Secret Shopper (27 page)

I made it safely to Guam. I hope you are well, Thomas. My dad is as good as can be expected now. Waiting for Doctor Octopus to give it to me in laymen’s terms. P.R.L.

Less than two minutes later, I received a response text from Thomas, but before I could read it. Doc
Oc
appeared. I wanted to speak to him without my mom trying to interpret or question him. I love her, but it would just delay the exchange of information. Pharaoh understood and took her for a walk.

“
Phoenix Lizama?” A young Filipino doctor addressed me. He looked like a teenager and I was concerned about his qualifications.

“Hi, Doc.” Doogie Howser I really wanted to say.

“Please, call me Gene.” He smiled widely. The doctor was a bit too chummy for my taste. I might just lose it if he asked about my attack in California.

“Nooo. No first names, I would be more comfortable calling you Dr.? What’s your last name?” His badge covered by his clipboard. I folded my arms and my small smile faded.

“Pallid. Dr. Pallid.” He sounded defeated.

“Can I get your prognosis for my dad’s recovery please?” Doctor Pallid described my dad’s current condition. He said that it was a good sign that he could speak, but he would need extensive physical and speech therapy. He recommended a smaller clinic in another village for the recovery. Once an opening was offered, dad would be transferred. God, how long would that be? I thought if he needs it, he should get it, right?

I thanked the doctor and deflected any attempts from him at small talk. Aside from my dad’s recovery, Thomas was on my mind. I later took Pharaoh aside to explain that I wasn’t on the market even if I was unattached. I didn’t really want to share Thomas with my family yet. Pharaoh knew not to advertise me as available to his friends or Doctor Talksalot.

I finally read Thomas’s text.

Hey
Guam girl. I miss you. Thank you for checking in with me. I yanked out the one gray hair that sprouted since you left. T.P.R.

Chapter 15

If We Took a Holiday

It took two days before dad was transferred to the skilled therapy clinic in the village of
Barrigada.
He was sitting up and eating soft foods, finally. To see him sitting, smiling and joking made me feel tons better. His daily physical therapy involved walking with his IV stand in hand. Gross and fine motor skills practice and speech therapy would also be tackled.

No one was allowed to stay overnight with dad. We could be at the clinic as early as eight in the morning and stay until seven in the evening. My poor dad shared a room with another patient, only separated by a curtain.

“Phoenix. Can you get me a small CD player? I want to listen to my music here. It’s so boring.” A few days of recovery and my dad was speaking clearer and quicker. I could totally sympathize with him. I wanted to make him as comfortable as possible. He wasn’t at a point in his health to be home and receive therapy from a visiting nurse. There were no television sets in the rooms too, so I made a note to get a portable DVD player as well. A good Eastwood or Bronson flick should cheer him right up.

             
The days bled into each other and a routine was set. For a week, it was much of the same. Mornings were usually with mom and dad and me, with breakfast that we snuck in from wherever dad had a craving for, Denny’s, Kings, McDonalds. I would buy him a big breakfast as requested. He barely ate more than three bites of his food. Mornings when he finished one over easy egg meant that he would be strong. Other days, the rest of the family ate his leftovers.

The multiple prescription drugs dad took for various conditions were crazy. My last count was at ten different medications. I wasn’t a doctor, but I’m sure his organs were being taxed, I barely touched Tylenol. Pharaoh always showed up by lunch to finish off dad’s extra restaurant food and he would stay until his next college class or training.

              Thomas would send me an occasional text, sometimes with a picture of him being sad, or a lengthy e-mail about his screenplay or the progress for the new Bag It locations. He said he was a third of the way complete with his writing project, but he wouldn’t tell me the title, let alone the basic storyline. This was fine; I had other things on my mind.

             
Christmas and New Year’s was celebrated together at the therapy clinic. Mom didn’t want to decorate the house with anything Christmasy, even when dad and I insisted. She brought a miniature tree for his room instead. The clinic held a luncheon with all the fixings. More than half the dishes on the table were bad for the patients, but this was Guam. Our lives centered on
fandangos
with salty, fatty, flavorful food. We piled my father’s plate with everything he craved, spinach in coconut milk, fried fish, turkey, red rice, spicy
finadene
sauce, and barbecued pork ribs.

             
“So, where’s your veggies, dad?” I joked. He pointed to the onions swimming in the salty soy sauce, a common condiment called
finadene
. Just as I thought, dad left his plate mainly untouched. Pharaoh had no problem polishing off dad’s food.

The best gift, aside from my dad’s continued improvement was that my divorce was final.

             
I began to lose touch with the world around me, Thomas included. I focused so intensely on my father. He made progress everyday, and then the fall occurred. I wish God would just cut my dad a break.

             
Dad fell during his walking practice. I knew he was weaker from not eating well and the constant flow of medications in his body. He probably dropped another fifteen pounds since I arrived. The blood thinner he took made the bruise on his hip and thigh speckled like zombie skin. It got to the point that the excess blood in his leg pooled and caused swelling. Dad’s therapy was halted and he was placed back in the hospital. A two inch incision was made to gruesomely drain the dead blood. The open wound was reminiscent of my own trauma a month earlier. I was surprisingly at ease helping my father. Even dealing with taking care of his urine bag and changing his adult diaper were no sweat. When you love someone, you love them through the good and the not so good. My mom was the same way, but poor Pharaoh was in hell. He loved dad, but as tough as he was, my baby brother was easily grossed out. And, I think he was feeling like his hero, his dad who was strong and mighty was indeed frail. Human. Mortal. It was scary for us all.

