After I swallow and yawn, I lean on my elbow and say, “Tell me that you haven’t been living on chocolate bars in my absence.”
“No, of course not. Lots of fast food, and last night I treated myself to dinner at Indian Paradise.”
“Thought so. You smell a little curryish,” I say, sniffing.
“I only did it because it reminded me of you. I know how much you love their chicken tikka masala.” He grins, that lopsided goofy smile. “That was probably my only real meal. Besides that, it’s been potato chips, and the occasional meat inside a bun that resembles but in no way is an actual hamburger.”
“Ah, the all-American, heart-destroying, early-to-the-grave diet.”
“Yes, but I ran every day, completely confusing my arteries, which didn’t know whether to pump up or close down.”
“Quite the conundrum.”
“Truly,” he says, grabbing my big toe and tickling my foot. I nudge him—very gently—in parts I plan to have additional use for later on, maybe tonight.
“Ow, watch the future generations, please,” he says, laughing. “I’m glad you’re back for so many reasons, not the least of which is to save me from my inevitable demise. And I did do other things in your absence. I didn’t spend all my time eating Cheetos and watching game shows. Actually, I didn’t spend any time watching game shows.”
“Turner Classic Movies?”
“Of course. There was a great one about Alexander Hamilton and his affair. It was incredible and explained—”
“Later. Tell me later about Alexander Hamilton and more now about what else you did while pining away for me.”
Leaning over to kiss me, he says, “I did pine, you know. Pined heartily.” Switching positions and stretching out beside me, he continues, “That is, in between the times I was mad at you.”
“I said I was an idiot.”
“I know, but it actually was a great thing—me being angry with you but really at myself. Because . . .” He taps a drumroll on the mattress. “I did it. I registered for a class.”
I sit up and stare at him. “No kidding? What class? Why? I thought you weren’t interested. What changed?”
“Nope, not kidding. Aberrant Behavior and Its Effect on Society, to start. Because it was time. Because I actually never lost interest, but I realized I was taking the easy road, that I needed to finish what I started. And what changed? Before you get all guilty, thinking you forced me into it, yes, of course, you had some influence, but mostly because you pushed a little and made me start at least thinking in that direction. Then the idea wouldn’t leave my brain. I figured out being a psychologist is something I’ve always wanted to do. Maybe working with troubled kids?” He adds this almost sheepishly.
I kiss him on both cheeks and say, “Lucky, lucky kids.”
The next day, when I walk into Mystical Haven, Mindi jumps from behind the counter and wraps me in a bone-shattering hug.
“I’m so sorry about your dad. How horrible. But I’m so, so, so glad you’re back. It hasn’t been the same without you here. You would not believe how busy we’ve become. I’m not sure why. Maybe because Mars is finally out of retrograde. Or maybe because the weather has been beautiful. Whatever the reason, it’s been crazy, and, well, I’m so, so, so happy to see you.” She squishes me to her one more time and then leads me over to the counter and points to the appointment book, which is overflowing with names scribbled into time slots.
“Wow, you aren’t kidding, Mindi. We’re swamped.”
“I know, it’s crazy, right? Could you please, please, please take over some of these clients for me, or else I will go completely and totally insane.”
Judging by the multiples of desperate sos and pleases she’s using, the intensity in her eyes and the slightly maniacal tilt to her smile, I can see she’s only slightly exaggerating.
“Sure,” I say and erase her name next to every other client and write in mine.
24
Rena
August in Phoenix is like having a front-row seat in hell. Me and Stephanie take a cab to the hospital. We probably could walk because it’s only about a mile away, but I spent over an hour getting Steph into her new dress and curling her hair. Damn if she’s going to walk in all sweaty.
