Two
It was the smell that got to Frances. That sickly, antiseptic scent like someone had spilled a bottle of Lysol. Between that and the torturous headache, she thought she was going to vomit. She opened her eyes and tried to focus so she wouldn’t.
She was in a hospital, goddammit. If there was one thing Frances could not abide, it was hospitals.
Not for an appointment, not for a consult, not to visit anyone—and yet, here she was.
She’d had to get stitches where her head hit the shelving, and she’d just been brought up from getting a CT scan.
She’d tried to convince the emergency room doctor that wasn’t necessary, but no one listened to her.
They’d advised her to remain calm and then shouted, “Is there anyone we can call for you?” like they thought she was dumb and deaf.
She was so stupid to have tried that con.
She wanted to kick herself, slap her own face.
Rule number one of girl gang: Do not go into a con unprepared or alone.
If this had been the old days, Irene would have bought big bottles of soda and made them practice opening them and would have timed their efforts.
And if this had been the old days, Edie would have clocked her for being so careless, and she would have deserved it.
“Hello, hon, how are you feeling?”
Frances turned her head to the right and winced with the pain that electrocuted her right behind the eyes.
A slender young man in purple scrubs, with sparkly blue nail polish that matched his blue hair, was adjusting something on her IV.
“Not as shiny as you, that’s for sure. And my head is killing me. And I think I might be sick.”
“I’ll bet. You took a nasty fall. I’m Jorge, your nurse. If you need to vomit, do it in here.” He handed her a blue paper balloon-looking thing.
Her whole body ached. She was almost afraid to move. “Did they find anything broken? A hip? A shoulder?”
“Nope. Your bones are apparently made of concrete. And they didn’t shave as much of your hair as I would have guessed.”
What? Her hand immediately went to the back of her head and the bald patch there, covered by a bandage that seemed to take up most of the real estate on her head. This day was getting worse and worse.
He picked up her wrist and put two fingers to her pulse, his eyes on his watch. “Is there anyone I can call for you besides Marjorie?”
Frances yanked her gaze to him and immediately regretted it, as white-hot spasms of pain shot through her. “You called Marjorie Cohen?”
“No, but Marjorie Cohen called you. I answered.” He let go of her wrist and smiled. “I can’t have you in here all alone.”
“Yes, you can. It was just a dumb fall. Now that I’m awake or alert or whatever, I’ll just get dressed and go. Where are my clothes?”
“Are you going to go before or after you vomit?” he asked. “Your clothes are in the wardrobe, hon. But you can’t go until the doctor discharges you. She’s going to be up to talk to you about your noggin.”
“Franny!” Marjorie suddenly appeared, sailing into Frances’s hospital room and around Jorge as if he wasn’t there.
An elderly gentleman in a fedora and relying heavily on a cane tried to keep up with her.
“What in heaven? How on earth did you fall? You’re so light on your feet, you’re the last person I would expect to fall. ”
“I don’t know,” Frances lied.
“Did you slip on something? Did someone push you?”
“Push me! Why would someone push me?”
“You hear about crimes against seniors all the time.”
“It’s true,” Jorge said. “We had a patient in last week who was mugged leaving church. You’d have to be cold-blooded to mug an old dude leaving church.”
“Hear that?” Marjorie said, pointing at Jorge. “Mugged at church.”
“No one pushed me or mugged me. There was a spill on the floor, and I fell. It’s that ridiculous.”
“You didn’t break a hip, did you? Caroline Hix broke her hip and ended up in that terrible rehab place for three months.”
“Lucky me, I didn’t break anything but my air of aloof sophistication,” Frances muttered.
“Well, good. Let’s go, then. Dan has come to drive us. Oh, I forgot myself. Dan, say hello to Frances.”
Dan said obediently, “Hello, Frances. Now are you the one no one wants to play pickleball with? Or is that someone else?”
“For God’s sake, Dan,” Marjorie said.
“Hey, what’s this do?” Dan asked, pointing at Frances’s heart rate monitor. “This tells you what, the heart rate?”
“Among other things,” Jorge said, and walked over to point a few things out.
“He’s forever, huh?” Frances whispered. “And thanks a lot, Marjorie. It wasn’t enough to be trash-talked at the club. Now I can enjoy it at Silver Oak Towers, too.”
“What can I say? It’s a good story for our dinner table,” Marjorie said innocently.
Frances glanced at Dan, who was leaning forward to get a good look at the heart monitor. She thought she would prefer a cab or an Uber.
“Before I forget, I gave Aaron a heads-up about your fall,” Marjorie went on. “I told him I’d call him to let him know how you are.”
A swell of panic added to Frances’s nausea. “For shit’s sake, Marjorie, you called my son?” She immediately winced at the pain in her head that outburst caused. Her stomach roiled. Aaron was such a good son, he’d be on the first plane out of Omaha. “I don’t want to worry him.”
“I had to call him, Frances. His mother is in the hospital! Dying, for all he knows.”
“You might have at least checked to see if I was dying first. What did he say?”
“I told him you had a head injury, and he said he’d look at flights, but to call him the minute I knew something.”
