holes—and kept on going.

  Roxie caught him again. “You keep winding up in my arms and people are going to talk.”

  She sat him up.

  “What do you think they’ll say?” he asked, glad she kept the conversation light and casual instead of pointing out how weak and dizzy he was and how ludicrous it was for him to think he could go home on his own.

  She knelt on the floor, slid the sweatpants up to his knees and lifted the hems until his feet popped out. Then she stood, hooked both hands under his armpits and helped him stand. “Probably something like, ‘What is it about Roxie that even drugged-up post-op patients can’t keep their hands—or in your case, hand—off of her?’”

  He pulled up his pants with his left hand, dropped back onto the bed and waited for her to comment that he hadn’t bothered with the underwear she’d brought for him. She didn’t. “I bet they all wish they had your allure.” He untied his gown at the neck and took it off. Then he eyed the shirt, trying to decide the best approach to put it on.

  She laughed. “Is that what I have?” She stepped between his thighs, picked up the shirt and carefully worked it up his bandaged arm. “Allure?”

  “In spades.” He looked up at her. Roxie stretched the neck opening over his head. With her help, he pushed his left arm in then pulled the shirt over his belly.

  She moved the chair close to the bed and pulled one of his feet into her lap. “You sweet-talker.” And without another word, she slid on his sock and sneaker, tied his laces then did the same with the other foot.

  The nurse returned. “You need to sign these papers.” She pushed them across his over-the-bed table and handed him a pen.

  How was he supposed to sign with his left hand? To get out of there, he’d find a way. He picked up the pen. Dropped it. Picked it up again, this time holding it tighter. Then, in a very careful—yet still illegible—attempt at a signature, and without reading a word, Fig signed every place the nurse pointed.

  That done, he was free to leave. He went to stand.

  “Hold up,” Roxie said. “I’m going to run to the pharmacy to get your prescriptions filled, then I’ll drive the car around. I’ll call up to the nurses’ station when I’m ready for you and your nurse will wheel you down.”

  “I’d rather go with you.”

  Roxie put her hand on his shoulder. “I know. But it’s better if you rest for a few minutes.” She plumped his pillow. “Lie back.”

  He did. Surprised at how good it felt.

  “And you really need to try to drink.”

  His stomach clenched. “Would you pick me up a bottle of water or ginger ale?”

  “Sure,” she said, without question.

  A short time later his nurse pushed him through the electronic doors leading to the outside, and the band of anxiety that’d tightened around his chest since he’d first arrived at the hospital loosened, enabling Fig to inhale a deep breath of fresh air. Freedom.

  Roxie got out of her little red car—leaving his balloon floating in the backseat—and walked around the front of it to open the door for him.

  A huge silver Mercedes crossover skidded to a stop, missing Roxie’s rear fender by inches. It looked just like… It couldn’t be.

  His mother climbed out of the front passenger door. How the hell did she…?

  “Oh, thank goodness, we’re just in time,” she yelled. “Wheel him over here. He’ll be coming home with us.”

  “No,” Fig said, rage using up what little energy he’d racked up from his rest.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s not well. Come. Come.” His mother opened the rear door and waited, doing her best Impatient Lady of Power impersonation. His father stood and watched, like he always did, unwilling to make any attempt to control her.

  Roxie came to stand beside him.

  “What did you do?” he snapped. He didn’t have the energy to deal with his mother’s relentless efforts to get her way.

  “Me?” Roxie asked. “I answered your phone—after the third time it rang in as many minutes, might I add—because I
didn’t want her to worry that you weren’t picking up. I had no idea she’d charge into town and swoop down on us in full motherly dudgeon at the thought of someone else taking care of you.”

  “Swoop?” his mother said. “I most certainly do not swoop.”

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” his nurse said. “Pick a car. Either car.”

  “The red one,” Fig said.

  “That vile creature must be the girl from the bar,” his mother said to his father in a loud whisper audible to everyone within fifty feet of them. The way she said “girl” made her low opinion of the girl in question crystal clear.

  “Mom,” Fig warned.