Dr. Riley Norton’s office is in the brand-new children’s wing of the hospital. Stephanie’s eyes grow big as pancakes when we walk in. There’s this giant mobile—neon orange and blue fish, an octopus, a starfish, and a seahorse—hanging from the ceiling. The whole area has this under-the-sea vibe. Kids sit in little plastic chairs and play games on monitors stuck in the walls. You push buttons to “catch” the fish swimming on the screens. There’s another area with a bunch of kids sitting on a rug watching cartoons. Stephanie starts to run there, but I grab at the back of her dress. She needs to sit next to me, right in front of the check-in desk. The clerk looks up when I say, “Stephanie, honey, you have to be very careful here. Lots of germs.”
I mean, sure, everything is new and looks clean enough, but who the hell knows what kinds of diseases these kids might have? After all, they are in a damn hospital.
Finally, we’re called in for our appointment. A skinny nurse takes Steph’s height, has her stand on a scale, and then hooks her up to test her blood pressure (104/65), heart rate (90), and oxygen level (97 percent). She has me change Stephanie into a gown, and then we have to wait. The walls are covered with posters of kittens and puppies. There’s a basket with books in it, but, of course, I don’t let Steph touch any of them. She knows she just needs to sit there real quiet on the paper-covered exam table. I smooth the top of her hair. It’s come all loose from the clip-in bow. I wonder if I have time to redo it, but then there’s a knock on the door. In walks a teenager holding a computer tablet and a manila folder with Stephanie’s name on it.
She puts her hand out, and I shake it. Then she bends down, looks at Stephanie, and says, “Hi, sweetie, you look so pretty today in your blue dress.” Stephanie tries to hide her face in my shoulder, but I can see she’s smiling.
“What brings you here today?” she asks me. That’s when I realize this kid is not a candy striper (do hospitals even have them anymore?) but a real doctor, our real doctor, Dr. Riley Norton.
She’s just like the new children’s wing, all glowy and perfect. Her face looks like she just woke up from a full night’s sleep, which I know can’t hardly be possible, working in a hospital and all. Her coat is bright white, and she has these gold earrings in the shape of teeny elephants. They look like they have real diamonds for eyes, and they sparkle as she moves her head back and forth while she reviews Steph’s information.
“Her blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen levels look fine, but she’s definitely on the small side for height and weight, isn’t she? She’s barely at the fifth percentile on the growth charts. Has she always been so small?”
“No, not really,” I say. “She was seven pounds, six ounces when she was born, but she pretty soon started to have trouble gaining weight. That’s the problem,” I say, putting my arm around Stephanie’s thin shoulders. “My baby can’t eat right. I mean, she does eat, but most of it comes back up or goes back out, if you know what I mean. Like she can’t keep nothing in her.”
“Anything unusual with her birth? Any problems?”
“Nope. Long as hell, almost two days in labor, but she came out perfect,” I answer.
“Hmmmm,” says Dr. Norton, turning to Stephanie. “What do you like to eat, Stephanie?”
Steph mumbles something. I poke her in the side and say, “Speak up. No one can hear you.”
“Do you like spinach?” the doctor asks.
Stephanie looks at her, eyes wide. “Noooooo,” she says.
“Oh, okay, how about alligator tails?”
Stephanie giggles. “No, no,” she says, slightly louder.
“Well, then . . . let’s see, how about bicycle wheels?”
“What?” Stephanie laughs, her mouth wide open, and she practically sh
outs, “No way.”
“Okay, okay, now we’re getting somewhere. How about mac and cheese? Do you like mac and cheese?”
“Yum.” She rubs her tummy round and round and says, “I do, a lot.”
“Great,” says Dr. Norton, looking at me. “So, Mom, how does Stephanie do when she eats mac and cheese? Is she able to keep that down?”
“Not always. Sometimes she can and sometimes not so much. I use only organic and non-GMO products. That way whatever I can get into her is the best. But some days nothing stays in. Then I have to feed her through the tube.”
“A feeding tube? You have that equipment at home? And you do this procedure?” She looks concerned but also like she doesn’t believe me.
“I have a nursing background,” I try to assure her, but she doesn’t seem to be all that convinced. “It’s only been a few times, but when she doesn’t have food for three or four days, what the hell else can I do?”
