by Lori Avocato
“What the hell is that for?” he asked.
Good question, I thought, but said, “Oh. I need to . . . just hold your leg out a minute, sir.” I proceeded to run the cotton up and down the bottom of his foot, saying, “I have to check for feeling in the foot. Make sure nothing is affecting the nerves.” This was all bull and I hoped Jagger wouldn’t pick up on that yet. He knew his investigating, but I was finally able to do something I knew more about than he did. Nursing.
I whisked the cotton around in circles.
He looked as if he’d explode.
Now I come from a family who loves the bottoms of their feet tickled. My siblings and I always used to argue about who would tickle whom, but that was unusual. I knew most people were very sensitive when it came to that area of their feet.
And Jagger proved no exception.
I ran the cotton back and forth. Back and forth.
Slowly.
Then quickly.
He grabbed my hand. “What the hell does that prove?”
I looked at him. “It proves, Mr. Feathermoon, that your feelings are intact. That the rash hasn’t affected your nerves.”
He merely lowered the sunglasses and glared at me.
The door opened behind me and in walked the old doctor.
“Hi, Dr. Handy, this patient is complaining of an itch on his foot.” I handed him the chart and stepped back, ready to bolt out the door.
After a few seconds and my escape into the hallway, I heard the doctor’s voice. “Why did you write ‘rash’ then, Nurse? I don’t see a rash. Nurse?”
Okay, I thought, I could keep going and pretend that I didn’t hear him, or be honest and turn back and lie. I shut my eyes, and then opened them to see one of the other doctors standing right in front of me. “Excuse me,” I said and headed back into the room.
“Did you say something, Dr. Handy?”
He was already peering over Jagger’s naked (be still, my heart) foot.
“Yes, I asked why you wrote down ‘rash,’ Nurse—” He leaned over to read my temporary name tag. “—Sokol.”
“The patient said he had a rash. But I agree with you, Doctor. I don’t see one.”
“I . . . had one when I called this morning, Doc. Damn thing is, when I took my sock off for the pretty lady, it wasn’t there no more. Does itch though.”
I smiled in a “gotcha” sort of way.
Felt damn good too.
The doctor looked at me and then at the chart. Then he examined Jagger’s foot and asked more questions. I held my breath, wondering if Jagger would mention the cotton thing. He didn’t.
The doctor said, “Not much to look at, but if it itches, I’ll give you a prescription for a stronger steroid than one you could get over the counter. Nurse, come to my office, and I’ll give it to you.” With that he turned and walked out the door.
“You may put your shoes and socks back on,” I said and headed to the door. “I’ll get your prescription.” A prescription! I was going to be able to go to the pharmacy after all.
Then it hit me, Jagger had this all planned out, and it could help both of our cases.
Before I turned to go, I said, “Nice job, Jagger.”
He actually looked surprised.
Warmed me inside before I ran out.
I wasn’t too proud to admit that I needed help in this business. After all, Fabio had assigned me to work with Nick Caruso on my first case. Still, it did make my day that I had “fingered” Jagger. Despite my heart’s protest, I decided I’d see if Nick could help again, since Jagger came and went like this on a whim.
Nick had freelanced for Fabio. Been doing it for years. And, as knockout handsome as Nick was, my feelings never reached the boiling point with him. That let me concentrate on work. But the best part was, Jagger thought they had. I smiled to myself and felt a bit wicked. That just might work. Besides, Nick and Jagger had a past.
And not a very amicable one.
“Hi. I’m the temporary nurse over in the clinic, and I need a prescription filled.” I looked to see a bench full of people waiting on the other side of the counter. The clinic staff had access to a back door to speed things up for the sick patients. Very helpful, I thought. For my case, that is.
A young woman, most likely in her late teens and dressed very punk in more black than an Italian mourner, looked up from a stack of white prescription bags. “Leo’s gonna shit a brick. Hang it!”
I was going to ask “hang what” but figured that was some kind of personal-curse word and with her temper, I kept my mouth shut.
“Leave it over there.” She motioned with her head to another stack. “This one’s full of prescription orders.”
