Darling Rose Gold, page 26
“I know how to spell Adam,” he sniffs, “and that’s how I spelled both names before.” He types them again anyway and jabs the enter key.
After a few seconds, he (smugly) says, “No one under that name. You’ll have to fill out a new patient form.” He winces when Adam lets out a mind-numbing shriek.
I force myself to take a deep breath. “What about his mother, Rose Gold Watts?” I ask. “She has to be in your system.”
The receptionist hands me a clipboard with a blank form. “That’s not going to help you here, ma’am. Every patient needs their own medical file.” He gestures for me to choose a chair and is relieved when I move the screaming baby away from him.
The rest of the people in the waiting room don’t look excited as I approach with Adam. I give each of them a small “I’m sorry” smile; one elderly woman smiles back. I choose a seat next to her.
I begin filling out the form. I could have sworn Rose Gold told me she planned to give birth to Adam here. I remember saying how special it was that she was having Adam in the same hospital where I’d given birth to her. She hadn’t seemed moved by the thought, but I’d chalked it up to pregnancy nerves. She must have had to change hospitals last minute, maybe to Westview twenty miles away.
When the form is complete, I bring it back to the surly receptionist. I have half a mind to tell him off, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the medical community, it’s that you want to keep them on your side or you’ll never get anywhere. I hand him the clipboard and smile.
“Someone will be with you soon,” he says.
I want to ask how soon, but know this will irritate him, so I don’t. Instead I turn my attention to Adam. His face is bright red from crying. We head back to our seat. I pull a bottle from his diaper bag. When I put it to his mouth, he starts to suck and stops crying.
“Oh, thank God,” a middle-aged man dressed in matching sweatpants and sweatshirt mutters. I shoot him a dirty look. People can be so cruel to children.
After thirty interminable minutes, a nurse calls Adam’s name. I hop up from my chair and sling the diaper bag, plus my purse, over my shoulder. Adam has started to cry again, and I’m eager to get away from the others in the waiting room—their patience is wearing thin. Sweatpants Monster’s eyes are in danger of rolling out of his head. I accidentally stomp on his toes as I pass.
I follow the nurse through a door and down a sterile white hallway. The patients’ rooms line the left and right sides. I remember a childhood game of bingo I made up for Rose Gold—she got to fill in a square every time we visited a new room. She’d finished the board by the time she was seven.
We turn right at the end of the hallway, leading us down another long corridor. The nurse walks much faster than I do, although in my defense, I am carrying a fifteen-pound bowling ball, plus all his accessories. I glance down to check on Adam and run straight into someone.
“Patty?”
I recognize the voice before I look up: Tom. This will not go well.
Stepping back, I tilt my head toward my former friend, dressed in scrubs. “Hi, Tom.”
“What are you doing here?” he asks with genuine confusion. He scans me for injuries, then sees Adam. His eyes narrow.
“Got to go, Tom. Chat later?” I try to sidestep him and run after the nurse. She’s disappeared around another corner by now.
Tom steps with me, blocking my path. “Why are you here?” he asks again.
“My grandson is sick,” I say impatiently.
Tom leans in toward Adam, his medical training kicking in. “Sick how?” he says.
I know this is going to sound suspicious. I’m going to look bad, but I don’t see a way around him. I meet Tom’s stare. “He won’t stop vomiting.”
Tom’s eyes fill with fear, then with anger. He takes a step toward me, giving me just enough room to inch around him. He grabs my wrist, but I bat him away.
“I didn’t do anything,” I hiss. I pick up my pace and run after the nurse. Right before I turn the corner, I glance over my shoulder at Tom. He stands there, watching me go.
I nearly collide with the nurse. “I was wondering where you went,” she says, leading me into room sixteen. Rose Gold used to call this the lucky room because sixteen was her favorite number.
The nurse introduces herself as Janet and closes the door behind us. She asks me routine questions about Adam’s symptoms while checking his eyes, ears, and mouth. She pulls out her stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs. She checks his skin and genitals for rashes. When she presses Adam’s belly, he starts to cry again.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Janet says. She sounds like she means it. She plays with Adam’s foot and tries to calm him. I sit back, exhausted, glad to be with someone else who knows how to care for children.
