by Gina Ardito
“That’s the sanitary television news version. Let’s hear your dirty details.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Bull.”
“No, really,” I replied. “I was asleep when the truck hit us. I woke up when I slammed against the side window. One of the cops said that was probably what kept me from serious injury. I didn’t brace for the impact because I wasn’t aware.” Afterwards, of course, I was plenty aware. Memories swirled in my mind, awash in the red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles. Blood gushed from one man’s nose because he propelled forward and slammed his face into the rail in front of him. A woman suffered a broken arm. And Jack. Poor Jack. “Jack was a mess,” I said aloud. “The windshield shattered in his face. He was taken to Morrison Hospital by ambulance. So were the others who were hurt.”
“But not you.”
“No. I stayed long enough to give the cops my statement and then I went home.”
“How’d you get home?”
“I walked.”
“You walked home after being in a bus accident?”
“What’d you expect me to do?” I snapped. “Summon the chauffeur? It was no big deal. The accident happened a few blocks from here. I waited until the cops arrived, gave my statement, then walked home.”
“Jee-zus. I can’t figure out if you’re tough, brave, or stupid.”
Probably all three. But I kept that opinion to myself.
He shook his head. “You should’ve gone to the hospital with everyone else.”
“I didn’t need to go to the hospital. I told you. I just got tossed around a little bit. No blood, no broken bones. Just some bruising on one shoulder and down my arm.”
He pulled his chair closer to me. “Let me see.”
“Ha. No way.” I backed away and waved a dismissive hand. “Forget it.”
“Oh, come on, Lucie. I’ve seen a lot more than your bare shoulder before.”
“Not in the last decade.” Not since Rob had wrought his damage. No one had seen those souvenirs. “You’re a chef, Colin, not a doctor.”
“Maybe.” His index finger bounced too close to my nose, and if I wasn’t so disoriented, I would’ve taken a bite. “But I’ll tell you one thing. You’re taking tonight off. Stay home and get some rest. Hug your kid.”
“I can’t.”
“You can and you will. I’ll just call Carla to cover your shift tonight.”
“Good luck with that.” I bit back a derisive laugh. “Carla’s in Atlantic City with her husband for their anniversary. Don’t worry. A few Tylenol and I’ll be fine. I’ll be at work by four. Promise.”
“No, you won’t. That’s an order from your boss.”
“You need a maître d’. Especially because of last night’s storm. We’ll probably be wall to wall people tonight.”
“All the more reason why you should stay here.” He pounded his index finger into my tabletop, then switched to drumming four fingertips while he considered the dilemma. The clock ticked, echoing the drip in my kitchen faucet. “I’ll ask Sidney to cover for you.”
“Sidney?” This time, I didn’t attempt to hold back my laughter. “Sidney hasn’t worked the front of the house since I was in kindergarten.”
“He can handle it.”
“Forget it, Colin. I’ll be there. I need to be there.”
A wave of his hand encompassed me from hair to waist. “Look at you. You can barely move. You think you’re going to be able to stand on your feet for eight hours, racing between the kitchen and the front of the house, keeping a smile glued on your face?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Damn right you’ll be fine. Because you’re staying right here.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, this is an interesting impasse.” Again, he paused, drummed his fingers. “If you want to work tonight, we’ll have to set some ground rules.”
“Like what?”
“Like I drive you. To and from work. From now on. No more bus.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I sputtered.
“Take it or leave it.”
My pride wanted to tell him to shove it, but my wallet knew better. I needed every dime I earned. If he’d get his jollies playing chauffeur and I’d get to keep going to work, sign me up. I could sit in his car and stare out the window for twenty minutes to and from every night. After all, he already knew where I lived, so what was the point of continuing to put him off? “Okay, fine.”
He held up his index finger. “And you’ll need a doctor’s note saying you’re okay to work.”
I slapped a hand on the table. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.” He grinned to let me know he used my normal denial intentionally. “Make up your mind fast. I’ll take you to the stat center right now before Sidney gets back with Ariana.”
Oh, this was so unfair! “Don’t make me do this, Colin. Please?”
“Those are the conditions, Lucie. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.”
“I’ll have to leave them.” I dropped my gaze to the table, too embarrassed to face him. “I can’t afford a doctor visit.”
“You were in a bus accident. The bus company is responsible for your medical expenses.”
“Maybe so, but the stat center will expect payment up front.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
I shook my head so hard my brain sloshed. “I won’t take anything from you.”
“For God’s sake, I’m the one insisting you get checked out, I’ll pay the fee. Consider it a business expense. I won’t allow you to work in the restaurant without medical clearance.”
I debated with myself for a long time before I finally relented. “Okay. But I hope they find something really expensive wrong with me to empty your wallet and take up all your time. Like a brain tumor.”
“Or maybe the doctor will restart your heart,” Colin rejoined.
Fat chance.
Ariana
I followed Grandpa out to his car and climbed into the back seat. Once he settled in the driver’s seat, he started the engine then craned his neck to check on me.
“Buckled up?”
I nodded.
