I went into Room One and got to work. It was explosive, all right. The poor woman had eaten undercooked lobster, and that lobster had wanted out and fast.
Because Gloria had been here longer and because I was essentially a temp, she'd always triaged the cases. If she could do the job--say, a throat swab for strep--she'd do it and let me know. If the day was quiet, I'd pop in and have a chat. If the patient's presentation was more complicated, she'd assign the case to me, or we'd do it together.
Today, however, I got them all. And it was a very busy day.
Sun poisoning on a teenager who didn't like sunscreen, a sprained ankle on a seven-year-old, a vitamin B shot for an elderly woman, a mono diagnosis and a birth control prescription for a young waitress, accompanied by a firm lecture on the necessity of condoms, too. Two stitches in the chin for a boy who'd fallen off his bike.
"Trouble walking," Gloria snapped. "Room Four."
"Got it." I went into the exam room, where a rather shabby old man sat in a chair. Ernest Banks, his chart said. The name wasn't familiar. He had the unmistakable odor of a person who didn't wash regularly, and his hair and beard were gray with grease.
"Hi, Mr. Banks, I'm Nora Stuart." I offered my hand, and he took it. His blue eyes were a little confused. "What seems to be the problem today?"
"It hurts when I walk."
I washed my hands and asked him a few questions about his home situation--did he live alone (yes), did he eat regularly (yes, he said, but his skinniness told the truth), was he healthy otherwise (yes...but again, a lie)?
His shoes were shabby, his socks were gray and damp. I took them off slowly and carefully, noticing his wince.
It wasn't uncommon for elderly people to neglect their feet. It could be hard to reach their toes, and taking a shower or bath might be a risk they didn't want to take.
But my God. Mr. Banks's feet were the worst I'd seen. His toenails were so long they'd curled over his toes and dug into the soles of his swollen feet.
And the smell. There was infection here, oozing and green.
"We'll take good care of you, sir," I said, looking up at him with a smile. "I think we can definitely make you feel better. Hang on one second while I get some supplies."
Gloria wasn't around. What Mr. Banks needed was a shower, a medical pedicure, some oral antibiotics and a topical antibiotic for his feet. "Where's Gloria?" I asked Mrs. Behring.
"She taking a late lunch."
"Super." I knocked on Amelia's door. "Can you give me a hand, Amelia? We have an elderly gentleman who needs some help."
For the next hour, Amelia and I did the work that I'd never do in a big-city hospital. We soaked Mr. Banks's feet in warm water and hydrogen peroxide, and I cut his toenails bit by bit. They were thick and hard, more like barnacles than something that grew on a human. The clinic had a shower, and we took him there, undressed him gently, layer by layer, and lathered him up a few times. He had a few more cuts and bruises, and he was seriously underweight.
We put him in a pair of scrubs, gave him a shot of B12 and antibiotics, then wrapped his feet in gauze and put him in bed.
"Mr. Banks," Amelia said, "I'm going to ask that you stay here for a few days."
"I don't have any money," he said.
"You don't need any," Amelia said. "You're our guest. There's no charge."
"I guess that would be all right," he said, relief painted over his face.
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
"A little," he said, but his eyes lit up.
"I'll take care of this," Amelia said. "It's the least I can do, Nora, and you have more patients. Mr. Banks and I will get to know each other." She smiled at him kindly.
"All right," I said. "I'll check back with you in a little while, Mr. Banks. Make yourself comfortable."
He smiled at me, looking so much better than he had when he came in.
My heart felt too big for my chest. The poor man! We'd have to call Social Services to check his home and see how bad his conditions really were.
The warm fuzzies were short-lived. "Perineal abscess in Room Two," Gloria said, back from her break. "Hugely inflamed."
Okay. She was definitely sending me a message. With a sigh, I went to see my next patient and got ready to drain pus.
I managed not to say anything else on the topic of one Robert Kennedy Byrne for the rest of the day. He hadn't texted, emailed or called me, the coward.
If Gloria didn't want to talk, that was up to her.
She changed her mind.
At 5:07 p.m., she came into my office and shut the door. "Hey," I said.