Damn. I couldn’t just leave. “I . . . the clinic is closing and the doctor wants this medication filled now.”
She rolled her eyes at me and grabbed the paper from my hand. “Yeah, right. I’m sure a steroid cream is a life-saving medication.” She blew a pink bubble from between her—were they really black—lips and popped it with her nail. Black polish too.
“Look,” I leaned in to read her name, “Hildy, I’m not a doctor, so I don’t presume to think what they do is right or—”
Her eyebrows rose in what I’d clearly term “annoyance.” I didn’t want to piss off Hildy. She could be helpful. Then again, someone with so much black on and red painted hair teased out as if frightened by the proverbial bogeyman might not be much help. Still, with friends like Goldie, Miles and Adele, I wasn’t choosy. You really couldn’t judge a book by a cover where any of them were concerned. They were all the best, despite appearances. So, I changed my tune and said, “You must be so overworked. Can I get you a drink?”
She looked at the crowd waiting. “Yeah, tequila. Worm in.”
After a moment of shock, I chuckled. “How about a soda? Cola?”
“Don’t do caffeine. Anything clear.”
“Fine.” I turned to go and stopped. “My name is Pauline. Pauline Sokol.”
From behind she mumbled, “Hildy Jones. I’ll try to have your prescription filled as soon as Leo gets the chance. But, I can’t promise ‘The Shit’ will cooperate.”
I smiled to myself.
When I got over to the clinic side and went into the waiting room where the soda machine sat, I looked around. No Jagger. Where the heck had he gone? Then I reminded myself it really didn’t matter. He’d pop up when least expected. Thank goodness it was usually when my life was being threatened. I hurriedly grabbed a dollar bill from my pocket, got a ginger ale and went back. If I had to wait at the pharmacy, I could maybe do some snooping. Good thing no more patients were around.
Of course the pharmacy was packed, so I’d have to be careful—and crafty, I thought, on the way back to Hildy.
After I’d handed the can of soda to Hildy, I sat opposite her desk and decided how to do “crafty,” wishing my buddy Goldie were there. Amazingly enough, Goldie, even dressed like the Fourth of July fireworks, could do sneaky and inconspicuous very well.
Hildy got up. “I’ll go check on Leo. He’s freaking out with so much work to do. Bastard. Hang it!”
Hmm. No love lost between Hildy and Leo. This was good. I smelled a possible mole. Dear Hildy who might just serve unwittingly in that role, looked as if she might need a friend—and Pauline Sokol was nothing if not friendly.
I watched her go, wondering how and why she’d chosen to wear such gigantic platform shoes with her long skirt. I mean, someone could fall off those things and get hurt. As I was pondering Hildy’s clothing, I couldn’t believe my luck. Something caught my eye at the pharmacy counter.
Well, not something, but someone.
Someone you’d have to be legally blind to miss. One Sophie Banko, standing there, big as, well, to be charitable, I’d go with the cliché big as day, knowing house would be more appropriate. But, I’d decided, in my new line of work I needed all the help from above that I could get, and insulting someone, even just in my thoughts, surely couldn’t do me any
good.
I leaned forward to try and hear what Sophie was saying to the pharmacist. It wasn’t Leo, I assumed, but someone else. An older gentleman with graying hair, stocky build and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Then I saw Sophie give a wave to another man who I guessed was Leo. Back in my floor-nursing days, I’d been known as “psychic Sokol” because I could almost predict when a patient’s condition was going to go into the toilet. Not literally. But more like when they were going to have some complications.
Gut feeling.
And I had that right now as Sophie waved again.
Hmm.
When Hildy got back and sat down, I looked at her and was about to ask a question about Sophie. A nonchalant question so as not to arouse any suspicion. Then she yawned and I got a load of her tongue. Biggest tongue ring I’ve ever seen. Had to be the size of a sourball. A big silver sourball, which jiggled a bit when she yawned. I couldn’t stop myself from staring, and noticed Hildy had more artificial holes in her body than a piece of Swiss cheese. Ears—about ten earrings between the two—nose—both sides—and two on each eyebrow. When I looked down toward her chin, she said, “Yep, bellybutton and nipple rings.”
