The Antidote for Everything

by Kimmery Martin

  “Hi,” he said, trying to mask his confusion with an air of confidence.

  The woman smiled. “Hi.”

  A long while passed and Mark realized he must have dozed off. Absently, he wiped a crust of drool off his lower lip with his shoulder. “Wazz—whass your name?”

  “Georgia. What’s yours?”

  “Mark,” he said. At least there was one thing he could answer. Emboldened, he picked up her hand. “Not married,” he observed. What? Where had that come from?

  “That’s right,” she said, in a slightly cooler tone.

  With some effort, he heaved himself up onto his forearms so their faces were level. “What are you doing later?”

  A tinkly laugh burst out of her. “Are you hitting on me?”

  “No,” he said automatically, before honesty forced him to reconsider. “Yes.”

  “Well, this is . . . unexpected.”

  This was a good beginning, especially considering that he’d been unconscious a few minutes ago, but progress stalled as he tried to think of what to say next. Flopping his head back down, he noted a few more details of her appearance: the flat, almost imperceptible glint of a tiny nose ring, unadorned fingernails, a blue bandana wound around the cloud of rust-colored hair. A few minutes passed in peaceable silence while he tried to puzzle out why this woman in particular would have been assigned to mind him.

  “What happened to me?” he managed, finally.

  She perked up. “Anticholinergic poisoning,” she said, sounding pleased. “You’ve been out of it for many hours.”

  “What? What the hell is that?”

  Her gaze was intent. “Where did you get the patches you were wearing on your back? They have instructions on them, but they’re not in English.”

  “Patches . . .” he began, confused, but then a spark of memory ignited. “Oh! Yes. They’re for nausea; I gave them to myself.” She opened her mouth and, anticipating her question, he spoke again. “I spent yesterday on a boat.”

  She grinned, one cheek rent by a deep dimple. “I was actually going to ask why you were wearing so many of them. Did someone tell you to put them all on?”

  “Oh! No, obviously that would be a ridiculous thing to do. Uh, I don’t know—I’m not sure, actually—how many of them was I wearing?”

  This time she laughed. “A bunch,” she said. She began talking—something about Alice in Wonderland and poisoning and whether or not he’d been sweaty—but it was too difficult to follow, so he let his mind wander. Eventually she stopped and waited for him to say something. He tried to think of an intelligent question.

  “So I poisoned me? It wasn’t someone else?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was you,” she said, grinning. His stomach, which had been roiling with the ferocity of a tropical depression, produced an audible rumble. She stiffened. “Uh-oh.”

  “Take cover,” he managed. When the vomiting ended, he let out a feeble gasp or two, sounding even to himself like an extricated fish in its final throes. Eventually he recovered enough to assess the damage, which was worse than he’d thought. He’d barfed on her feet.

  “It’s okay,” she assured him. Her shoes appeared to be constructed out of some clear material, reminding him of Cinderella’s slippers. She slipped one off and sponged it down, flicking away a bright pink oblong that appeared to be an undigested Benadryl. “People have vomited worse stuff on me,” she said. “This was mostly water.”

  “I’m sorry,” he groaned.

  “I bet you’ll be feeling much better now. They’re going to transport you to the airport’s medical facility when we land, and I’m pretty sure you’re going to be fine.”

  “Okay,” he said, a bit uncertainly. An idea struck. “Would you like to have dinner?”

  “No,” she said. Before his disappointment could register, she added kindly, “It’s nearly morning.”

  “Yes, I realize that,” he said in a sudden surge of clarity, “but here’s my motto: carpe diem.”

  “Carpe diem is your motto?”

  Another long pause while he searched for a word: the art of conversation seemed to be returning to him in fits and lurches. Then: “Yes.”

  “But carpe diem is a bit overused as a motto, isn’t it?” she asked, her body easing from its rigid posture of a moment ago. She handed over another drink of water, and this time he managed it neatly.

  “I have losh—lots—of mottos, actually,” he said, “but I try to tailor them to the situation.”

  She gestured toward the nearest acrylic window in the wall of the jet, through which they could see an oval of dark sky. “In that case, technically, I think you mean carpe noctem,” she offered.

  His eyebrows rose in appreciation. “You speak Latin?”

  She tilted a freckled hand back and forth in the universal gesture for so-so. “I’m a doctor. I don’t speak Latin so much as use it to keep other people from understanding me.”

  A doctor. She didn’t look like Mark’s idea of a doctor, but it explained why she’d been drafted to rescue him. “In that case, I exchange my motto for a better one. Felix culpa.”

  “Felix culpa? Happy . . . Guilt? I might have to look that one up.”

  Mark decided to go for it. “Before you do that, I want you to know I’m very serious about the dinner. Or breakfast. I’d love to see you again.”

  Her face went still for a second, so subtly he wondered if he’d imagined it. But no, he was a good judge of faces: for whatever reason, she didn’t want him to ask her out. His gaze slid to her hand again. She’d said point-blank she wasn’t married. Was she gay? He didn’t have the most functional gaydar in the world but he wasn’t clueless either; he felt certain she was straight. She must not find him appealing. A wash of warmth colored his cheeks. “But of course,” he said, “you must already have plans.”