"So I know the whole story," she said, sitting down.
"Before we get started," I said, "let me just say this. I really like you and don't want this to be an issue. Bobby didn't mention he was seeing someone, so it came as a surprise. Small world and all that. But you and I are coworkers and friends. I really wouldn't want that to change."
"Well, it has changed," she said. "He told me everything."
"Is that right?" I had my doubts already.
"We talked a lot about our exes," she said. "That was one of the things we really bonded over. Robert told me all about you, even if he didn't use your name."
Really? He never uttered my name? And that never tipped her off to anything strange? Also, this Robert thing was pissing me off, as was her raised, know-it-all eyebrow. "It's funny," I said. "I've never heard him called Robert, even by his mom." She didn't respond. "So, what would you like to talk about, Gloria?"
"I'm kind of shocked at how dishonest you've been with me."
"Me? I haven't been dishonest."
"You never mentioned how you left him, just like that, breaking his heart."
I snorted. "Is that what he said?"
"You dumped him when he was going through a really hard time and moved back in with your mother."
"Okay, well, first of all, I'm pretty sure I was the one going through a hard time, which I define by being hit by a van and knocked unconscious, breaking bones and dislocating joints. It was also hard when I woke up in the ER and he was flirting with--"
"He talked about how you took his dog--"
"Boomer is my dog."
"--and even before that, how you totally changed after you started dating and were so needy and depressed that he had to do a suicide watch on you, and then when he was going through his stress, you dumped him."
I took a long, slow breath. "I was never suicidal. Good God. I don't know where he got that. As for his stress--" I raised my hands in a helpless gesture "--that's news to me. Would you like to hear another version of our relationship? Because Bobby has left a lot out, it seems."
"No," she said. "I'm good." She folded her arms and sat back in her chair, daring me to contradict anything she wanted to believe.
"Okay, then," I said. "Believe what you want, and good luck with him."
"I don't need luck. Robert and I might've only known each other a month, but I can tell he's the one. He already said he loves me."
"Even though he still doesn't know your last name or where you live."
"He knows now." She tilted her head.
Shit. I had to try. The Female Solidarity Commandment said so. "Gloria, he asked me to spend the night on Sunday. I didn't get the impression he meant sleeping on the couch."
"Yeah, right. Sure he did. He told me what happened, how you showed up and asked if you could stay and said you still loved him..."
The cowardly, lying shit. "Okay, we're done here."
"I hope you and I can continue working together," she said. "It'd be a shame if you had to leave. Then again, I may be moving back to Boston soon."
With that, she got up and left.
I sat there, my ears hot with anger, taking back every generous thought I'd had about Gloria. If she wanted to be obtuse--if she insisted on being obtuse--then let her.
I picked up the phone to call Xiaowen, then decided not to. After all, they were friends, too. Instead, I went to Glo
ria's Facebook page.
Uploaded just last night were fifteen pictures of her and Bobby. Her relationship status had just changed from Single to In a relationship with Robert K. Byrne, MD.
Only Bobby would be asshole enough to register on Facebook with MD after his name.
Time to call him. It went to voice mail. Coward.
"Hi, it's the pathetic ex-girlfriend who broke your heart and was on suicide watch and begged you to take me back. I'm calling to say I'll be picking up Boomer on Friday, and this joint custody thing is over. Also, you're a lying piece of scum."
Then I hung up the phone and called Poe and asked if she was free for dinner, and if she'd mind if Audrey joined us. When you're feeling sorry for yourself, my mother used to say, do something nice for someone else.
Speaking of that, I went down the hall into Mr. Banks's room. Amelia had left for the day, so he was alone, asleep, looking very peaceful. I checked his chart--Amelia had already put in a call to Social Services, it said on the chart, and he'd had a good meal.
I went over to his bedside and pulled up the blanket to cover his shoulders.
This man might be my father, for all I knew. Alone, barely scraping by, sick, dirty.
Tears flooded my eyes. If my father was still out there, I'd take him in. I'd let him live with me, and I'd make sure he knew someone loved him.
If only I could know for sure. If only I could find him.
