Charming for Mother's Day (A Calendar Girls Novella) (10 page)

             
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?”

             
She didn’t answer my question. Instead, she asked, “Did you drive yourself here, Ms. Soto, or is there someone in the waiting room with you?”

             
I had no idea why that mattered, so I gave her the truth. “My boss brought me.”

             
“What’s his name?”

             
“Colin. Colin Murriere.”

             
She turned to the nurse. “Get him.”

             
“No.” I held up a hand. “Wait. Why?”

             
The doctor jerked her head at the nurse, who took off out of the room.

             
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Panic grabbed me by the throat. “Why do you need to speak to Colin? You’re going to tell him I’m okay to work, right? Please? I have to be at work tonight. I don’t get paid sick leave and I can’t afford to miss a night.”
              “I’m sorry, Ms. Soto,” she said, “but I’m recommending you have a chest x-ray at the hospital. I think you may have broken a rib or two.”

Ariana

              Something was wrong. Grandpa and I were on our way into the pizza place when his cell phone rang. He fumbled in his pocket while opening the door to Dino’s and prodding me inside.

             
“Grab a booth and sit while I get this, doodle,” he said as he answered the call.

             
“Okay.”

             
I slid into one of the orange booths and pulled a blue crayon from the can on the table. The tables were all covered with white paper so kids could draw all over without getting in trouble. While I began drawing minions, he stood near the order counter, talking low—too low for me to hear. That made me want to hear more. I managed to catch the words, “How bad?” and “How long?” but nothing more than that.
             

             
“Got it,” he said. “Buzz me when you’re done.” He hung up and slid into the booth across from me. “Change in plans, sweetheart. It’s just you and me for a while. Chef Colin took your mom to the doctor, and she needs some x-rays. So whaddya say we grab a couple of slices here and then go to the movies?”

             
Shocked, I stopped drawing and stared up at Grandpa. Mom went to the doctor? Why? Mom never went to the doctor. “Is my mom all right?”

             
“She’s fine. She was in an accident last night on her way home.”

             
“What kind of accident?”

             
“A little fender-bender with the bus she rides. The bus company is asking all the passengers from last night to see a doctor to make sure they’re okay.”
              I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t fall for his easy explanation. Something didn’t seem right. “But she’s okay, right?” I insisted.
              “You saw her this morning,” he answered, which really wasn’t an answer at all. “She was fine then, wasn’t she?”

             
“Uh-huh. Just tired.” And cranky because Chef Colin was in our house. I rolled the blue crayon back and forth over the crisp paper.
Skritch! Skritch!
I didn’t feel much like drawing anymore. “But she’s always tired.”

             
“She’s a busy lady.”

             
“But she’s gonna be okay, right?” I added again.

             
“She’s gonna be just fine,” he said. “I promise.”

             
Okay. Still, I didn’t like the idea she had to go to the doctor. She really needed someone to take care of her. I was going to have to work hard if I planned to make Chef Colin into her Prince Charming.

Lucinda

To his credit, Colin limited himself to one “I knew it” when he was ordered to take me to the emergency room. He also called Sidney, explained the situation, and asked him to keep Ariana busy away from the house until we got back. Once at the hospital, we cooled our heels for an hour or so before I was brought into an exam room and ordered to strip and put on the obligatory open-in-the-back dishtowel they called a robe. Another twenty minutes and I was wheeled to radiology for the x-ray. More time spent waiting, another trip in the wheelchair back to the ER area, and I sat and waited some more. Finally, Dr. Florentino, the E.R. doc on call, entered and introduced herself. She was younger than I expected—around my age, maybe a little older—and very pretty, with a slight resemblance to a young Julia Roberts.

“What brings you here today, Ms. Soto?”

I gave a brief rundown of my experience with the bus accident—
again
—and followed up with the stat center’s recommendation that I needed an x-ray to determine if I had actually fractured my rib.

“Okay,” she said. “Well, even if you have fractured your rib, it might not show up on an x-ray, but let’s start with the physical exam and we’ll take it from there.”

At her direction, I slid the hospital gown off my left shoulder and relaxed on the exam table. Although, maybe “relaxed” wasn’t the appropriate term. I reclined on the cushioned table, stiff as cheap tequila and waited for the inevitable questions. She didn’t disappoint.

Her lips pursed as her fingers trailed the white scars left by the knife blade so many years ago. “Ms. Soto, do you fear for your life at home? Are you currently being abused in any manner?”

“No,” I replied, fighting to keep from squirming.

Disappointment creased her features. “You do know the police have a list of all the victims involved in this morning’s bus accident, right?”

She was quick, I’d give her that. “I know what you’re getting at, Doctor, and I appreciate your concern. Let me see if I can move this along for us both. I was involved in an abusive relationship about eight years ago, but I got out. My hus—
abuser
is now dead. I really was in last night’s bus accident.”

“And the gentleman who brought you here today?”

“My boss.”

The creases relaxed, leaving her face flawless once again. “Well, that explains the older injuries I’m seeing here.” She flipped open the manila folder she’d dropped open on another counter.
“And the x-ray findings in here. You did have a fractured rib. I’m guessing it’s more than five years old at this stage, based on the calcification, and healed as well as it’s going to. What you sustained in the bus accident is superficial.”

For the first time all day, I managed a smile. “So I can go to work?”

She wagged a finger at me. “Light duty for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”

Once I’d shrugged the robe back into place on my shoulder, I hopped off the table. “I can do that.”
              “Hold up,” she said, a hand on my wrist. “We’re not done yet.”