“She was lucky, all things considered,” Dr. McPherson said. “But she has a slight concussion.”
“Is that all?” Marjorie shook her head, apparently disappointed it wasn’t worse. “All that trouble for a concussion. Come on, Dan. We’ll go down to the cafeteria to see what they have.”
“Call Aaron!” Frances insisted. “And don’t wait for me. I’ll call for a cab or an Uber to the grocery store to get my car.”
“Absolutely not!” Marjorie said. “You’re holding a barf bag, Franny, and you’ve got a bandage the size of Delaware on the back of your head. I’m not going to let you unleash that on some poor unsuspecting driver. We’ll be back in a jiff. Come on, Dan.”
Dan, who had wandered to the white board, said, “Hmm?” He turned and saw Marjorie exiting the room, and hurried after her, his cane striking the linoleum floor with his determination to not lose her.
Frances pushed herself up in the bed and looked sheepishly at the doctor. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“How are you feeling? Any pain?”
“It’s better,” Frances said. “You’re going to say I must be careful. I could have broken something, I could have been seriously hurt,yada yada.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and swallowed down a swell of nausea. “And you’re right. I won’t argue.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’ve had a concussion before,” Frances added, her way of letting the doctor know she knew all about those, too. She’d gotten a whopper of one in New York the year Edie met Simon.
“What about headaches?” Dr. McPherson asked.
“Yes, my head aches right now, right behind my eye,” she said, rubbed her right eye. And smeared her makeup. Which was probably already smeared. God, she wanted to go home.
“Do you get them often?”
Someone had put socks with rubber grips on her feet. She wondered if she could wear them home. They were quite comfortable. “Headaches? Yes, I tend to get migraines.” Wait. If she said too much, they’d find a reason to keep her here. “But I’ve got medicine at home.”
“Any dizziness or lack of coordination?” the doctor asked.
Frances couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Was there anyone over seventy who didn’t suffer from occasional lapses in coordination? “I fell at the grocery store, so I would say yes to lack of coordination.”
Dr. McPherson didn’t laugh. “What about outside of your fall today?”
Everyone was so serious these days. “I’m kidding. I’m fine. But I’m seventy-four. Sometimes, you get a little dizzy or have clumsy moments.” She was smiling, but Dr. McPherson was not. Something about this line of questioning was beginning to feel off. Maybe even alarming. It suddenly occurred to her that dehydration must have shown up on the bloodwork and that’s why Dr. McPherson wanted more. “Oh, okay, I get it—I know where you’re going with this.”
“You do?”
“I do. Trust me, I’ve googled it six ways to Sunday. I’ve had headaches, and some dizziness, and fatigue. And every so often my vision blurs. But it clears up once I drink enough water.”
Dr. McPherson frowned. Why was she frowning?
“All classic symptoms of dehydration,” Frances continued, and swallowed down another swell of nausea. “Or lupus. Or cancer. It depends on what link you follow on Google.” She laughed at her joke, fully expecting Dr. McPherson to laugh with her.Oh,you’re too funny, Mrs. Deluca! Stay away from Google, now, do you hear me?
But Dr. McPherson didn’t laugh. She looked serious. Dammit. Joan used to howl at Frances’s lame jokes, to the point that Edie begged them both to stop.
Maybe this doctor was sick to death of Google. If Frances were a doctor, she would be. She could imagine the people in and out all day long, having self-diagnosed. “I’m joking,” she said to the teenaged doctor. “I know I don’t have cancer or lupus. I’m dehydrated and I promise to drink more water and electrolytes and get plenty of rest and eat my vegetables.”
Dr. McPherson’s expression changed. She looked like someone had died, and something cold and sickening sank inside Frances. “I googled it,” she said again. “I googled my symptoms, and I’m dehydrated. Okay, why are you looking like someone stole your puppy?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Deluca. I have some bad news.”
“Oh. Okay,” Frances said, and then vomited into the blue barf bag.
Three
The news was very, very bad.
Frances had been so sure the teenaged doctor had it all wrong that she’d gone to the oncologist just to spite her (ageriatriconcologist, mind you, as if her age disqualified her for the real oncologist). The doctor was at least in his fifties, and after all the tests, all the checking and double-checking and checking again, it had come back just as Google had said it would: cancer.