“I understand, Mrs. Cole. That’s certainly frightening—not having your child eat—but it might be best for a doctor or a hospital to make the assessment to determine whether a feeding tube is necessary, and then . . .”
“Well, I guess that’s why we’re here, right? To find out what’s going on?”
Dr. Norton looks at me. Then she makes some notes on the tablet and pushes the intercom button. “Sheryl, I have a patient who needs blood work. Stephanie Cole, in room nine. I’d like her also scheduled for a CT scan. The orders are in the computer.” She turns back to us and gives Stephanie a hug.
I see my daughter stiffen up, but then she leans a little into the doctor’s side.
Steph says, so softly I can barely hear the words, “I don’t like that feeding tube.”
Dr. Norton lifts one of her perfect eyebrows. She says to Stephanie, “Well, sweetie pie, that’s why we have to figure out what’s going on with your tummy and why you have trouble eating. Deal?” She puts up her hand for a high five. Stephanie gives it a tiny tap and grins.
“Mrs. Cole, we’ll do a basic blood workup and CT, and then let’s meet again to discuss the results. My office staff told me you’ve been trying to get her records transferred here, but we don’t have anything yet.”
“Damn that doctor,” I say. “He promised me he was going to copy the file and send it over right away.”
“Maybe you can contact the office again? It’s important that I get a comprehensive sense of her medical history.”
I help Stephanie jump off the table and say, “Thank you, Dr. Norton. I’ll call the doctor as soon as we get home and see what’s going on.”
“That would be helpful. You’ll be hearing from me. Bye, Stephanie,” she says and waves.
Stephanie smiles and waves back.
“Oh, one more thing,” I say. Dr. Norton stops with her hand on the doorknob.
“What’s that?”
“My husband—actually, my ex-husband—has an awful stomach too, and his doctor is testing him for Fabry disease. I heard it’s genetic, so maybe you should test Steph for that too?”
STEPHANIE’S BATTLE BLOG
Posted on August 28 by Stephanie’s Mommy
Back from our first visit to the new doctor. The news isn’t great.
She says Stephanie is a very, very sick little girl. In fact, she said she didn’t know how my child made it this far, with all of the problems she has. She was really sweet. She wants to run a trillion tests and was even thinking about keeping Stephanie in the hospital overnight. But Steph looked so scared I begged the doctor to let me take her home.
I’m trying to get Steph to eat a little something, anything, but you all know how sometimes thats just impossible. I’m so afraid I may have to insert the feeding tube tonite.
Rena’s Way to Well: Feed Your Kid Right
Doctors and other health professionals will tell you your child needs gluten. DO NOT believe this pack of shit. RIGHT NOW, STOP the pizza and cake and any other products with gluten. Your kid will thank you for it. There are even studies that this can improve or even PRAVENT autism!
Remember: right choices are not always the easiest ones. Be strong. Do whats right!
WhatIwant: Rena, this is so sad! I’m hoping, praying, sending you and your little girl love that this doctor will figure out what’s wrong with you’re precious one and that she can return to good health with the grace of the Lord.
KnitWit1: Please give my niece a great big hug and kiss from her auntie and keep us posted on your follow-up doctor’s visit. Call me when you can and BTW, that guy from the hospital came by again. Did you ever connect with him? Keep in touch!!!
Onepotatotwo: You’re a moron. Gluten free for kids is a horrible idea, unless the child has celiac disease. By going gluten free, you’re actually robbing your child of the essential nutrients she needs to grow her brain and her body properly. Read up and don’t post harmful and absolutely WRONG information. Because some other moron might actually believe what you say.
25
Claire
At first I was sure it was just luck.
I thought maybe since I’d been away from Mystical Haven for a week and then, after what could only be described as an emotional tsunami (Dad’s death, my talks with Aunt Frannie and Mom, and my epiphany with Cal), maybe my brain was more clear and perceptive than it had been before.
That might have explained what happened with the first client I took for Mindi the day I returned to work.
