Chapter 4 December 20
I’m sweaty and hot, in a nauseating way. When a patient says they feel like they’ve been “run over by a truck,” well, lying here, I know exactly what they mean.
For a moment I think I’m in bed in my Toronto apartment, which is a twenty-minute brisk walk from the hospital.
I adore my bed—it’s king-sized and has layers of plush bedding on top of a memory-foam mattress, along with far too many pillows.
Many nights I sleep in fits and bursts at the hospital, so at home I’m rigid about sleep hygiene.
Austin’s condo is closer to the hospital and bigger, so we often stayed there, but my bed is far comfier.
A memory settles in then, from when I caught a nasty virus earlier this year and was bedridden for days.
Austin hadn’t come by to check on me. He did send a soup delivery to make sure I was staying hydrated, but he said he couldn’t risk catching it.
“Surgery is packed this week. You know what a nightmare rescheduling is,” he texted.
Later that day on FaceTime, as I gingerly sipped a cup of the delivered chicken-noodle soup, Austin asked, “Think you’ll live?
” with a teasing smile on his handsome face.
Nary a wrinkle or blemish anywhere, despite his being forty-two years old, with ocean-blue eyes that were mesmerizing even through the phone’s screen.
“I’ll live. Thanks for the soup,” I replied, my voice a painful squeak.
I remember feeling grateful for the soup—even though I threw it up later—and for Austin’s thoughtful gesture.
I would have preferred him to lie in bed with me, watch a movie, replenish my glass of water, and make sure I medicated my fever.
But I kept that wish to myself; Austin was busy, plus, I was a capable, independent adult.
The door creaks open and my dad walks in, opening the slat blinds before smiling at me as he takes my wrist in his fingers to check my pulse.
I’m in my childhood bedroom, in my parents’ two-level Craftsman house.
A soft, warm quilt puddles around my feet on the double bed, the walls a vibrant yellow I still love.
A whiteboard calendar hangs above a simple wooden desk.
Squinting, I see it still holds the schedule for my final week of summer before I left for university.
The entire room is like a museum exhibit of teenage me.
“Mom and I are about to head to the clinic,” Dad says, perched on the edge of the bed. “Do you need anything before we go?”
My dad and I are peas in a pod, especially in appearance.
The same honeyed-amber eyes, chestnut-brown hair that could be called “auburn” in certain lighting, a lean physique well suited to running.
Something we used to enjoy doing together when I was younger.
I still run a couple times a week to relieve stress, but I don’t love dodging litter and dog waste not picked up by careless owners, or maneuvering through the endless traffic grid.
Now, lying here with a stomach that feels like it has really been through something, I suddenly remember the last twenty-four hours.
My car broke down, and Liam—the handsome green-eyed stranger with killer dimples—gave me a lift into town.
I ate that cold sandwich, which clearly explains my pathetic state.
One might think that as a doctor I’m hypervigilant about food-borne illness.
However, I spend so much time around sickness I rarely think about it outside the hospital setting.
Which is unfortunate when one decides a turkey, stuffing, and cranberry gas-station sandwich sounds good.
I started feeling dizzy and nauseous shortly after dinner, so Amelia and Beckett went to get my car (Beckett’s brother Chase has a towing company), and I spent the rest of the night on the bathroom floor. I give my dad a weak smile. “Sorry for the drama, Dad. I’m gross—a total disaster.”
He waves the apology away. “I’m your dad, Libby. And a nurse to boot. This is my wheelhouse, honey. Besides, we’re just thrilled you’re home!”
My smile dims, guilt blooming, but I manage, “I’m glad to be home, too.”
Dad feels my forehead with the back of his hand, the way he used to when I was little. My dad is—and has always been—the caregiver of our family. I learned a lot about doctoring from my mom, but everything I know about bedside manner has come from him. “You’re not febrile. That’s good.”
Not febrile means no fever. In the Munro house medical terms are tossed about regularly. Even Amelia, who had eschewed anything related to a career in health care, can speak “medical-ese” without blinking an eye.
“Why don’t I send Mila up with some flat ginger ale before she heads out for school? That should help settle things.”
My sister still has breakfast with our parents Monday through Friday, as her school is closer to their place.
Very occasionally, and typically only on the rare occasion I come back to Harmony Hills, I think about how easily I left home.
Without so much as a backwards glance, while Amelia—who is seven years younger than me—stayed, ultimately forming an adult relationship with our parents.
I feel more like the wet-behind-the-ears teenager I was when I left for university, versus the accomplished thirtysomething physician I am today.
I’m about to reply that ginger ale sounds great when the opening bars of “Jingle Bells” echoes down the hallway.
“Mom’s current ringtone,” Dad says. “You know how she gets this time of year.”
I do know. Mom is “crackers for Christmas” (self-described) and always has been, or at least for as long as I can remember.
The house is decked out for the holidays, with two fully decorated trees and four miniature villages complete with a working model Polar Express train that runs along ceiling-suspended tracks from one room to the next.
There’s fresh cedar garlands and pine wreaths on the doors and windows, and a family of lit-up snow people on the front lawn.
Outdoors you’ll find more of Mom’s holiday spirit with twinkle lights wrapping around porch columns and fastidiously hung icicle lights lining the roofline. Crackers for Christmas , no question.
Tall and statuesque, with bright blue eyes and long silver hair that’s always tied back in a ponytail, my mother, Dr. Monica Munro, is a striking woman.
But she’s also a total goofball with a wicked sense of humour.
Evidenced today by the Elf -inspired one-piece jumpsuit she wears, and the plate of crispy bacon in hand.
“Thought you might be hungry after all the vomit drama last night,” my mom says, raising one eyebrow teasingly.
“Mom, are you trying to make me throw up on my bed?” I groan, plugging my nose. Normally, a day that starts with a hand-delivered plate of bacon is a good one. Today is not that day.
Mom laughs, then reaches into the pocket of her onesie and pulls out a blister pack. “Ondansetron, sweetheart. It will pair well with the flat ginger ale.” Ondansetron is an antiemetic (antinausea) medication that works like a charm.
“Thank you,” I say, letting the small pill dissolve under my tongue. I settle back against my pillow that Dad has kindly fluffed for me. “Now, I love you both, but please go to the clinic and leave me to my misery.”
Closing my eyes, I remain horizontal, but point firmly with one hand in the general direction of the plate of bacon my mom set on the desk. “Don’t you dare leave that in here, Mom.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, before adding, “Oh, Libby, I’ve planned on turkey and cranberry sandwiches for dinner tonight. We still have leftovers in the freezer from Thanksgiving. Okay, Stark, off we go.”
I moan, covering my face with my pillow. As I will my stomach to behave, I hear Dad say, “Monica, you’re bad,” the two of them laughing lightly before shutting the door behind them.