I gasped. “Ouch.”
“You have to suffer to be beautiful.”
I sensed little Hildy was trying to cover up a lack of self-esteem by trying to show the world she didn’t care. But I doubted that when I looked into her green eyes. There was a sadness there, and, my old nursing skills had me wanting to help the poor kid. Besides, I could be helping Jagger and myself too.
“Suffer to be beautiful. Who’s the moron who came up with that one?” I laughed.
She hesitated and then joined me. From behind, a ghost of a man appeared. Again I gasped.
Hildy turned. “Shit. What?”
“This isn’t a social, Jones. Get these passed out.” He threw a handful of white-bagged prescriptions onto her desk.
I didn’t know what to say as I watched his beady eyes give me the once-over, then he turned to reveal a “monk-style” balding head. He’d spoken with a lisp, and I believe I’d noted a pocket protector in his white shirt. A nerd with attitude.
“Who was that?”
Hildy curled her lip. I thought the silver sourball had to hurt in that position. When she uncurled, she said, “Leo ‘The Shit’ Pasinski.” She grabbed the bags. “Gotta go.”
“Let me help you.” I stood.
She looked at me oddly. “No one’s ever offered to help me.”
A bit saddened, I touched her arm. “I’m off duty now and free. Let me help.”
“What about the patient that needs the prescription?”
Caught up on observing Hildy and Leo, I’d forgotten about “Lance.” “Well, I guess he’ll come get it himself. You’re right. It isn’t a life-saving medication. Maybe he skipped out without it.”
Fat chance, I told myself. But I also told myself that Jagger would come get it on his own terms.
I called patients’ names while Hildy worked the cash register and insurance info. That I was interested in. I gazed down at one clipboard Medicaid patients had to sign when they got their medicine. Another was for all other insurances. The second list was minute compared with the Medicaid one, although I’d noted a lot of seniors had supplemental insurance since they didn’t qualify for Medicaid. So, Leo dealt with the elderly more. No great surprise though, since this entire conglomerate catered to the elderly. Who else used doctors and medicine more?
A line had formed with everyone waiting for his or her name to be called. I’d found out from Hildy that the pharmacy stayed open a few hours after the clinic closed. When that tidbit had come out, I excused myself and ran back to get my purse and jacket before the doors to the clinic section were locked.
Now, with no date to hurry home to, I planted myself in the pharmacy to “help” Hildy. Another pharmacist came for her shift, which made more work for Hildy. I hadn’t seen that pharmacist before. She had dark hair and seemed to keep to herself.
Jagger never showed, so his medication was put in the bins. I actually noticed there were a lot of bags left in there. Nothing unusual about that. Lots of times doctors called in medications or patients left the prescription and came back later. I knew that much without asking.
Hildy reached into the bin after a patient came to the counter. She rifled through the bags and then cursed.
“Something wrong?” I came closer.
She stuck her finger into her mouth. “Thupid shit. He always screws up with the thapler.”
At first I could only stare. Then the words sunk in as my mind translated Hildy’s finger-in-the-mouth-talk. “Oh, here. What are you looking for?”
With her finger still in place and sucking, she said, “Fwed Fwanklin.”
Fred Franklin. “Let me.” I gingerly reached into the bin marked E-F. I lifted a few bags. Hm. Several felt too light. I scowled and turned to look at Hildy. Caught up in her injury, she wasn’t looking. So, I looked down to read the bag I held in my hand. Erythromycin. A prescription should feel a bit heavier. I examined the bag and did feel the round plastic bottle. Then, taking one more look at Hildy, I shook it. Nothing. Sounded empty. The pharmacist who had “filled” it was Leo.
Hmm, again.
“I don’t have all day, ladies.” This from a tiny wrinkled man waiting at the counter.
I wondered where he’d be going in such a hurry, but kept my mouth shut and found Fred Franklin on a white bag. I turned and handed it to him. “Any questions for the pharmacist?” I’d heard Hildy say that several times.
