Nine Women, One Dress(58)

Sure enough, the other girl was scratching everywhere she could reach.

“Okay. Put on this gown, open in the front, bra and underwear stay on. I’ll come back in a few minutes. Do you want your friend to stay for the exam?”

“Yes, please—she’s reading me Entertainment Weekly to distract me.”

I ducked outside the curtain and texted my grandmother. What’s up, Bubbe? I typed as the gum-chewing friend continued reading: “Engagements. Maybe you’ll be engaged by your next birthday! Seth got you such a nice gift for this one, and you’ve only been together a short time.”

“Don’t get carried away,” the patient replied. “I mean, it’s an awesome gift, but notice who’s sitting in the ER with me?”

“Good point,” the gum-chewer answered, and continued. “Engagements. Actor Jeremy Madison to wed Bloomingdale’s employee Natalie Canaras. The two got engaged on the R train in Queens after a flash mob he hired performed ‘Your Love Is Lifting Me Higher.’ Onlookers said he got down on one knee and proposed with a five-carat cushion-cut ring.”

“Are you ready?” I called through the curtain.

“She’s good,” the friend answered.

“I swear I think I’d rather have this original Max Hammer than a five-carat ring!” the itchy girl said as I entered the room.

“Ha, I thought I recognized your dress,” I butted in. I couldn’t help it. “My grandfather works for Max Hammer. Well, he did. He’s actually retiring tomorrow.”

“Wow, that’s my favorite designer. I’m getting my master’s in design at Parsons. My boyfriend bought me a dress of his for my birthday tonight,” she said as she pointed to it, neatly hanging on a hanger like a prize. “It’s, like, the dress of the season,” she gushed, momentarily forgetting her itchy agony.

I examined her. Her horrible rash looked like it was roughly in the pattern of the dress.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m afraid you won’t be wearing that dress again. You have contact dermatitis. There are two kinds, irritant and allergic.” I grabbed her chart as my phone buzzed. I took it out of my pocket just to make sure it wasn’t an emergency. It read, Are you bringing a date to Grandpa’s party?

I groaned. They noticed. The gum-chewer came right out and asked, “What’s the matter?”

I laughed. “Nothing. It’s just my grandma—she’s driving me crazy with texts.”

The itchy girl, who I couldn’t help but notice was quite pretty, thought this was the cutest thing she’d ever heard. I know this because she said, “That’s the cutest thing I ever heard! A grandma who texts!”

“I taught her,” I responded, knowing damn well that that would now be the cutest thing she’d ever heard. I was right.

“Oh my god, you taught her, that is the cutest thing I ever heard!” She smiled through her itchiness. She was a trouper. I looked at the chart.

“So, Samantha Schwartz”—Jewish, I noted to myself, silently cursing my grandmother for brainwashing me—“it says here no allergies. Is that correct?”

“That’s right. Well, never before today,” she added sadly. I could tell that she loved that dress.

“Let’s get you on an IV of Benadryl, then see what this dress is made of.”

The friend held it up. It was the dress of the season. Which I knew only because my bubbe had texted me a picture of it on the cover of Women’s Wear Daily a few months back with the caption, “Grandpa’s going out on top.” I’m usually not this chatty with my patients, especially given the fact that the pretty one obviously had a serious boyfriend, but my grandpa is my idol, and with his retirement imminent I was feeling extra-proud of him and his accomplishments. I took out my phone and found the picture while the nurse set up her IV.

“Look, your dress was on the cover of Women’s Wear Daily!” The itchy Jewish girl—Samantha Schwartz—took my phone. She smiled and handed it to the gum-chewer, who looked duly impressed.

“It’s her dream to be in WWD,” she said.

The Benadryl was delivered and I attached it myself. “This may make you sleepy, but the rash should start clearing up quickly. Now let me take a closer look at this dress.” As I grabbed the dress, a familiar smell hit me. A deeper sniff of the fabric instantly transported me back to my first year of medical school, when we first began working with cadavers. Formaldehyde—not a smell one easily forgets.

“Where did your boyfriend buy this dress?” I asked.

“Bloomingdale’s…I mean, it came in a Bloomingdale’s bag,” she responded tentatively.

I sniffed it again, in a few different spots. “I hate to tell you this, but this dress is covered in formaldehyde.”

Samantha Schwartz immediately threw up at my feet and then began to sob loudly. There was absolutely no consoling her. Her gum-chewing friend explained what Samantha’s boyfriend did for a living and therefore what must have happened. I have to admit, I almost cried for her. What kind of idiot would take a dress off a corpse and give it to his girlfriend? I’ve seen a lot of crazy in this ER, but this may have been the worst.

My phone buzzed once again, and this time I welcomed the distraction. Even if it was my bubbe again.