“Is Adam breastfeeding?” Janet asks.
I nod.
“And you’re Adam’s grandmother, correct?” Janet keeps trying to quiet Adam.
I nod.
“What are his mother’s and father’s names?” she asks, handing him back to me.
“Rose Gold Watts and Phil . . . I don’t know the father’s last name.”
Janet stops typing.
“My daughter isn’t in touch with him anymore,” I say.
Adam’s cries get louder, so Janet has to yell to be heard over him. “And where is Rose Gold today?”
To my relief, Adam vomits on me. Saved by the smell.
“See! This is what I’m talking about,” I say, vindicated. “He’s been doing this since nine o’clock this morning.”
Janet jumps up from her chair and grabs a handful of paper towels. She helps me clean the baby and myself.
When all the soiled paper towels have been thrown away, Janet heads for the door. “Dr. Soukup will be right in.” I beam. I love meeting new doctors.
Rocking the sobbing baby, I say, “We’re going to get you some medicine, sweet pea. It’ll make your tummy all better.” Adam continues to cry, but his face is dry. He’s dehydrated. I hug him tighter.
A while later, Dr. Soukup knocks and enters. She’s a put-together woman with streaks of gray hair and a warm-but-no-nonsense bedside manner—my favorite breed of doctor. Maybe we’ll become friends. I can meet her at the hospital on her lunch break, and she can show me the newest pharmaceuticals. Then I remember Adam and I won’t be staying in Deadwick long. Too bad. I’ll have to find a Dr. Soukup in our new town.
Reading from her computer screen, Dr. Soukup summarizes the symptoms I explained to Janet. I nod, eager to get to a treatment.
Dr. Soukup studies me over her stylish tortoiseshell glasses. “And where is Adam’s mother?”
I can’t very well say, You know, I haven’t seen or heard from her in thirty-two hours, so I’m not quite sure. Wherever my daughter is, she deserves what she got.
“At a work conference,” I say. “I’m watching Adam for the week.”
Dr. Soukup shakes her head. “A work conference the week before Christmas? Companies these days have no heart.”
I nod in agreement. “She works such long hours, it’s like I’ve become his primary caretaker. I try to do the best I can. I mean, I’m a certified nursing assistant, so I like to think I know what I’m doing. But on days like today, I feel so inadequate.”
Dr. Soukup pats me on the shoulder. “Not to worry, Patty. You’re doing a terrific job.”
The old familiar warmth starts in my chest and spreads across my body like an electric blanket. Her approval, her encouragement—I try to remember her words verbatim so I can store and use them in the months to come.
“I’d like to start with small doses of an oral electrolyte solution to rehydrate Adam,” Dr. Soukup says. “See how there are no tears when he cries? That’s a sign of dehydration.”
“But, Doctor,” I say, “based on how much he’s vomiting and for how long, this is more serious than your average stomach bug, wouldn’t you say? What about all the diarrhea?”
“It’s only been eight hours,” Dr. Soukup says. “Generally we don’t start to worry unless it’s been more than twelve. Do you have Pedialyte at home? You should wait to give it to him thirty to sixty minutes after he vomits.”
I came all this way for some stinking Pedialyte? I don’t think so.
“I think it might be pyloric stenosis,” I say, fretting.
Dr. Soukup looks surprised. “Is he vomiting after feeding?”
“Yes,” I say. “He’s vomiting all the time.” Which would include after feeding.
Dr. Soukup presses Adam’s stomach. “Usually with pyloric stenosis, we feel an olive-shaped lump in the abdomen—the enlarged pyloric muscle. I’m not feeling that here.”
Dr. Soukup is about to leave, but I need her to stay. I don’t want this visit to be over yet. I want a prescription, a real treatment—not some over-the-counter strawberry liquid that college ne’er-do-wells drink when they’re hungover. But my brain isn’t moving fast enough; my encyclopedic knowledge of medical conditions is dusty, out of practice. I can’t think of another illness.