He started driving, but glanced in the mirror at me a few times. I stared at my shoes, out the window, at the people in the car next to us when we stopped at the traffic light.
“Okay, doodle,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
I love that about Grandpa. He knows when I want to talk and when I want to just be quiet. Abuela always gets it wrong. “I was thinking...” I said as I clicked the tops of my sneakers together.
“Yes?”
“Belle has the Beast, Ariel has Prince Eric, Sleeping Beauty has Prince Philip, Jasmine has Aladdin. All those princesses are pretty and all, but I think Mom is prettier and works harder than all of them.”
“I agree.”
“Mom needs a prince.”
He didn’t laugh or ignore me. “You’re probably right, but princes are hard to come by these days.”
Yeah, I knew that. “I thought we could make one.”
Twisting in the driver’s seat at the next red light, he faced me with one eyebrow raised. “Make one?”
“Uh-huh. If we find someone who looks and acts like a prince, and teach him what Mom likes, we could make her fall in love with him.”
The light turned green, and he drove on, but I caught his frown in the rearview mirror. “I’m not sure you can make someone fall in love with another person, doodle. Not even when they do everything right.”
“We could try.”
His lips screwed up like he’d sucked a lemon. “Maybe. Do you have any idea who might make a good prince?”
“Chef Colin.”
“He might be a good choice. Do you think your mom likes him?”
I frowned and stared down at my sneakers. “No.”
“Well, that makes him a tough sell. You might have to find someone else.”
My head shot up. “No! Chef Colin’s perfect. He’s
nice and funny, and he likes Mom. I can tell.”
“All of that might be true, but if your mom doesn’t like him—no matter how nice and funny he is—she’ll never see him as her prince.”
I put on my best pleading face, hoping he’d tell me what I really needed to know. “Do you know why Mom doesn’t like Chef Colin?”
“No, sweetheart, I don’t.”
Rats. “That’s why I wanted him to come with us to get the pizza.”
“Well, maybe we can figure it all out after pizza. I always think better when my stomach’s not growling. How about you?”
My stomach gurgled, too, and I rubbed away the noise. “Uh-huh.”
He took my hand and curled his fingers around mine. “Don’t worry, doodle. If Chef Colin is meant to be your mom’s prince, it’ll happen, whether you push it along or not.”
I nodded, even though I doubted what he said. I would have to push this romance along to be one hundred percent sure Mom fell in love with Chef Colin, he fell in love with her, and we all lived happily ever after.
Chapter 7
Lucinda
The East End Stat Center, a medical clinic open twenty-four hours a day, catered to those who couldn’t get in to see a doctor in a timely manner, but didn’t require the necessary care of an emergency room. On any given day, at any hour, the waiting room might hold a toddler with an ear infection, a man with a head cold—because, really, is there anything more pathetic than a man with a head cold?—and a woman who walked away from a bus accident with some bruises but needed a doctor’s okay before her boss would allow her to return to work.
I sat in the waiting room with Colin, pretending fascination in a magazine article published in August 1994 about a promising new television series called “Friends,” just so I wouldn’t have to talk to him.
“I know you’re angry about being here,” he said through clenched teeth and a false smile.
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m not insisting on this to annoy you, you know. I really do care about you. And I want to be sure you’re all right.”
I turned the page with a snap. “Mm-hmm.” Yeah, right. He cared about me. Me. The girl from the wrong side of the tracks. A nobody.
Lucky for this nobody, a nurse stepped into the waiting room at that precise moment. “Lucinda Soto?”
“Right here.” Rising, I tossed the magazine onto my empty seat. I followed the petite blond nurse clad in pink scrubs into an examining room and when directed, climbed onto the paper-covered exam table. My legs dangled off the edge, like Ariana’s used to when she sat in a booster seat.
Meanwhile, the nurse placed a manila folder onto the nearby counter and flipped open the cover, revealing a thick orange cardboard form inside. “What brings you here today?”
“I was in the bus accident last night. I’ve got some bruising on one side, and my boss won’t let me return to work until I receive medical clearance from a doctor.”
Nodding, she jotted details on the orange document. “Did you receive any medical care after the incident but before now—whether at the scene, or in the E.R., or from your regular physician?”
“No.”
“Okay.” She didn’t look up while she continued writing. “Any other symptoms? Headaches? Chest pains?”
“A headache, yes. But I slammed my head against the window last night. Chest pains, no.” I rubbed my breastbone. “It does feel a little tight...like…constricted.”
More writing. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
Did I have that? “Not really,” I replied, then reconsidered. “More like lightheaded, I guess. But that could be because I haven’t eaten yet today.”
Another nod, and she unwound the stethoscope from around her neck. “I’m going to take your vitals, then the doctor will be in to do the full exam. Okay?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
“Let’s start with height and weight.”
Always a favorite. With all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner, I slid off the exam table and stepped on the scale. After those numbers were recorded, she directed me back to the table for my pulse and temperature, listened to my heart, then moved on to blood pressure.
“One-forty over ninety-five,” she remarked as she ripped open the Velcro tabs. “A little high.”