*
Audrey walked down from the boatyard, and Poe rode her bike to the houseboat. I made us a beautiful salad with scallops and pecans and let the girls tell me about their days. Audrey had power-washed three boats; Poe had slept till noon.
"Do you have a job for the summer, honey?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Gran said I should get something, and I did apply to four places, but no one called me back."
"You can work at the boatyard," Audrey offered.
"Doing what?"
"Whatever needs doing. Clean the boats, varnish decks, pump the head--"
"What's that?"
"You know. Emptying the crapper."
"Gross."
"You're telling me." She smiled.
It had been ten days since her surgery, and she already looked better, healthier, less tired. She had a light tan from working outside.
"You really think I could?" Poe said. "I'd love to get out of the house."
"I'll ask my dad, but yeah." She took another bite of dinner. "I love your shirt, by the way. What does that mean, anyway?"
Poe's shirt was a little crop top that had some French words written in cursive on it.
"Head full of stars," she said.
"It's so cute. Did you make it?"
Poe nodded.
"You did?" I asked.
"Gran's been teaching me to sew."
"You have to join the fashion club in the fall," Audrey said. "It's really fun, and we have these great sewing machines and everything."
"I don't know that much," Poe said.
"That's okay. That's what it's for. I'm pretty good. I can show you. My mom is great at sewing."
"Why don't you live with her?" Poe asked, and I cringed inwardly. Then again, I also wanted to know.
"She got married and had another kid," Audrey said. "Her husband didn't like me much."
"What an asshole," Poe said.
"Who couldn't like you?" I said, outraged. "I have to agree with Poe. Asshole."
She shrugged, blushing a little. "Well, anyway, I moved in with Dad full-time. But I spend a lot of time with my mom, too. Rocco's great. I mean, he's disgusting, too. He's a boy, after all. He makes fart jokes all day, every day, and still can't pee without half of it going on the floor. I'm happy not to have to share a bathroom. And my mom divorced the asshole."
"You're so cool, Audrey," Poe said. "I mean, nothing fazes you."
"It's all a front," she said, taking a bite of salad. "Sometimes I just pretend to be okay with everything because you know how it is. You show weakness, the mean girls attack."
"Anyone gives you a problem, you come to me. I'm terrifying," Poe said.
Audrey laughed. "So terrifying." Both girls laughed, some inside joke I didn't quite get. After all, I still thought Poe was pretty scary sometimes.
I got up to make coffee...well, really to give the girls some time to talk without the dorky aunt hanging out with them. Allegedly, I had a social life of my own.
I checked my phone, and lo and behold, my social life was right there. Sullivan Fletcher. Free for dinner Saturday?
My face flushed. I'd had my phone muted, so the requisite half hour of not appearing too eager had passed. Sure. Where did you have in mind?
The three dots of anticipation waved. My place. Audrey will be w/ Amy. 7:00 p.m.?
I counted to sixty (honestly, dating in this day and age was ridiculous) and then texted back. Sounds good. Thank you.
I had a date with Sullivan Fletcher.
I would definitely have to catch up on my shaving.
23
The date with Sullivan began to spiral into disaster before it even started.
A word to the wise: don't attempt sexual relations to salvage what is clearly a FEMA-level catastrophe.
The first thing that went wrong was that my mother insisted that I'd told her I was going to dinner at her house that night. This, of course, was completely freakish, because she hadn't once invited me to dinner (nor had I wanted to go, given her culinary craftsmanship or lack thereof).
"Nora, you said you'd come, and Poe is looking forward to it." Her voice was hard as nails. Tweety screeched his support of his beloved.
"I have plans, Mom."
"Yes. With us. I made ham."
Ooh, ham. All that delicious sodium and cholesterol. Of course, Mom would cook it till it was jerky. "I'm really sorry," I lied.
"I didn't spend my day off cookin' for you, only to have you decide you've got something better goin' on, Nora Louise."
Shit. My middle name. "Okay, okay, let me make a call." I paused. "Can I invite someone?"