“Let me grab a bottle of Pedialyte. We’ll give Adam a first dose here, okay? I’ll be right back.” Dr. Soukup is out the door before I can protest. A kind but efficient treatment of patients—she’s a professional, all right.
While she’s gone, I think through my options. I could tell her he swallowed a piece of a small toy. She would ask why I hadn’t mentioned this to begin with, but I could feign shame, say I didn’t want her to think I was a bad grandmother. If the toy piece was big enough, she might be worried about letting him pass it on his own. She might suggest surgery.
I’m hit with déjà vu: rushing Rose Gold to the hospital, our endless waiting—for the doctor, for the treatment, for her to get better. Even the way Adam is vomiting reminds me of Rose Gold.
With my daughter missing, an extended hospital stay isn’t a good idea. Complicating the situation is the opposite of what we need. I want Adam to stop throwing up so I can focus on next steps. Maybe I should give him the Pedialyte and hope for the best.
I check my watch. What’s taking so long? Did the doctor forget where the hospital’s drugs are kept? I open the door and poke my head into the hallway. I turn to my left and right: nothing. I take a few steps outside and peer around the corner.
At the end of the corridor stand Dr. Soukup and Tom. He’s gesticulating like a lunatic. They’re too far away for me to hear what he’s saying, but it can’t be good. Why does this yahoo have to butt into my business every chance he gets? No one asked you to play the hero, Tom Behan.
He turns his head and spots me. Before I can duck back around the corner, Dr. Soukup turns and sees me too. They both stare. I go back to room sixteen. Dread has replaced the warmth brought on by Dr. Soukup’s praise. But I can’t leave now.
A minute or two later, Dr. Soukup returns with a bottle of Pedialyte in hand. I search for evidence she’s turned against me: a lack of eye contact, crossed arms, a clipped tone when she speaks. But she carries on in the same courteous manner as before.
“You know, Patty, I think you might be right,” she says, unscrewing the bottle’s cap and pouring a tiny amount of liquid onto a spoon. “Given how violent Adam’s vomiting is, I think we should keep him here a bit longer. To be safe.” She gives Adam the rehydration solution.
An involuntary shiver of anticipation runs through me at the idea of an extended hospital stay. Some folks like camping or going to the beach. Me? I’ve always liked a nice, long hospital visit. But not today. Not now. I’m too terrified to even think of enjoying myself.
“How long?” I ask. Tom is trying to trap me here.
“At least a few hours. Maybe overnight,” Dr. Soukup says, watching Adam. “We want to run a few tests. Rule out anything more serious.” She gazes at me over those elegant glasses. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“Of course not,” I say, swallowing hard.
I can’t decide if the throbbing in my chest is elation or panic.
26
Rose Gold
March 2017
I waved to Robert the security guard as I left Gadget World and headed for the parking lot. It was a warm day for early March. Soon it would be spring, my favorite season. In spring, everyone appreciated the things they took for granted in summer. It was a time for fresh starts, new plans. I’d done a lot of thinking since Mary Stone’s visit three months ago.
I climbed into the van and reversed out of my parking spot, forcing myself to ignore the four white cars in a row across from me. I’d wasted too much time on my stupid omens and superstitions. It was time to get serious: Mommy dearest was getting out in eight months. I would be ready for her.
By the time she and I were living under the same roof again, I would be skeletal. It would be too cold to walk around in a tank top in November, so I’d decided to take up running to give me an excuse to jog around the neighborhood in little clothing. With any luck, I might even faint on one of my runs and cause a scene. I could already picture Tom Behan or Mary Stone helping me back home, ringing the bell and glaring when my mother opened the door. They’d picture her at the stove, rubbing her hands together and cackling with glee while she tilted drop after drop of the sickly-sweet liquid into my bowl of stew.
Their outrage would be just the beginning.
I didn’t need to seriously start restricting calories for several months. I was already thin, so losing the extra weight wouldn’t take long. But I wanted to make sure I was up to the task when the time came. I had come to love food like it was a person. In some ways, food was better—reliable and nourishing and it never talked back.