“Yeah. Why the hell am I so constipated?”
“It could be the medication, but you should ask your doctor about taking a daily stool softener.”
With that he nodded and took out his supplemental insurance card. Hildy finally took her finger out of her mouth and rang up the charge.
A few hours later, complete exhaustion had set in, and I’d noticed Hildy had another body part pierced, I sank down into a chair. “I’m beat.”
She finished writing something on the clipboard and looked at me rather strangely. “I’m not sure why you stayed here, Pauline, but . . . thanks. Lots of nights I’m here way past closing. Leo leaves me in the lurch, the shit. But thanks to you, I can take off now.”
Take off now?
I’d helped, but hadn’t learned anything to help my case. Leo was gone, too. Damn. If I could get Hildy to stick around a bit longer, maybe I could find something out. “I know what you mean. I’m starving.”
She looked at me. Maybe someone with all that metal piercing her body had a lack of appetite. The sourball thing alone would knock the hell out of mine.
“Yeah. I could eat too.”
Bingo. “Hey, let me take you to . . .” Where? Where could I take Hildy that no one would notice us? Me in my scrubs, Hildy in her pseudo-vampire attire.
At first I thought my mother’s eyes were going to jump out of their sockets so she could stare at poor Hildy a bit longer. But, true to the core, mother kept her eyeballs in place and said, “How many of those . . . jewelry things do you have, dearie?” She pointed to Hildy’s ears.
Obviously Hildy didn’t embarrass easily, although I was still convinced her self-esteem was low. Too obvious in trying to be different for her own good.
She smiled, more politely than humorously, and answered my mother. “Lost count after the second nipple ring.”
My mother grew pale. I gasped again, and my father came into the room, looking at all of us strangely. No wonder. We must have appeared an odd threesome. After introductions, my mother insisted on feeding us. It was way past six, so naturally, the kitchen had been cleaned for the night. But she pulled out Monday’s left-over meatloaf and made two dishes of food.
Hildy ate as if she were truly starving and had no silver sourball in the way. She even took seconds, while I passed on the offer. The poor kid probably didn’t earn much at the pharmacy. I’d gotten her talking during dinner to find o
ut that she was an only child, had run away a while ago at seventeen, and rarely talked to her mother, whom she seemed to hold a grudge against. She briefly mentioned a grandfather, but I think I noticed a tear forming in her eye right when she stopped. Leo had hired her last year. No relatives in Hope Valley, and she had run here from Natick, Massachusetts, because the name sounded as if she might have a better life here.
I had to help out this kid.
Yeah, Pauline, I thought, along with doing your job and helping Jagger. Hmm, suddenly I wondered where he’d gone off to.
Trying to shift the focus back to Hildy and my case, I offered to get her a ginger ale. When she agreed and I got up, I started with small talk about whether she liked working at the pharmacy.
“Pays some of my bills.” She cleaned the rest of the meatloaf off the plate.
In the background, I could see my mother fixing a “doggy bag,” the likes of which could feed a litter of wolfhounds, for Hildy, and I smiled to myself.
“That sure is a busy pharmacy. How many work there?”
At first she looked at me like why the hell did I care, then she shrugged. “Me, three pharmacists, one pharmacy tech, and six assistants. I don’t help fill stuff, I only do the front counter and paperwork.”
No great surprise there, I thought, looking at her. Then I hoped Hildy wasn’t involved in any “wrongdoings.” But, if her pay only covered some of her bills, damn.
I handed her the drink and sat back in my chair. “Oh, Hild, I forgot to tell you. When I was helping out with that Mr. Franklin, I picked up a bag that felt, well, empty.”
I paused and observed.
At first she looked—maybe—suspicious. It was hard to tell, since strands of ruby and black hair fell over her eyes. I never could understand how anyone could stand their hair in their face.
I leaned a bit closer. Hildy pushed the hair back a second. Her eyes looked more pissed than suspicious now.
“The Shit again.” She polished off the ginger ale.
Maybe Mom had used a bit too much salt this Monday in the meatloaf. “Excuse me?”
