Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [51]
“Mrs. Kitteridge?” The doctor was a plain-faced man who did not appear old enough to have gone through medical school. He held her large wrist gently, taking her pulse, while she told him about going to the new restaurant and that she’d only come in here to use the bathroom on the drive home, and yes, she’d had some terrific diarrhea, which had surprised her, but no itchy hands or feet.
“What did you have to eat?” the doctor asked as though he were interested.
“I started off with mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat, and I know some old lady died from that last night.”
The doctor touched Olive’s ear lobe, squinting. “I don’t see any signs of a rash,” he said. “Tell me what else you had to eat.”
She appreciated how this young man did not seem bored. So many doctors made you feel like hell, like you were just a fat lump moving down the conveyor belt.
“Steak. And a potato. Baked. Big as your hat. And creamed spinach. Let’s see.” Olive closed her eyes. “Puny little salad, but a nice dressing on it.”
“Soup? A lot of additives in soup that can cause allergic reactions.”
“No soup,” Olive said, opening her eyes. “But a lovely slab of cheesecake for dessert. With strawberries.”
The doctor said, as he wrote things down, “This is probably just a case of active gastro-reflux.”
“Oh, I see,” said Olive. She considered for a moment before adding quickly, “Statistically speaking, it doesn’t seem you’d have two women die of the same thing two nights in a row.”
“I think you’re okay,” the doctor said. “But I’d like to examine you just the same, palpate your abdomen, listen to your heart.” He handed her a blue papery-plastic square. “Put this on, open in front. Everything off, please.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Olive, but he had already stepped past the curtain. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said again, rolling her eyes, but she did as she was told because he had been pleasant, and because the crabmeat woman had died. Olive folded her slacks and put them on the chair, careful to tuck her underpants beneath them where they couldn’t be seen when the doctor walked back in.
Silly little plastic belt, made for a skinny pinny; it could barely tie around her. She managed, though—a tiny white bow. Waiting, she folded her hands and realized how every single time she went by this hospital, the same two thoughts occurred to her: that she’d been born here and that her father’s body had been brought here after his suicide. She’d been through some things, but never mind. She straightened her back. Other people had been through things, too.
She gave a small shake of her head as she thought of the nurse saying someone had tossed his sister out the window like that. If Christopher had had a sister, he never would have thrown her out a window. If Christopher had married his receptionist, he’d still be here in town. Although the girl had been stupid. Olive could see why he’d passed on her. His wife was not stupid. She was pushy and determined, and mean as a bat from hell.
Olive straightened her back and looked at the little glass bottles of different things lined up on the counter, and the box of latex gloves. In the drawers of that metal cabinet, she bet there were all sorts of syringes ready for all sorts of problems. She flexed her ankle one way, then the other. In a minute she was going to poke her nose out to see if Henry was all set; she knew he wouldn’t stay out there in the car, even with the ball game on. She’d call Bunny tomorrow, tell her about this little fiasco.
After that, it was like painting with a sponge, like someone had pressed a paint-wet sponge to the inside of her mind, and only what it painted, those splotches there, held what she remembered of the rest of that night. There was a quick, rushing sound—the curtain flung back with the tinny whoosh of its rings against the rod. There was a person in a blue ski mask waving