Let's Be Frank (12 page)

I’m sighing over the latest file for a ralphing patient when Lynette breezes by. “TGIF, Nate! Got any special Valentine’s plans with Frankie this weekend?”

Oh, yeah… I forgot to mention that, didn’t I? It’s Valentine’s Day. Well, it
was
Valentine’s Day yesterday, but even a “holiday” as contrived as this one gets its own weekend nowadays. (What’s up with that, anyway?)

I ignore Lynette’s banal chit-chat and ask with as much patience as possible, “Does Riley Poehler already have a barf bucket with her in the waiting room?”

Lynette blinks at me, obviously stung by my curt rejection.

I soften. “Sorry. I’m busy. And sick of vomit. And paranoid I’m going to come down with this crud, since it’s so contagious.”

Her smile widens as she accepts my apology. “I get it. To answer
your
question, yes. Everyone, including Riley, is receiving a barf bucket upon check in. It’s this week’s must-have fashion accessory.”

“Great.”

“Now, what do you have planned with Frankie this weekend? Indulge a lonely single girl, huh?”

Thinking about it makes my stomach lurch in a way I hope has nothing to do with germs. “Not much. I’m going to surprise her at the airport tonight.”

“Oooh! How romantic!”

“You think so?” Truth is, I’ve been going back and forth on the idea all day. A few times, I’ve been a button-push away from sending her a text to tell her I’ll see her in the morning.

But Lynette gushes, “Totally! We love when you guys make the effort to be spontaneous and fun.”

“Well, that’s me. Spontaneous and fun,” I mutter with a tight smile as I retrieve Riley’s file folder and push open the waiting room door.

The sounds of retching and splashing greet me. It doesn’t take me long to locate the source of the noises, and when I do, I’m dismayed to see a bucket sitting in the chair next to Riley, while she throws up on the floor in front of her. Her dad watches helplessly.

I rush over, skirt the puddle of muck, and position the pail under her face.

“I—I don’t know why she did that,” her dad, looking pale and shaky, tells me.

Maybe because she’s sick and five and needs a grownup—that would be you, Dad—to show her how it’s done?

I set Riley’s chart aside so I have a free hand to rub her back while she continues to expel the contents of her stomach. “It’s okay,” I reassure both of them as calmly as possible, focusing on the child so my irritation at her father doesn’t show.

The other patients and parents avert or close their eyes to the disgusting sight. Lynette’s voice tinkles over the pager, calling a custodian to the waiting room with all the cheer of someone announcing a lottery winner.

When it seems Riley’s current biohazard event is over, I thrust the puke pail at her dad, letting go of it the second I’m sure he has a grip on it. Grasping Riley under her arms, I lift her over the mess on the floor and rest her on my hip while I squat to retrieve her file and carry her through to the back rooms. Her hot forehead presses against my neck.

Hmm… feels like she’s sittin’ at about 102 degrees.
That’s hardly dangerous for someone her age, so her case isn’t urgent, but based on my experience with other patients this week, I have about ten minutes, tops, before she spews again. That’s my motivation for rushing.

At the scale, I set her down just long enough to get a digital readout before hoisting her again and carrying her into one of the empty exam rooms.

She whimpers, which I know is a sure sign that bad things are about to happen. I whirl to grab the bucket from her dad, but he’s nowhere in sight.

“Really?” I mutter, setting her on the examination table and sliding the room’s trashcan between her feet, stomping on the pedal and flipping it open just in time for it to receive the kind of material its red bag promises.

“Get it all out of there, sweetheart,” I murmur while holding her wispy hair away from her face.

Between stomach spasms, she cries for her dad.

“He’ll be here in a sec,” I promise, not sure if he will, because I have no idea where he could possibly be. Just as I’m about to pick up the room’s phone and alert a search party to his disappearance, he catches up to us, sans bucket.

“Oh, there you are,” he declares.

“Yes… Where’s the pail?”

He takes in the room’s activities. “Uh… I gave it to one of the front desk girls.”

