The Queen of Hearts(38)
I dropped off Delaney at the early-birds room at preschool—they’d finally let her back in—and headed to the office. Parking was a bit tricky in this part of town. Dilworth was one of those boho districts where the zoning laws allowed businesses right next to a residence so that what looked like a homey arts-and-crafts family bungalow nestled among the trees was actually a tax attorney or an architect, or, in this case, a pediatric cardiology office. But the parking lot was tiny, so employees, including the doctors, were encouraged to park on the street, which didn’t exactly improve the chances of striding into work looking crisp and refreshed. I was already sweaty by the time I dragged myself in through the employee entrance in the back.
The door opened into a staff workroom, which had once been the kitchen of the dwelling. There were still a refrigerator, a microwave, and an immense old oak table in place. Everyone congregated in here before the official opening of the day, and as I stepped in, I found myself greeted by whoops and hollers from the staff. Today was Tuesday. I hadn’t been to work since last Thursday, and in the interim, the story of Buzzy’s poolside rescue had gone viral.
“All hail the conquering hero!” shouted Della Rae, the receptionist. “You done good, girl!”
Scattered applause. “Look here, Dr. Anson!” said one of the office girls excitedly, waving Sunday’s edition of the Charlotte Observer in the air. “You’re in the newspaper!”
“I cannot believe,” I said, snatching the paper, “that this is the picture they chose. For the front page.”
We all regarded it. The headline read, LOCAL DOCTORS SAVE CHOKING REAL ESTATE MAGNATE, with a subheading stating, EMERGENCY SURGERY PERFORMED WITH FORK AT COUNTRY CLUB. The large photo underneath it, which had undoubtedly been captured with a cell phone, had been taken from the vantage point of someone kneeling a few feet behind me. It showed Emma’s face, a bit fuzzily, frowning in beautiful concentration as she leaned over the unconscious man; in the foreground was a spectacular close-up of my bikinied bottom. I must have been hunched over Buzzy, with my shoulders lower than my hindquarters, because aside from my giant posterior, the only other parts of me you could make out were my forearm and hand jutting menacingly off to the side, clenching a fork.
“You were on the news too, Dr. Anson,” enthused Carolyn, one of the echo techs. “And all over the Internet!”
“I know,” I said. I’d been deluged with e-mails from well-intentioned people sending copies of the Ass Photo from various Internet sites. The news stories accompanying the picture varied from the lurid (BuzzFeed: BATHING SUIT BEAUTIES DRENCHED IN BLOOD!) to the factual (NPR: EMERGENCY CRICOTHYROTOMY PERFORMED POOLSIDE).
“Did you really poke a hole in him with a fork?” wondered one of the younger office girls.
“No, no,” I said, resigned. I’d been getting this question, or some variant of it, a lot over the weekend. “We had a kitchen knife. And Emma, my friend, did the actual cric. I just assisted.”
“Looks like a fork there,” pointed out Della Rae, gesturing toward the newspaper.
“Well, I did have a fork. For retracting purposes only.”
“I bet he’s sooo grateful. Maybe he’ll give you a huge reward.” This from Abigail, my loyal nurse. “Have you heard from him?”
I had not, in fact, heard from any of the Coopers. This worried me a little, although I knew from Emma that during his revision procedure, Buzzy had undergone a laryngoscopy to retrieve what turned out to be a hunk of steak that had been obstructing his windpipe. He’d tolerated this well, and was recovering in the hospital.
While the rest of the world fixated on Buzzy, I fixated on Eleanor Packard. Since I hadn’t yet heard from Emma, I’d called an anesthesiologist friend at the hospital this morning in hope of an update, learning only that she remained on the ventilator.
My first patient of the day only wanted to talk about the cric (or rather, his mother did). It was an effort to redirect her to her son’s murmur evaluation. It seemed that there was no escaping this discussion; everyone, from the most remote cave-dwelling hermit on down to my ninety-eight-year-old next-door neighbor, had heard about it and wanted all the grisly details. I began to get a glimpse of how unpleasant it must be to be a celebrity.
At noon I took a break while the office closed for lunch. I’d been planning to walk down East Boulevard to grab a bite, since making the children’s lunches every morning incapacitated me to the point where I couldn’t stand the thought of making one more, even for my noon meal. This was expensive, but a luxury I allowed myself. But today my cell phone rang right as I was gearing up to head out into the swampy midday heat.
It was an unfamiliar number. I hesitated a moment; sometimes parents of patients got ahold of my number—it was published in my kids’ school directories, so a zillion people had access to it—and I really didn’t feel like answering any unsolicited medical questions. Or any more fork questions.
But it was Emma, calling from work.
“Oh, Emma,” I said. “I’m dying to talk to you. How is Eleanor?”
“Sorry,” she said. “It was too late for me to call you last night by the time things finally calmed down, but her mother asked me to let you know. She’s in the pediatric ICU, and she’s doing well.” I listened intently as Emma ran through the specifics of the case, but my mind inevitably branched off toward Betsy. She must have been in agony. I made a note to try calling her again.