"Fine." She hung up, mad at me for not remembering an invitation that hadn't been offered. If Sully was willing, he and I could eat at Mom's--dinner never lasted more than seventeen minutes, after all--leave, take a lovely walk, maybe have a drink back at his place and then see where things led. Maybe to bed, even. Hey. We weren't kids.
And now that any shred of thought about giving Bobby another chance was dead, why not?
Bobby. I hissed at the thought. Or Robert, I should say, still hadn't called me, and yesterday, when I'd taken the ferry to Boston, he'd conveniently been at work. My dog had been waiting there, wagging at me. A note on the table said only Please leave your key.
Which I happily did. I also took my kettle, thank you very much, looking slightly insane; my purse, my dog and a yellow Le Creuset kettle banging my leg with every angry stride.
Gloria was welcome to him.
In fact, she was the big disappointment here. One expected guys to be shallow and self-serving and all that, but when a woman behaved like an idiot, it always came as a shock. Even though I'd only known Xiaowen a couple of months now, I was positive this would never happen with her. And Roseline, forget it. She'd never dream of dumping me, not with a gun to the back of her head.
Well, whatever. I called Sullivan. "Hi," I said. "My mother has this notion that I'm supposed to come over tonight for dinner, and she's annoyed that I forgot, even though she never invited me. Would you mind if we went there?"
"That's fine," he said. "I haven't even started cooking."
"Okay, great. Thank you."
"What time should I pick you up?"
"Five," I said. "You know the elderly. They like to eat early." My mother would kick me if she knew I'd called her elderly. "Hey, why don't I just walk down to the boatyard? I can see Poe in action that way."
Because yes, he'd given her a job. Audrey had texted him last night when the girls were here, and Poe had started her first ever job
this morning.
So Mom swooping in with an imaginary dinner invitation, that was strike one.
Strike two was Luke Fletcher, or Luke Fucking Fletcher, as I was coming to call him.
I dressed in a cute little summer frock in bright yellow and wedge cork heels, which turned out not to be the best choice for taking a mile-long stroll on a dirt road. My ankle kept trying to roll, and it was hotter than I thought. Sweat dripped down my back, and all of a sudden, it felt like every mosquito in Maine had gotten a text as to my whereabouts.
I swatted and slapped and tried to walk faster, feeling my heel start to itch and burn where a blister was emerging. I could take off the shoes, I supposed, but the sand was hot.
Damn it! A bug flew into my hair, which was on high frizz, and got stuck there. A big bug. I tried to extricate it--it felt like a dragonfly--and, oh, crap, pulled it right in half.
"Lovely," I said, disentangling the rest of it. "Just lovely. Sorry, dragonfly." Of course, it had to be a beautiful insect, not these evil bloodsuckers.
By the time I got to the boatyard, I was damp, frizzier, itchy and limping. I took a few breaths and tried to exude serenity and grace. Failing that, I pasted a smile on my face and went with fake it till you make it.
There was Audrey, sanding the deck of a sailboat in dry dock about twenty feet over my head. "Hey!" I called.
"Hi!"
"You taking it easy enough, missy?" I asked. "Don't forget you just had surgery."
"I'm barely even here," she said. "Dad said I could work for half an hour."
Another head popped over the deck. "Hi, Nora," said Poe, smiling.
Smiling. "Hi, honey," I said. "How's your first day been?"
"Great. Audrey can drive a boat, did you know that?"
"I suspected. I hear we're having dinner tonight at Gran's."
"Ayuh," she said in an exaggerated accent, and Audrey and I laughed.
"What are you doing here?" came a low voice behind me.
I turned around. "Hey, Luke," I said. "I'm here because I'm having dinner with Sully. And my niece."
The sun had streaked his hair white blond in places, and he looked good. Tan and lean.
"Right. Your niece is working here now." He scratched his arm idly. "She's a pretty girl."
"She's a minor," I said, just to be clear.
"Age of consent in Maine is sixteen."
My forefinger jabbed him in the Adam's apple before I even knew I'd moved. He made a satisfying gagging sound and stepped back. "If you lay one finger on her, I will rip you apart, Luke Fletcher," I hissed.
Now That You Mention It Page 27