  “It’s a nice offer,” she said, her expression softening at his embarrassment. “Thank you, I’d love to grab some food once you’re, ah, medically cleared, if there’s time.”

  “Of course,” he said, stupidly. He could not think of anything else to say.

  “So, my turn to ask about you,” she said, picking up the conversational slack. “What’s—”

  She paused as another face appeared above them: thin eyebrows angling precipitously toward one another, a bow of pursed lips. A flight attendant. “Thank you so much for your assistance, Doctor.” She leaned down, thrusting out a bony hand to clap his caregiver on the shoulder. “I think he’s doing well now, and we’re beginning our approach into Frankfurt, so do you mind returning to your seat?”

  “I don’t,” said Mark’s new friend, “but I’m going to accompany him to the airport clinic when we land. Assuming that is okay with you,” she added, looking at him.

  “It is,” he said, pleased. He watched as she made her way up the aisle toward the front of the plane, turning midway to direct a glance over her shoulder.

  With her departure, he took stock: his head ached and his body felt battered, and a heavy drowsiness still suffused him, but his mind felt much clearer. Even under the best of circumstances, he tended to tolerate jet lag poorly, usually spending the last portions of long flights in a drooly stupor, not quite able to sleep but not firing on all cylinders either. He tried to look on the bright side: at least on this flight he’d gotten plenty of rest. His thoughts swerved back to the woman who’d been caring for him and a strange sensation shot through him. By the time he’d identified it as interest it had already been replaced with a sense of loss. No matter how attractive he found this woman, the chances they lived near one another were slim. Still, though: you never knew.

  5

  THE SCIENTIFIC AND MATHEMATICAL EMBLEM OF CHANGE

  Georgia watched through her neighbor’s window as the plane touched down onto a gray tarmac in Frankfurt amid skies the color of a stainless steel refrigerator,
everything glinting silver from the shrouded rays of the sun. As soon as the wheels hit the runway, the army of drowsy passengers mobilized, unbuckling their seatbelts in clear defiance of airline policy as they leaned toward the aisle in preparation to fight their way out. Georgia contemplated muscling through the throng to reach the paramedics who’d been called to meet the plane, but it was useless; her seat was in the middle of the plane, and both aisles had jammed with people the instant the plane came to a full stop. She decided to catch up as soon as she exited the jetway.

  She staggered off the plane, her legs limp from a combination of jet lag and depleted adrenaline; naturally enough, she’d planned to sleep on the flight instead of running an airborne ICU. As she navigated the corridor to the airport, she looked for a stretcher, but her patient was long gone, no doubt whisked past in a special line for emergencies.

  How had she forgotten about customs? At this hour in the morning, the enormous space resembled the inside of a disturbed beehive, people swarming all over the place, a billion buzzy languages clogging the air. She’d also missed the handout of the obligatory immigrations form during her time tending to the sick man, forcing her to step out of line to obtain and complete it. By the time she cleared customs and immigration, nearly another half hour had passed, and all she could do was hope he was still somewhere within the airport complex.

  The airport’s medical clinic turned out to be surprisingly sophisticated. More of a compact emergency department, it was equipped with trauma rooms and a small operating room, X-ray capabilities, an ultrasound, and even a laboratory, according to a pamphlet at the desk. Also a quarantine station, which made perfect sense in an airport. More than twenty thousand people a year sought care here, averaging to over fifty a day. This place was hopping.

  She tried bluffing her way back to the treatment area, identifying herself as “the physician from Flight 704,” but a pinched-face receptionist took one look at her and directed her to wait in a seating area. She took the opportunity to check her phone: no new messages from Jonah. After that, she waited. And waited. After reading an array of useless magazines, she’d just stood and walked out of the clinic when her phone buzzed. Jonah!

  Sorry about all the butt-texts.

  Easing out of the flow of traffic, she fired off a reply. What’s happening with your patients?

  Four cancellations, three more no-shows.

  She waited for more but apparently that was it. She sat down hard on a gray, stiff-backed bench.

  So where did you go last night?

  She stopped, confused. Had it been last night or the night before? What day was it now in the States?

  Three dots appeared in the message screen, followed by more words.

  I went for a drive. I’m really sorry I bailed on you.

  This made sense; Jonah often went for a drive when he was upset. Still, he could have at least called her.

  Why?

  I don’t know. The office staff is acting weird.

  Why didn’t you call me last night?

  I’m sorry. I called Deanna. She said to get more information and then allow time to process before I respond. Talk when you get back?

  We can talk now! she wrote, but, after a delay, Jonah replied that he was still in clinic. Georgia slumped back against the gray seat. Should she call him anyway? She had a lot of faith in Deanna, Jonah’s therapist, whom she knew from volunteering at the county’s free medical clinic. A lovely woman with purple ombré hair lightening to a pale lavender at the tips, Deanna was the sort who brooked no nonsense: she called you out if you dissembled or equivocated, but she never failed to deliver an impression of confidence in her patients. Jonah had been seeing her for over a year, since his last bout of depression. Georgia rose from her slump. With Deanna at his back, Jonah would be all right.

