Page 40 of Center Ice
“Your throat hurt too much to talk?”
She nods again.
“Where’s your health insurance card?” I ask.
Reaching over, she grabs her purse off the kitchen counter right inside the door. I scoop her up in my arms—shocked she doesn’t protest—then hold her tight against me while I reach out to shut the door and press the button on the keypad to lock it.
She rests her head against my chest as I take the few steps down to the back alley. The crisp fall air is cold tonight, and by the time we reach my Jeep, she’s shivering even though I can feel the heat radiating off her.
“When’s the last time you took something for this fever?” I ask as I pull the door open with one hand and maneuver her into the seat.
“Don’t remember.” The words are practically mumbled.
I don’t understand why she’s being so irresponsible about taking care of herself, but I’m also willing to bet there’s a reason, because she’s old enough and mature enough to know better.
When I climb into the driver’s seat, I reach over and turn her seat warmer on, and by the time we’ve driven the few blocks to the pharmacy, she’s half-asleep in the seat. “Think you can walk in, or should I carry you?”
Her eyes shoot open, and then a faint smile graces her full lips. “Why are there plastic ducks lined up on your dashboard?”
I glance at the row of plastic ducks that sit wedged between the dashboard and windshield. “It’s a Jeep thing. So…are you walking, or am I carrying you?”
“I’ll walk.”
Forty-five minutes later, we’re back at her place. I made her take ibuprofen and drink a bottle of water while we waited forthe positive test results at the pharmacy, and now that we’re home, she can eat something and take her antibiotics.
I get her seated at one of the barstools, refill her water bottle, and go about making her some toast.
“You want to tell me why you didn’t go to the doctor when you started feeling sick?”
“Not really,” she says. She lays her forearm across the counter and leans down to rest her forehead on it.
“Audrey, left untreated, strep can turn into scarlet fever. You’re too smart to not take care of something like this.”
“I just don’t like going to the doctor.”
“Why not?”
“Too many bad memories.”
I consider how much to push her for information. She’s not volunteering it, but I want to understand what the fear is. “Want to talk about it?”
She’s silent for so long, I’m thinking maybe she fell asleep, but then she says, “My mom died of cancer when I was a teenager. There were a lot of doctor’s visits. A lot of hospital stays. And eventually, a lot of hospice equipment in our house. There were also a few misdiagnoses, and I just don’t trust doctors.”
I come around the counter and set her plate with her toast in front of her, then pull out a seat for myself. I rest my hand on her back, wanting her to know I’m here for support. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
“Me too,” she says, then she sits up and pulls the plate with her toast closer. She takes small bites and washes them down with water, while I sit next to her, wishing there was something I could do to take her pain away. I’m not so worried about the strep, as that’ll clear up quickly once she’s got a couple of doses of the antibiotics in her. But I wish her past wasn’t so painful for her.
“What did you do about doctors and hospitals when you were pregnant, and for Graham’s birth?” The shame that I wasn’t there for that, to support her and help her, feels almost overwhelming in this moment. I’ve already let her down so much in the past, but there’s nothing I can do about it now, except be there for her moving forward.
“I had a nurse practitioner who worked with a doula, and I gave birth at a birthing center instead of a hospital.”
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you then,” I tell her, chest tight.
“We’re not dwelling on that,” she says softly. Her voice is scratchy in a way that I’m sure reflects how sore her throat is, but it’s sexy, nonetheless. “Remember?”
I glance over at her and nod. Her big blue eyes now have sunken purple hollows beneath them, but even sick and without a dab of makeup, I’m still struck by her natural beauty.
“My dad died when I was Graham’s age,” I tell her. “I don’t remember him, really. He was a linesman for the electric company and a car crashed into the truck holding his lift when he was up in the bucket working on an electrical pole.” A shudder runs through my body as I picture the terrible scene of his death, and Audrey moves her hand to my forearm. “You know the state law about how there has to be a police detail now any time there’s a public works project? My dad is one of the reasons that law exists.”