  “Yes,” Roxie said, unfazed. “That would be me. The shiksa.” She held out her hand to his mother, who now stood within reach. “I go by Roxie.”

  Fig tried to hide his smile. To his knowledge, his mom had never come across anyone like Roxie before. If he didn’t feel so close to passing out he would have sat back and enjoyed the encounter.

  His mother looked at Roxie like she had open sores. “What kind of…woman would stand between a mother and her son?” she yelled, clutching at her chest in a performance that garnered the attention of several passersby. “A shameless gold digger,” she answered her own question then waited for Roxie’s reaction.

  “I’ve been called a lot of things in my day, and I’ll cop to the ‘shameless,’ but ‘gold digger’ is a new one for me,” Roxie said, stepping behind his wheelchair and pushing him toward her car. “You holding out on me, Fig?” She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Obviously I’ve been too free with my favors. From now on I’m going to hold out for some bling.”

  Only Roxie could make him smile at that precise moment in time.

  “His name is Ryan,” his mother snapped. “And he is coming home with me.” She grabbed Roxie’s arm.

  Roxie stopped. “He’s a grown man. Why don’t we ask him what he wants to do?” She walked in front of the wheelchair. “Who are you going home with?”

  Since neither would have accepted that he wanted to go home alone and all he needed was a ride, Fig said, “You,” to Roxie. Then he picked up the plastic bowl in his lap and retched.

  “Oh, dear,” his mother cried out.

  “Get me out of here,” he said to Roxie.

  “I am a registered nurse, Mrs. Figelstein, so you don’t have to worry.” Roxie pushed him the rest of the way to her car. “I’ll take good care of him.” She locked the wheels. “I’ve discussed the discharge orders with the recovery room nurse. I’ve picked up his medications, and I’ll thank you to remove your hand from my arm so I can assist him into my car without hurting you.”

  “Where is she taking you, honey?” his mom asked. “I’ll come by to get you settled in.”

  “Go home, Mom.”

  “I can’t believe this,” she said dramatically, dabbing at her eyes. “I dropped everything to travel for hours so I could be here to take care of you in your time of need, and you’re turning me away?” she sobbed.

  “I didn’t ask you to come.” He didn’t want her here, didn’t want her anywhere near him when he wasn’t operating at full capacity.

  “We’ll follow you. Get in the car, Albert.”

  With a steadying hand from Roxie, Fig stood and stared down his mother. “If you come anywhere near where I’m staying, I will cut you out of my life for good. Same rules as my apartment. I mean it.”

  “It’s okay,” Roxie said in his ear. “I can handle her.”

  People only thought they could handle his mother. No one recognized her for the master manipulator she was until it was too late.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Fig said to his mother.

  “You always say you’ll call, but you never do,” his mother countered.

  “Because you don’t give me a chance to.”

  “I’ll call you tonight. To see if you need anything. We’ll find a motel.”

  “Don’t call me tonight because my phone will be off. And don’t call me tomorrow because I’m getting a new number and I am not giving it to you.”

  His mother clutched at her heart again. “Oh, the pain of watching my son turn his back on me. After all I’ve done for him. My pills, Albert. Where are my pills?”

  “Enough,” Fig said. “You got me home last weekend with your unnecessary trip to the emergency room. The doctor said you’ll outlive us all. Go home, Mom. If I need you, I’ll call you.”

  With one last look at his mother’s shocked face, Fig slid into the car, pulled the door closed and relaxed back in his seat.

  When Roxie pulled out of the hospital parking lot, she glanced in her rearview mirror. “Woo wee. I thought for sure they’d follow us and I’d have to show off some of my tricky-bo-dicky driving skills to lose them.” She actually sounded a bit disappointed at the missed opportunity. “I think on the scale of one to crazy, I’d rather have an inattentive, introverted, hoarding mother than a manipulative, histrionic, attention-seeking one,” Roxie said matter-of-factly as she turned into Kyle’s condo complex.

  Just like that, at first meeting, Roxie had his mother’s true nature pegged. “Neither one is a prize,” Fig said, his stomach not feeling so good.