I was not looking forward to giving up burgers and blueberry pancakes and mac and cheese. Nor was I excited to act like I didn’t know my way around the kitchen. I could make a pretty mean frittata by that point. Still, sacrifices had to be made in the service of a greater good.
To prepare I’d instituted a training program of sorts. I’d spend two hours making a beautiful roast chicken, then pour nail polish remover over it so I couldn’t eat it. One night I put a bag of Skittles on the tray table in front of me and tested how long I could go without opening it. (My record was forty-two minutes.) Last month I baked a gorgeous Funfetti cake, took one bite, then forced myself to throw it away. After that, I knew I was ready.
Were these drastic measures necessary? Not strictly, but don’t underestimate the importance of boredom.
When I reached the parking lot of my one-bedroom apartment, I remembered I didn’t live there anymore. I swore. An elderly man gave me a dirty look. I gave it right back.
Ten minutes later, I paused at the stop sign at the intersection of Evergreen and Apple. To the right, a beat-up old treadmill stood at the end of Mr. Opal’s driveway. If he was throwing it away, I might as well ask if I could have it. Tomorrow I’d go over there after work to find out.
I turned the van left on Apple and drove until the street dead-ended. Number 201 Apple Street: home sweet home. I waited for the garage door to open, then pulled the van in and parked.
Two weeks prior I had moved into my mother’s childhood home. Mabel Peabody had been hoping to wait to move out until the end of the year, but Gerald’s cancer worsened faster than either of them expected. He bit the dust two months ago. I went to the funeral—to mourn, but also to remind Mabel I was ready to move in. She was so overcome with grief, she couldn’t wait to leave. “Too many reminders of happy memories here,” she said.
What a hard fucking life you’ve led, I didn’t say.
I unlocked the door to my house. My house—I still got giddy saying it. It was old and creepy and falling apart in places, but it would do for now. I didn’t have enough furniture to fill the two spare bedrooms, but one of them would be filled with a warm body soon enough.
I kicked off my shoes and flipped through the mail. Bills, delivery flyers, and one thick envelope. I ripped it open—it had taken me months to find this online. When I was a kid, you could buy it at pharmacies and in grocery stores, but now you had to crawl to dark corners of the Internet to get ahold of it. Reaching my hand inside the envelope, I felt for the cool, round glass and pulled it out: a small brown bottle with a white cap. Printed on the label in blue letters was “Ipecac Syrup.”
“This is it, Planty,” I said to the fern in the corner.
I stared at the bottle—no bigger than my hand, yet it had wreaked so much damage on my body. As a kid, I had only seen it once, at the back of Mom’s sock drawer. She must have changed hiding places, keeping the bottles away from “nosy noses,” as she referred to me. I closed my fingers around it, feeling powerful and sick at the same time.
I didn’t revel in the prospect of poisoning myself, but it was the one concrete way to prove my mother was back to her old tricks. I wasn’t sure a jury would believe an adult could be starved against her will, but she could sure as hell be unknowingly poisoned. Only an idiot would fall for the same trick twice, but I’d have to be that idiot, I guessed.
On the bright side, I wouldn’t be the only one getting sick. It was my turn to play God.
I tucked the small brown bottle into a sock in my bedroom dresser. On my way back to the living room, I paused in the doorway of my mother’s soon-to-be bedroom. I’d planned a nice surprise for her in here before her arrival. I didn’t want Mom stuck staring at four boring old walls—she deserved a flourish.
Sometimes I was convinced I felt my grandfather’s dark presence in this house. How, I wondered, had my mother hidden from his wrath? Had she gone for the obvious spots at first: her bedroom closet, under the bed, behind the shower curtain? And then as she got older, had she become craftier? Hidden in the car inside the garage, up a tree, in the giant freezer in the basement?
“What do you think?” I asked Planty as I moved through the living room. “I’d guess the Wattses didn’t spend much time in the basement after dear old Uncle David died.”
