Chapter 24 Conversations Are Better with Ramen
My parents got me hooked on sixties music when I was still in diapers. Etta James, the Temptations, Ben E. King. I used to dance to “My Girl,” shaking my small curly ’fro and banging spoons on pots and pans with my dad when the beat dropped. Designing the shop while listening to old albums makes me feel like that kid again. The music fills us all with rainbow light. It helps me fight the fatigue I feel working long stretches so we can make every hour count. And the days go like this: Lex and I buying the wrong screws to hang shelves, then realizing we don’t know how to hang shelves even with the right screws. Mom picking a pretty lavender color that reminds me of springtime, then Lex and I doing our best to paint the walls without getting purple on the shop floors. We set up two stations: one for skin-care consulting and product testing, one a mini hair salon with two beautiful yellow chairs by the sink we hired someone to revamp. We print colorful labels in the shapes of flowers for containers, and while I’m out trying to pick art for the walls, I call Issac just to help me choose between two options. He inserts his opinions about styling the curtains and other shop decor without overstepping. Lex tells Issac he can feel free to step everywhere he likes, and feeds us all with laughter.
I tell Issac to take this opportunity to open his big mouth all over the internet, so he does.
With the two weeks we’ve spent apart, things have settled, we haven’t sent any risky songs to each other, and I’m relieved that I’ve stopped fantasizing about sex with my best friend. But I can feel the summer tick by, and I wonder if he can too. As a gift for our venture, he hires someone to redesign our website for online booking. And I buy Mom a beautiful book so she can do the in-store booking by hand because she’s excited about it. We post a couple of announcements on our social media with pictures Lex took and graphics he designed. Mom, being old-school as she is, passes out flyers at the hotels she’s worked at. Then she pays Destiny and a gang of her teen friends to hang some around the city. Bridget sends a beautiful new shop sign she had made for us as a gift. Lex helps me with our finances and even gets Shane to move new furniture with a U-Haul truck so we don’t have to pay absurd delivery fees. And I don’t tell any of them that I haven’t been feeling well because they’d insist I not work as hard as everyone else.
But I do report my blood pressure readings to my doctor’s office. I don’t forget to mention the fatigue, though I can’t recall if it’s gotten worse since starting the Prozac. I tell the receptionist about the flank pain and how I’ve been having to pee more frequently, and she says my doctor will get back to me. It’s the day before our grand reopening, and we’ve surpassed our budget—we’re veering on broke again—but Mom calls the landlord to tell him to come pick up the rent, and she’s so excited, laughs a little when she thinks I’m not paying attention, smiles into the phone. She nervously fixes her hair in the mirror after she hangs up.
When Pete walks in, he looks as nervous as she does; he also looks confused. His big bug eyes dart around our space. “See you’ve done a whole lot of work here,” he says, probably wondering how we can afford it since we haven’t even paid rent, and why we didn’t ask him if we can replace the sink vanity with something prettier. But he smiles at Mom, his teeth showing. “It looks nice. Very nice.”
Hm. Points to Mr. Grumpy Landlord for saying that, but he’s staring at my mother with the sex eyes right in front of me, and something twists in my stomach.
“You know what else looks nice,” I say, handing him an envelope of cash and watching the whites of his eyes widen when he opens it. “All the rent we owe and half of next month’s rent. We hope you’ll let us stay.”
“We really love it here,” Mom says, voice softer than it usually is. Yuck.
Pete taps the envelope. “Was willing to let y’all stay without the extra show of good faith, but appreciate it.”
Within the next few months, I plan to pay down our credit cards and our loans, but this is the first paid debt and it feels like a weight off my soul.
He glances at the vanity again, then: “My daughters were going on about how they’ve been waiting for the grand reopening. I wish y’all would’ve told me.”
I’m instantly suspicious. So is Mom. She puts a hand on her hip, asks, “Why?” in the sassy voice she reserves for DMV workers.
If Pete notices, he only smiles. “I could’ve helped around here.”
“Is that right?” Mom nods, and points a finger at him. “Well, then, I’ve got just the job for you.” She grabs supplies off the counter and leads Pete out the front door. I watch from the window as she makes him hang our reopening banner on the building. They laugh and linger, and I wonder what their banter is like when I’m not within earshot. Watching them makes my heart squeeze. I think of her and Dad, sweet kisses and steady heartbreak.
When Pete leaves and she comes back into the shop, she’s quiet while she wipes down the windows. It feels like I should ask if she has a crush on him. I wonder if she does and if she wants me to know. But I grab some paper towels to help her, and I don’t say anything about Pete at all.
I can’t afford to eat out right now, but Katrina offered to pay for me and Lex as a way of celebrating our big day tomorrow. We’re seated at the table, waiting for Lex to arrive, when my doctor calls. I’d rather not pick it up in public, but I’ve been waiting to hear back all day.
“After going over your results, I think it’ll be good to increase your dose of lisinopril to see if it helps lower your blood pressure. I’ll send the script over to your pharmacy now. Just call the office back in a couple of weeks to let me know how you’re doing with it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But what about…my bladder stuff?”
Katrina glances up from the drink menu, and I realize I haven’t mentioned it to her.
“Your bladder stuff?” my doctor asks, as confused as Katrina is.
Katrina must see the frustration on my face because she shoots me a look and taps her fingers on the table. I breathe out. “I told the receptionist I’ve been having these weird pains in my flank area and getting up so many times at night to go to the bathroom. And I don’t want to seem paranoid, but it feels like something’s wrong.”