Her name was Evelyn, and she was visiting from England and wanted her tarot cards read. She was dressed in a purple tweed suit with matching heels and bag, an unfortunate choice as it was still over ninety degrees outside. I felt overheated just looking at her. Her hair was tortured and swept into a snarled French twist, and the whole picture gave the impression she’d stopped by to see me on her way to high tea.
“I’ve been to oodles of psychics before, mostly in London, where we live half the year,” she said, in her lilting accent.
“Oodles?” I asked.
“Oh yes, love, lots of them. I actually have one on retainer, you know? So I can call as often as I’d like to get her advice on things happening in my life. Very, very helpful. Last week, I was having a dreadful time with a decision I needed to make, so I rang Penelope and asked her what I should do, and lickety-split, she gave me the answer. She’s a marvel, that one.” Evelyn fiddled with a long string of pearls that hung nearly to her belly button and said, “But I’ve heard the ones in Sedona are simply beyond compare.”
Not able to restrain my curiosity, I asked, “What kind of a decision did Penelope help you with?”
Evelyn’s cheeks pinked up, and I almost apologized for my question, but then she scooted forward in her chair and explained, “I asked Penelope whether I should serve roast beef or lamb for Sunday brunch with my Women’s Club subcommittee meeting. We were having a rather renowned philosopher speak on the relationship between education and happiness, and I wanted a meal that seemed both educated and happy. I was certain Penelope could read my cards and give me the exact right answer.”
She leaned back with a contented sigh and said, “Lamb. Lamb was what the cards said. And, you know, she was right. Everyone there commented on how perfect the meal was.”
Reaching behind me, I grabbed one of the many decks I had on the shelf, randomly selecting the Fairy Tarot deck. These cards have pictures of fairy kings, queens, and princesses, set against a backdrop of scenes of bucolic Glastonbury, England. Maybe it would remind her of home. I handed her the deck.
Or not.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, shuffling the cards. “I’ve had these cards read for me many, many times, and I always connect with the fairies. I think it’s because I have such positive energy and they recognize that. Also, they know I care about the earth, and so do they.”
“That’s, uh, great,” I say, taking the deck from her. “It’s important to feel attuned to the cards.”
Because of disinterest and my inherent laziness, I long ago defaulted to a
fundamental three-card read. It’s very simple. You have the client select three cards. The first represents the past, the second one is for the present, and the third, obviously, is for the future.
“What can I help you with today, Evelyn?” I asked. Her eyes clouded, and the sides of her mouth drooped.
“How’s my son? His name is Harry, and I want to know how he is.”
Shuffling once more, I flared the cards into a fan and said, “Please pick a card.”
She did, and I placed it facedown and said, “This represents the past.” She selected the other two, for the present and future, and I was ready to start.
The first card I flipped was the Captive Man.
“See this man here?” I asked. “He’s obviously trapped. Does your son have connections with something or someone who has bound him in some way?”
Evelyn’s eyes moistened and she whispered, “Drugs.”
“I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”
“It’s got so bad that Alfred, that’s my husband, and I haven’t even seen our boy for almost three years. Three years. Can you imagine? Our own son.” She sniffed, and I pushed across a box of tissues to her. She blew her nose with a loud honk.
I nodded. This was one of the other reasons I utilized only three-card spreads. Most clients wanted, needed, to talk about their issues, and the more cards, the more discussion, and pretty soon the hour was up and they’d be angry because we hadn’t reviewed all the cards that had been placed on the table.
“Then he went away to university. At first we didn’t think anything of it, but eventually, it was too obvious to ignore. The red eyes, the erratic behavior. He looked like a skeleton.”
In between sobs, Evelyn apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m dreadfully sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Let’s see what the other cards say, okay?”
She squeezed two wads of tissues into her eye sockets and gave a tentative nod.
The next card, representing the present, showed a fairy with gray wings sitting on a large skull. At the top of the card was the word Death. Evelyn gasped.
The Perfect Fraud Page 13