             
Rachel offered me a sanctuary when I needed a change of scenery. I would head to her shop on some mornings after situating my mom at the hospital. Dad would have to be there until his leg healed and the swelling went down. Therapy would continue at a slower pace. My family hoped he could be home after the New Year.

             
“So, how’s pops?” Rachel asked. She placed her soft perfumed hands on my cheeks.

             
“His leg is pretty messed up, but it’s healing okay. He’s on so many meds it’s crazy!” I felt like a hot kettle letting off steam, whistling and whining. Rachel responded by hugging me tight.

             
“Run into any old friends? Other family?” Rachel continued to chit chat, distracting my brain to think about other things.

             
“Actually, no. Thankfully, no I should say.” I was content not running into anyone I knew. My crowd really was just Rachel. I knew Rachel wanted intel on Thomas, but my focus was my dad. She knew better than to ask. I had no desire to go to our old haunts either. The most retail therapy I had was going to the grocery store.

             
“Do you have time to meet me for dinner or lunch or anything?” Rachel asked in a tone that told me she understood my dilemma.

             
“Maybe next week. Dad might come home.” Once dad was settled at home I would be more inclined to go around the island. I thought of taking pictures for Thomas.

             
“How long are you staying?” I really couldn’t answer my best friend’s question. Would it be another two weeks, or two months?

Rachel gave me two size 6 tops right off the rack that she saw me eyeing.

              “This is for you.” She swiftly placed it in a large lavender bag marked with her frilly font, S.P.T.

             
“No, Rachel, I can’t just take things off the rack.” Rachel showed me her star tattoos. I counted five more and congratulated her. “Japan?”

“
Hai
! Five stores in Japan now carry my line.” Rachel beamed.

ShinyPurpleThread was a bustling store. Most of her business was from tourists who kept our economy afloat. Rachel required at least one sales associate on hand who spoke conversational Japanese and Korean.

              Rachel shoved the bag into my chest again. “If you don’t walk out of the shop now, I’ll call security and tell them you shoplifted!” I knew she would, so I thanked my bestie, hugged her quickly and promised to call her at the end of my day.

              I stopped for a caffeine boost and the warm cup of coffee reminded me of Thomas. I finally called my friend. It had been

weeks since I heard his honey butter voice.
             

“Hello.” Thomas answered without realizing it was me. He sounded like he just awoke from sleep. He probably didn’t check the caller ID or he just wasn’t expecting a call from me.

              “Hey there, Thomas Patrick Roberts. This is your conscience calling.” I said animatedly. Along with his cute chuckle, I heard some shuffling and then some really loud clanking.

             
“Shit, sorry Phoenix! I dropped the phone.”

             
“Are you that surprised to hear from me? I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.” I suddenly missed San Diego and him.

             
“Actually, yes. I miss your voice, Phoenix. How are you? How is your dad? Your mom? Your brother?” I giggled. I loved that he was always inclusive.

             
“Fine. Seen better days. Hanging in there. Massive and deathly afraid of blood and bodily fluids.” I knew Thomas would be able to figure out the answers.

             
“I’m glad you’re fine. Your dad seems stable for now and your mom is a tough cookie. Your brother is not cut out for nursing and his bulging muscles would look ridiculous in scrubs. Sounds about right?” He laughed heartily and it washed over me leaving me warm and bothered.

             
“You always get it right. How are you?”

             
“Backache. Tummy ache. Headache.
Heartache
.” My silence the only response.
Heartache? For me?

             
“Wh-where are you?” I asked.

Thomas explained that he had been crashing in a sleeping bag on the floor of the
Oceanside shop. They were going to open in another week and he took it upon himself to paint and work on fixtures.

             
“I didn’t know you were such a handyman!”

             
“I’m not. I’ve got Youtube constantly running with do-it-yourself tutorials on my laptop. I’ve done the track lighting and painting so far. My Sunday is looking like more Bob the Builder B.S., but I love my sister
that
much.”

             
“That’s sweet. I can’t wait to see the shop. Will it look like the San Diego one?”

             
“For the most part. Guam photos included. I wanted to ask you to get some new shots of the island for me, but I know you are way too busy with your dad.” He was right, and I was happy to hear that the new shop would maintain the simplicity of the original. I wondered if I wasn’t on Guam, if I would be at the shop spending evenings with Thomas and helping him renovate. I thought it was better that I didn’t share this thought out loud with him.

             
“Make sure you’re taking care of yourself. You must be freezing!” I teased remembering San Diego in winter—sunshine, but chilly at night. Guam basically had two types of weather, sunny or rainy, sometimes both at the same time. If it was 85 degrees out, that was a normal day. January to December.

             
“It’s chilly here, but not because of the weather.” He said. I smiled to myself. “How’s Rachel?” He asked and I grew suspicious.

             
“She’s dandy, but remember our agreement.” I warned.

             
“Yes, ma’am. She does not text me at all.”

“That’s good.” His usage of ‘ma’am’ didn’t
faze me this time, maybe I was easing into my ladyhood.

“Anyway, I’ve got an open line of communication with you now. Right?” He asked.

“Right.” If he meant the open line on which I kept a tourniquet fastened, then sure. 

“I really do miss you,
Phoenix.”

             
“Um, I know.” I looked at the clock on the dashboard, thoughts of my father pulling me away.