  “You got that right,” Roxie agreed. “So your mom’s the reason you missed our date?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Because I knew it was a ploy to get me home, but I let her suck me in with her tears and her desperate pleas. I was angry at her and myself. I didn’t want you to think I was a pansy mama’s boy running home every time she called.” His stomach clenched. “I think I’m going to be sick.” And he was.

  Hours later—after he’d waited until his abdominal muscles ached like he’d been beaten and he felt so tired and drained he could barely lift his head—Fig allowed Roxie to give him the nausea medication. He appreciated that she did it quickly and efficiently and without making a big deal out of it. In fact she chattered on about random nothingness the entire time. “You smell like chicken soup,” Fig pointed out after she’d finished; the smell not at all appealing.

  “That’s because while you were in here suffering and not allowing me to do anything for you, I made us a pot of my delicious chicken soup.” She stripped off her exam glove and walked to the garbage. “Well, Mrs. Klein’s delicious chicken soup. But she wasn’t the one who spent the past three hours peeling, stirring and straining it, now, was she?”

  Fig retched.

  Roxie returned to the bed, sat down and rubbed his back. “The medicine should kick in in a few minutes. Don’t worry, I won’t force-feed you the soup tonight—even though you’re not drinking near as much as you should be. Mrs. Klein always said it needs to sit overnight in the fridge so you can strain the fat in the morning.”

  At least that’d buy him some time.

  “I wish you had asked me first. I don’t like chicken soup,” he lied. He used to love it until he’d figured out it was one of the many food sources his mother had probably used to poison him.

  * * *

  The next morning Roxie lay in bed listening to Fig’s shallow breaths, watching his peaceful expression and relishing the warm, cozy feeling of waking up with him—even though she was the only one awake. She wished she could confide in him and tell him the truth about Johnny and the video. Seek his counsel on what she should do. But regardless of how close they’d become in such a short time, she barely knew him, had no idea how he’d react, and she wasn’t ready to give him up. Not yet.

  He stirred, gave a tiny stretch and turned onto his side. He’d be up soon. So she quietly slid out of bed and headed to the kitchen to get breakfast started.

  So what if he didn’t like chicken soup? She liked it. And once upon a time Mami had liked i
t. She could pack some up for Ali and Jared and Victoria and Kyle. It would not go to waste.

  But she’d made it for Fig. Making chicken soup for someone was a labor of love, Mrs. Klein used to say. While Roxie didn’t love Fig, he’d been a good friend to her when she’d really needed one. He’d taken down her video. He’d stood up for her to the fire marshal, and he’d given her a place to stay. He’d accompanied her to the hospital—twice—when he hated hospitals. So she wanted to demonstrate her appreciation by doing something special for him. That he didn’t like, and didn’t even appear interested in tasting, the soup she’d worked so hard on was disappointing.

  But it wasn’t the first disappointment she’d ever suffered, and most likely would not be the last. Roxie shook it off and opened the fridge. She took out the eggs and milk she’d bought yesterday—because Fig didn’t have enough food in his refrigerator to feed a gerbil. She slid two pieces of split-top wheat bread into the toaster—in case all he could stomach was toast—and filled the kettle—in case he felt up to some coffee.

  On the chance he was as hungry as she thought he’d be after last night’s ordeal, she also got started on making him a nice “thanks for everything, I think you’re special” breakfast.

  Roxie cracked five eggs into a bowl and took down the cinnamon and vanilla and found she couldn’t stop smiling. She loved playing pretend girlfriend, working in Kyle’s bright kitchen cooking for her temporary man. If she’d been able to find a frilly apron in one of the drawers, she would have put it on and danced around—in a room devoid of clutter where she actually had space to prepare a decent meal and had access to pots and utensils without having to search for them.

  “Whatever you’re doing, stop,” Fig commanded from the doorway to the bedroom. “Give me a minute and I’ll make you breakfast.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Roxie said. “You’ve only got one functioning arm and I’ve got two.” She held them up and wiggled her fingers. “Besides, I’ve already started. Pick your poison. French toast made with delicious challah bread. Eggs. An omelet. Toast. Coffee. Oh, and there’s O.J. in the fridge but I wasn’t sure if you were a juice drinker in the morning.”