Yeah, well, blame that on the man sitting in the waiting room.
After replacing the cuff in the basket on the wall, she jotted down the numbers then picked up the folder. “The doctor will be in shortly.”
I didn’t get a chance to reply before she left me alone in the room with nothing to do but stare at the mint green walls. For most people, this was always the worst part about doctor visits: the time canyon between the nurse’s exam and the doctor’s appearance. While I waited, I took in the clear canisters of cotton balls, tongue depressors, and long-handled cotton swabs, glanced at the locked drawers and cabinets beneath the counter, tried to see the parking lot from the window covered by white micro-blinds. God, why did everything in these places have to be so dull and ugly? I mean, I knew it wasn’t a cabaret club, but the right colors and distractions could go a long way toward easing a patient’s distress. Especially when a patient was already distressed enough.
For starters, the room could use a television. My dentist had one. Of course, he spent more time watching the screen than his patients did, which gave me a pretty good reason to hate going to the dentist.
Somewhere outside in the hall, voices called to each other, one male and one female. Someone laughed. Knuckles rapped on a door—but not my door. From the room next to me a bass-deep voice boomed, “Hello, I’m Doctor Thorpe.” Or Thorne. Something like that.
Here was another reason doctors’ offices should consider mounting televisions in exam rooms. So patients in adjoining rooms didn’t overhear private medical details. I mean, I really didn’t want to know that the stranger next door had a rash on his back and that it often oozed pus. My stomach couldn’t handle that visual right now. In fact, ever since the nurse had suggested the possibility I might have nausea, a queasiness tumbled inside me and my head swam. My gaze strayed to the ammonia packet taped to the wall at ear level beside me. Just in case.
I was being ridiculous. Even if I passed out—which I’d never done in my life—how would I grab the packet and open it before oblivion pulled me under? It was probably precipitous to remove the packet from the wall and tear it open just in case. Then I’d just look like an idiot when nothing happened and I was caught sitting here with a half-opened package of smelling salts clutched in my white-knuckled grip.
Still, I hoped the doctor hurried. I took deep breaths in an effort to calm my jumbled senses. The sudden rap-tap-tap of metal on the exam room door nearly knocked me off the table. On a sweep of air, the nurse reentered with a red-haired woman. The new visitor wore a white lab coat over a gray sweater dress, a manila folder tucked under her arm. As she strode inside, she extended her hand toward me.
“Hello, I’m Doctor O’Dell.” She set the folder on the counter and flipped it open to read the nurse’s notations. “So you were in that bus accident this morning?” she said at last and looked up at me. “Tell me about it.”
For the second time that day (or third, if I counted the brief version I’d already provided to the nurse), I launched into the murky details of my night’s adventure. I told her about the bruising, then lifted up my shirt to show her. Unlike Colin, Dr. O’Dell didn’t overreact when I mentioned that I walked home after the accident. She simply asked why I’d showed up in the stat center now.
“My boss heard I was involved and now he won’t let me return to work until I have medical clearance.”
“I see. And how are you feeling?”
“Fine. Really.” Okay, the “really” gave away the lie, and I stared down at my feet the way Ari does when she tries to fib to me.
“Let’s talk about the headaches,” she replied with a quick glance at my file. “How bad are they?”
“Nothing I
can’t handle. A couple of Tylenols bring the pain down to a dull throb.”
She made a note on the orange paper. “On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain and one as minimal, what’s your pain level right now?”
“Oh...five, I guess.” Her eyebrows rose in twin arcs. I should have lowballed her.
“And when did you last take Tylenol or any other painkiller?”
I shrugged. “About an hour ago.”
Another bad answer. Dr. O’Dell proceeded to repeat the nurse’s actions with the stethoscope, making me inhale and exhale so deeply, my chest hurt. I raised a hand to rub my breastbone in an effort to ease the ache. The doctor then yanked out the foot rest near my ankles. “Lie down please.”
“Oh, come on,” I argued. “Is this really necessary?”
“Yes, I think it is.” She placed a hand on my shoulder and used gentle strength to force me into a reclining position. “Tell me if anything hurts when I press, okay?”
She began at the bottom of my belly, pressing the flat of her hand into my soft flesh. After each contact, she’d glance up at me and I would reply with a routine, “No. No. No.”
But when her fingers brushed beneath my left breast, I shot straight up on a hiss of breath. “Whoa!”
Dr. O’Dell stopped and drew back. “That hurt?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I didn’t realize I was bruised that far up. My chest must have slammed against the seat in front of me before I hit the window.”
“Are you experiencing any shortness of breath? Or pain when you inhale?”
How exactly should I reply? Which answer would get me the note I needed? I opted for, “Not really.”
Those eyebrows popped up again. No wonder they were so thin; they got a lot of exercise leaping up and down when reacting to deceptive patients like me. “Not really?”
“Well,” I hesitated, “it’s just...like...when I try to take a deep breath. But, I mean... it’s not like I’m a marathon runner or anything. I’m a maître d’ in a restaurant. I’ll be perfectly fine at work. Right?”