“Are you?” he asks. “Are you paranoid that something is wrong with you?”
A knot forms in my stomach. I wonder if he’s teasing, but the words still sting. “Um…no.”
“I’m kidding,” he says. Then: “But sometimes when we’re overworried, it could cause our bodies to respond, creating a ripple effect of symptoms that are leading you to feel off.”
Should I be insulted, sad? I feel embarrassed.
Has he been thinking I’m paranoid all along?
“Does that make sense?” he asks, tone the way you’d check in with a child.
Kat mouths for me to put the phone on speaker, but I ignore her. “I think so,” I say.
“Great. I’ll leave a lab slip at the front desk for you to get a urine sample. Sometimes UTIs can be sneaky. Are you still having headaches? Any chance you might be pregnant?”
Warmth cuts across my cheeks remembering that strange vision of me and Issac, my stomach round. “No chance for pregnancy,” I say. “Yes to headaches.”
“Okay. Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out. Like I said before, the headaches aren’t connected to your blood pressure. They’re probably from stress, but let the office know when you call back with a lisinopril update, and I’ll see if it’s wise if we order you a CT scan.”
Order a scan now, some voice inside of me wants to tell him. But another voice comes, says it’ll come back clear and he’ll feel proven that I’m paranoid.
Kat is waiting for an explanation when I hang up the phone. I have the immediate urge to keep it to myself because something about saying the words out loud makes them feel sticky, strong enough to sink into my brain and stay. But I see the concern in her eyes, feel the comfort when she reaches for my hand across the table, and the words start spilling out. She listens quietly while I describe my last doctor’s visit and the phone calls since.
“What if I’m feeling worse because I’m paying more attention to my body? Or what if I just think I’m feeling worse? Maybe he’s right and I’m being paranoid.”
“Or what if he’s dead wrong?” Katrina asks with a frown.
Our waiter comes over before I can answer, and Katrina orders us appetizers but tells him that we’re still waiting on our friend to order the main meals. I take a sip of my watermelon mojito, wishing I’d asked for extra tequila.
Kat tilts her head, says, “No, but you really trust his opinion just because he’s a doctor? Doesn’t Lex tell us all the time that Shane’s witnessed great doctors do wrong things? I’m sure some of them are bad and wrong. It sounds like yours was insulting you. I hate to throw around the gaslighting word, but that too.”
I want to feel relief that she noticed, something other than nerves, but I sigh and shrug. “Now, I’m going to be worried he thinks I’m a hypochondriac.”
“He shouldn’t because you’re not.” Katrina sucks her teeth. “What he said was straight-up unprofessional, and frankly, he was a dick.” She pushes her drink away like she’s too disgusted. “Find a new doctor, or I’ll do it for you.”
I think of Bridget offering the name of her own PCP. “Alright,” I tell Katrina because even if my doctor’s not wrong, I won’t feel comfortable talking to him about anything after that call. “But let me check in with this other office before you demand my insurance cards to make the appointment yourself.”
Kat doesn’t laugh. “You know, you can always tell me when you’re not feeling good. I can come over and we can watch Twilight and Hunger Games and all of your other favorite movies to rewatch.”
Tears burn at the backs of my eyes. “I love you,” I tell her.
“I love you more,” she says, “And I think I need friend advice too.”
She tells me how down she’s been feeling at work because her supervisor puts a lot on her shoulders but hasn’t approved her raise. Even though he’s admitted that she’s one of the best consultants he’s ever had.
“It’s because I’m a woman,” she says, anger in her voice.
She always tells me about her ideas for gaining more clients and working with bigger corporations. I think her office would be silly to lose her. “Do what a man would and demand a raise or threaten to walk.”
“You’re right. If you’re going to ditch your doctor, I should be ready to ditch my job.”
“I can help you draft the email to your supervisor,” I offer.
Her shoulders relax; she smiles. “You can make sure I don’t say anything reckless.”
“I got you, girl.”
“What do you got?” Lex says, making the most dramatic entrance by closing up his rain-soaked umbrella and spraying droplets all over us and the table. We’re happy he’s here.
When the waiter brings out our appetizers, Katrina claps, Lex does a shimmy. We came to our favorite ramen spot, Ebisu in Providence, and my mouth waters at the sight of the perfectly seared gyoza in front of us.
“I’m sorry if this is strange,” the waiter says, “but you’re Ms. Thompson, right?”
Kat snickers and picks up her chopsticks. Lex looks downright satisfied. I shrink lower in my seat and nod.
“I’m a huge fan of Issac Jordan, so I just wanted to introduce myself. I hope the food is perfect and the service has been to your liking.”
“I’m sure the food will be amazing,” I say, smiling. “And the service is always perfect here. Thank you.”
He gives me an awkward little wave, says, “I’ll be back with your ramen soon.”
When he leaves, Lex laughs. “Do you think we can get free fried ice cream? I’d love a good Japanese soda as well, but my wallet wouldn’t love it.”
“Yes, let’s use your newfound celeb status and enjoy the perks,” Katrina agrees.
“We will not be doing that,” I tell them, and shove a warm gyoza in my mouth.
Lex chews on garlic chili edamame, then clears his throat. “I guess this is a good moment to tell you both that Shane finally asked me to move in with him. I already have a toothbrush there, and I leave my boxers around the house as a sign, so it’s about time.”
Katrina and I scream, drawing attention from other dinner guests. We reach for him over our glass plates, barely being careful because we’re so happy.