The last frayed nerve I was counting on to keep me out of prison today snaps. “Dude. Just…”
One… two… three… I love my job… I love my job…
I get to ten before I’m sure I can address him professionally and sympathetically and wave him over. “…come here and help her stay on-target. Please. I’ll be back in a second.”

I stride out to reception, checking to make sure the Plexiglass sliding windows to the waiting area are closed before asking, “Okay, which one of you ‘front desk girls’ was the lucky recipient of Riley Poehler’s stomach contents?”

Lynette turns from her insurance data entry and says, “Oh, that was Pam. Do you need the bucket?”

“Uh, yeah!”

“Well, it’s not here anymore. Did you think we’d set it under the counter and go on with our day?”

She’s got me there. I guess it was dumb to come looking for it in here. I’m not going to admit that, though. Instead, I spin and exit the area, heading for the supply closet, where I can find a new receptacle. And Bio-Mat bags.

When I return to Riley’s exam room, she’s sacked out on the table, her sweaty, blonde hair stuck to her forehead. Once I determine she’s only sleeping, not unconscious, I set aside my supplies and rub the back of my neck.

“Her mom usually handles all this, but she’s sick, too,” her dad sheepishly explains. “Should I have tried to keep her awake? She didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“Well, sticking a tongue depressor down her throat would probably only lead to more problems, anyway,” I say, regaining my diplomatic equilibrium while I wash my hands. “So, tell me what’s been going on.”

He describes what countless other parents have described to me this week. Then I explain for what feels like the thousandth time the difference between a viral and bacterial infection and tell him there’s nothing I can do to hasten the running of this particular virus’s course. Ten minutes later, he leaves with his daughter and my reassurances she’s going to be okay, plus some suggestions for keeping her hydrated and minimizing her discomfort.

I look at the clock, dismayed both at how quickly and slowly time is passing.

*****

Leg jiggling, foot tapping, and fingers drumming, I wait in the arrivals greeting area at the airport a few hours later, clutching the bouquet of red roses I picked up on the way as part apology, part welcome home gesture, part Valentine’s gift, and trying not to feel like a loser, biologically incapable of playing it cool.

Flowers? Really? How unoriginal! I wouldn’t blame her if she pretended not to know me.

Hold up, Eeyore. Just… take a deep breath and get a grip.

I obey myself, closing my eyes to focus my attention on hyperventilation prevention.

Surprising Frankie this evening is a lovely, romantic gesture. Like Lynette said, she’ll be impressed I put forth the effort after a ten-hour day of pretending to be positive and upbeat and all, “Oh, you threw up on my shoes? No problem. It’s not like they were my favorite. Plus, only an idiot in my income bracket spends $150 on a pair of athletic shoes to wear around sick kids.”

The goal is to woo her, to say, with both actions and words, “I want to be un-alone with you for the rest of my life. Maybe. If that’s what you want.”

Shit. I should have practiced what I was going to say. Maybe it’s best if I say nothing and let these lame flowers speak for themselves. Sometimes—especially in my case—silence truly is golden.

Sure,
her
silence this week has been unnerving, but it’s not unprecedented. The only reason it feels more sinister is that everyone’s been obsessed with Valentine’s Day, while she and I have largely ignored its arrival and passing. That’s not normal, in my experience, between two people in a relatively new relationship, but… maybe it’s a sign that what we have transcends all that shallow nonsense. Sounds good, anyway.

My eyes have been pinned to the arrivals board for nearly thirty solid minutes now, so I flinch when the status of her flight changes from “In Air” to “Arriving at Gate B4.” A few seconds later, a bored voice reiterates the information on the loud speaker.

Oh, gosh. She’s here.

Okay. Um. Breath check. Good. This gum is making my jaw ache, but I’m minty. Totally worth it. I stand and pace but quickly stop when I notice a nearby woman watching me with a private smile. I smile back uncertainly before realizing she’s eyeing the flowers. I wonder if it would be bizarre if I gave these to her instead of Frankie. Could I pass it off as a random act of kindness, or would it be obvious I was losing my nerve, too insecure to pull off the big gesture?