“Call him right now and tell him I don’t have a head injury,” Frances insisted. Aaron was already making noises about not liking her in Houston on her own. He wanted her to move close to him and his family. To Omaha.
A young woman with a high ponytail entered the room. She reminded Frances of her granddaughter, and for a moment, she thought the young woman was in the wrong room. But then Jorge said, “Do you need me, Dr. McPherson?”
Frances was taken aback. This young woman looked far too young to be offering medical prognoses. “If you could get a blood draw ready. Thanks, Jorge.”
“I already had blood drawn,” Frances said.
“I need a little more.”
Frances was immediately suspicious. Her experience with Nick had taught her that no one asked for more blood unless they were fishing for something. “Why?”
But the teen pretend doctor smiled prettily and said, “Hi, Mrs. Deluca. I’m Dr. McPherson.”
“How old are you?” Marjorie asked, her voice full of wonder.
“Marjorie,” Frances hissed, then looked at the doctor and hoped she’d answer.
“Old enough to have a medical license,” Dr. McPherson assured them. “Could I ask that the room be cleared for a moment? I’d like to speak with Mrs. Deluca.”
“Oh.” Marjorie seemed surprised. “Why, is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Frances said.
“She was lucky, all things considered,” Dr. McPherson said. “But she has a slight concussion.”
“Is that all?” Marjorie shook her head, apparently disappointed it wasn’t worse. “All that trouble for a concussion. Come on, Dan. We’ll go down to the cafeteria to see what they have.”
“Call Aaron!” Frances insisted. “And don’t wait for me. I’ll call for a cab or an Uber to the grocery store to get my car.”
“Absolutely not!” Marjorie said. “You’re holding a barf bag, Franny, and you’ve got a bandage the size of Delaware on the back of your head. I’m not going to let you unleash that on some poor unsuspecting driver. We’ll be back in a jiff. Come on, Dan.”
Dan, who had wandered to the white board, said, “Hmm?” He turned and saw Marjorie exiting the room, and hurried after her, his cane striking the linoleum floor with his determination to not lose her.
Frances pushed herself up in the bed and looked sheepishly at the doctor. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“How are you feeling? Any pain?”
“It’s better,” Frances said. “You’re going to say I must be careful. I could have broken something, I could have been seriously hurt, yada yada.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and swallowed down a swell of nausea. “And you’re right. I won’t argue.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’ve had a concussion before,” Frances added, her way of letting the doctor know she knew all about those, too. She’d gotten a whopper of one in New York the year Edie met Simon.
“What about headaches?” Dr. McPherson asked.
“Yes, my head aches right now, right behind my eye,” she said, rubbed her right eye. And smeared her makeup. Which was probably already smeared. God, she wanted to go home.
“Do you get them often?”
Someone had put socks with rubber grips on her feet. She wondered if she could wear them home. They were quite comfortable. “Headaches? Yes, I tend to get migraines.” Wait. If she said too much, they’d find a reason to keep her here. “But I’ve got medicine at home.”
“Any dizziness or lack of coordination?” the doctor asked.
Frances couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Was there anyone over seventy who didn’t suffer from occasional lapses in coordination? “I fell at the grocery store, so I would say yes to lack of coordination.”
Dr. McPherson didn’t laugh. “What about outside of your fall today?”
Everyone was so serious these days. “I’m kidding.
I’m fine. But I’m seventy-four. Sometimes, you get a little dizzy or have clumsy moments.
” She was smiling, but Dr. McPherson was not.
Something about this line of questioning was beginning to feel off.
Maybe even alarming. It suddenly occurred to her that dehydration must have shown up on the bloodwork and that’s why Dr. McPherson wanted more.
“Oh, okay, I get it—I know where you’re going with this. ”
“You do?”
“I do. Trust me, I’ve googled it six ways to Sunday. I’ve had headaches, and some dizziness, and fatigue. And every so often my vision blurs. But it clears up once I drink enough water.”
Dr. McPherson frowned. Why was she frowning?
“All classic symptoms of dehydration,” Frances continued, and swallowed down another swell of nausea.
“Or lupus. Or cancer. It depends on what link you follow on Google.” She laughed at her joke, fully expecting Dr. McPherson to laugh with her.
Oh, you’re too funny, Mrs. Deluca! Stay away from Google, now, do you hear me?
But Dr. McPherson didn’t laugh. She looked serious. Dammit. Joan used to howl at Frances’s lame jokes, to the point that Edie begged them both to stop.
Maybe this doctor was sick to death of Google.
If Frances were a doctor, she would be. She could imagine the people in and out all day long, having self-diagnosed.
“I’m joking,” she said to the teenaged doctor.
“I know I don’t have cancer or lupus. I’m dehydrated and I promise to drink more water and electrolytes and get plenty of rest and eat my vegetables. ”
Dr. McPherson’s expression changed. She looked like someone had died, and something cold and sickening sank inside Frances. “I googled it,” she said again. “I googled my symptoms, and I’m dehydrated. Okay, why are you looking like someone stole your puppy?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Deluca. I have some bad news.”
“Oh. Okay,” Frances said, and then vomited into the blue barf bag.