Darling Rose Gold(84)
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.