Stop.

No wussing out. I’ve thought about this all week, during lucid moments, when my mind was fresh and able to make decent decisions. These are Frankie’s roses. I can do this.

I edge toward the furthest place non-passengers are allowed to go to wait for travelers. I won’t be able to see her coming from far off, due to the layout of the airport, but as soon as she rounds that corner, we’ll only be about a hundred feet apart, as opposed to the hundreds of miles that have separated us all week.

I hear her laugh before I see her.

Oh, gosh. Where is she? Is she laughing at me? It’s the bouquet, isn’t it? Damn it! I should have thrown it in the trash.

However, when I finally see her, I’m relieved to see she’s not laughing at me at all. That relief lasts about 0.6 seconds, since the next thing I notice is that she doesn’t see me, because she’s focused on whatever the six-foot-four god of a man she’s walking with is saying to her.

I feel like an even bigger idiot, standing here with these roses, my frozen, anticipatory smile fading from my face, as I wait for her to turn her attention from the Adonis in the suit to little ol’ me in my faded long-sleeved t-shirt, jeans, and Vans. Oh, yeah… and my peacoat.

Jet-Set Ken tears his eyes away from Frankie and catches me sizing him up. He nods in my direction and says something to Frankie, who turns her head and sees me for the first time.

For a sick second, I’m not sure she’s going to acknowledge me. But her hesitancy must have been my imagination, or it was taking her a second to register what she was seeing, because just as my heart stutters out of rhythm, she smiles vaguely and gives me a tentative wave.

I wave back but stay where I am, worried it will seem territorial for me to walk toward her while she’s still talking to whoever that guy is. She turns away from me, so I can’t see her face, and all he says is, “Okay,” giving me no clues regarding her side of the conversation. I have a vivid imagination, though.

“Oh, my gosh. This guy sends me a Hoops and Yo-Yo e-card on Valentine’s Day, then thinks he can show up here with flowers, and it’s all good? Don’t leave me alone with him.”

Or…

“How pathetic is that? Red roses? When I dump his ass for you, don’t ever do anything that lame.”

Or…

Fortunately, she gives her mile-high man a final arm pat and a parting “See ya!” over her shoulder as she walks toward me, so I don’t have time to think of any further devastating dialogue. He smiles at me over her shoulder in a way that a more jealous man than I am could construe as smarmy or cocky. I grant him an acknowledging nod before focusing all of my attention on Frankie, who’s broken into a trot, her small wheeled suitcase wobbling behind her, her laptop bag bouncing against her butt.

She shortens her strides to try to slow down in her slick shoes before she runs into me. “Hey! What the heck are you doing here?”

I’m relieved she sounds pleased and not like she’s about to signal for security at any second.

I give her a tentative hug, which she firmly returns. “I wanted to welcome you home,” I explain, letting her go and holding the roses out to her. “And I wanted to say sorry. For… a lot of things.”

Her wrinkled brow tells me she’s thought nothing of our radio near-silence all week. “Okay…? Anything in particular you’re apologizing for? Do I need to be worried?”

“No!” I suck my gum down my throat and cough as it slides down and lands with a plunk into my stomach. “I mean, no.” I chuckle. “I just feel bad that I didn’t talk to you all week or do anything special for Valentine’s Day.”

“I was too busy to talk, anyway,” she says dismissively, relieving me of the flowers in a loud crinkle of cellophane.

I wait a beat while she attempts to smell the hothouse blooms, but she merely grins expectantly at me after giving up on an olfactory experience.

The suddenly awkward silence makes me blurt, “So, uh… who was that guy?” since it’s the only thing I can think about right now.

She blinks at me. “What guy?”

He’s no longer there, but I nod in the direction of where I saw her talking to the mystery man and answer, “The suit. You know, the one you were walking with.”