  She hoped.

  Upon her return, if anything, the airport clinic looked even busier than when she’d left: the waiting room chairs were all occupied and a man in a feathered fedora stood at the check-in counter, arguing in vociferous German with the receptionist; behind him stretched a line of people. An unexpected melancholy washed through her; Mark had probably been discharged already, or transferred to a hospital. She took the first step back toward the terminal, stopping when her phone buzzed again with a text, this time from an unfamiliar number.

  Felix Culpa.

  Felix Culpa! She realized she’d forgotten to look up the Latin phrase on the plane. Hurriedly, she opened the phone’s browser and typed it in, receiving an immediate hit from an article in the online magazine Mental Floss:

  Felix Culpa: a felix culpa is literally a “happy fault.”

  Hello, she wrote back. How are you feeling?

  Mortified.

  Don’t worry about it, she typed. Someone is always overdosing pretty much every time I fly.

  A moment of radio silence, then: Can I call you?

  Sure.

  The phone rang a moment later. “So I’m curious,” she said. “How much do you remember?”

  The voice on the other end, scratchy and slightly sheepish, hesitated briefly before answering. “Not much. I called to apologize.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “I’m embarrassed. I generally prefer to meet people when I’m not sloshed on the floor of an airplane. I understand you had to, er, undress me.”

  “Well, not fully undr—”

  “Horrible. You’re probably traumatized. I am so sorry.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  A rumbling locomotive sound: it was his laugh. “I’m fine. I’ve gotten more IV fluid and medicine and a lecture from a very stern medic about how I should check with a functional adult in the future before I make any medication decisions. At this point I’m suffering mainly from humiliation.”

  “I’m so glad. I mean, I’m glad you’re fine, not that you’re humiliated.”

  “It was worth it,” he said, and with a start, Georgia realized she was hearing his voice directly. Looking sideways, she found herself staring into someone’s groin. She tilted her neck farther.

  It took a moment to register that the man in front of her was the patient from the plane. This was the first time she’d seen him upright. The molish dilation of his pupils had receded, so it was also the first time she could make out the color of his eyes: a nice, light, clear hazel. Also—regarding him in a nonclinical frame of mind for the first time—she noticed his features. Dark, short hair, doubtless smooth and stylish under normal circumstances but ruffled up in little peaks right now; straight eyebrows, cutting a fine horizontal swathe above each eye; a longish face with a straight, longish nose; pale skin, with the faint gray undertone of incipient stubble along his chin and jawbone. It was an intelligent face. Georgia had dated every possible kind of human in her thirty-six years, and while she tended to gravitate toward the roguish sort—creative misfits, musicians, entrepreneurs, and eccentrics of all stripes—she did appreciate a smart man.

  The man—Mark, he’d said his name was Mark—straightened up to his full height. His ability to sneak up without her noticing became even more impressive as a couple of things dawned on her: first, he was extremely tall, probably at least six foot six, and second, under his gorgeous jacket he wore paper clothing.

  “What happened to your clothes?”

  “My pants,” said Mark in a wry voice, “are apparently still on the airplane. Along with my shirt.”

  Georgia nodded, recognizing the disposable garments common to medical clinics everywhere. “Are they releasing you?”

  “They weren’t keen on the idea, but as I’m obviously human again, I don’t see how they can stop me. I’d love to figure out what happened to my bags so I can get out of these ridiculous paper scrubs before I endure another social catastrophe. And I’ve missed my train.”

  Georgia had missed her train too, of course, but it seemed rude
to bring it up. And she was not in a hurry, anyway; she didn’t have to be at the conference until the following day. “I’ll go with you to the baggage claim area before I catch my train,” she said.

  After Mark had been formally discharged, they made their way through the wide corridors to the baggage claim, to a room to change and freshen up, and then toward the regional Bahnhof—train station—conveniently located within the airport terminal via a bunch of long connectors.

  “I’d like to pay for your ticket,” Mark said. “I bet you missed your train because of me.”

  “Oh, you don’t need—”

  He waved aside her protestations. “It’s the least I can do. Plus, I have an ulterior motive: maybe I can wait with you. Where are you headed?”

  A brisk group of backpackers surged around them on both sides, isolating them in a little air pocket of their own. “Amsterdam,” she said.

  “Really?” A delighted smile. “I live there.” He bounded toward the ticket counter, each of his strides equaling two of a normal human’s. She trailed him, only to discover the next open train to Amsterdam didn’t leave for another four hours.

  Mark turned to her, guilt etching across his smile. “Ugh,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  He nodded, shoulders slumping, before moving to the next counter to rebook the seats. He returned in a few moments looking more cheerful. “This way,” he said.

  “This way to what?”

  “There’s a fine airport bar in this direction. I have you pegged as a bourbon drinker.”

  “I am,” she said, impressed, “but I don’t think you should be drinking.”

  His grin returned to full wattage. “At least let me buy you breakfast.”