Deadly Dosage (7 page)

     For me, it was a no-brainer. “Two eggs over
medium with hash browns and white toast. And hot chocolate with whipped cream.”
No bacon. Bacon reminded me of Sam.

     “I’ll have the same, but make the toast wheat and
the hot chocolate a large orange juice.”

     The waitress nodded and off she went, leaving us
alone to stare at the walls. She came back within minutes and placed the hot
chocolate in front of him and a large milk in front of me. Lloyd shook his head
in amazement.

 “She ordered the hot
chocolate, and I ordered orange juice.”

The waitress looked confused but
removed the milk.

Lloyd pushed the hot chocolate
over to me. “I bet she gets the order wrong,” he said.

     I started folding my napkin into an accordion, a
nervous habit. “So,” I said, “what’s troubling your father?” 

     He watched me smooth out the pleats. “Do you
always tinker with your napkins?”

     “Yeah,” I said. “Do you?”

     “No,” he frowned slightly.

     The waitress reappeared with our food. The order
was accurate and it was placed in the correct positions on the table. She even
remembered the orange juice.

     “You lose,” I said playfully.

     “Doesn’t happen much,” he said, and I believed
him.

     “So, your father?” I prompted. For a man who
wanted to talk, he wasn’t saying much.

     He cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you’ve
met his roommate, Rodney Schroeder? He’s a friendly old man, about the same age
as my dad.”

     I nodded and bit into my toast. Lots of butter on
it, just the way I like it. Toast never tastes as good at home.

     “Anyway, according to my dad, no one visited his
roommate the last couple of weeks. Now, when it seems he’s ready to go home,
suddenly a daughter appears nightly, overly concerned for his welfare.”

     He slid his fork under his egg, lifted it, and
placed the whole egg into his mouth. You’d never see a woman do that.

     I diced up my eggs, added lots of salt and pepper
and tried them. Perfect. I ate some hash browns. Could have been a little
crispier. Quite tasty.

     “Interesting,” I said between bites. “However,
it’s not unusual for family members to ignore their parents in a nursing home.
The social worker probably called his daughter regarding his discharge plan.
That’s probably why she showed up.” I drank some hot chocolate.

     “You have whipped cream on your nose,” he said
politely.

     I reached for my napkin, but it was now shaped
like a fan. He handed me another and I wiped off my nose.

     “Maybe, but her visits didn’t help. He’s sicker
than ever now, and my dad is worried. It’s not helping his health either with
that—excuse my French—bitch coming into his room.”

     His point was well taken, however I didn’t know
what I could do about it. Maybe he just wanted a sounding board. I considered
this while I finished my second slice of toast.

     The waitress stopped by, asking if we needed
anything else. We said no, and she left the check. He automatically grabbed it.
Good thing too, since I had about three bucks in my handbag and my meal cost at
least four. I didn’t want to be rude, so I reached into my handbag for the tip.

     “I got it covered,” he said, placing his warm
hand over mine. “Jeez, are you always this cold?” he asked removing his hand.

     “No, sometimes I’m colder.”

     He smiled at this. “You feel cold as death
already.” He finished his orange juice and placed his utensils on his plate on
an angle, signifying that he was finished.

“Well, I’ll look into it, Mr.
Harper. I’m not sure what I can do but I can try. I know he was taken to the
hospital this afternoon after his daughter left. And you are right; she’s not a
pleasant woman.”

     “It’s Lloyd. And, I can’t ask for more,” he said
and put his jacket on.

     I should have ordered dessert. Now I had no
excuse to stay with him longer. I slipped out from the booth and grabbed my
coat. He took it from me, holding it so I could slide my arms through the
sleeves. Sam never would have done that in a million years. “Thanks. And thanks
for the meal.” I said his name softly to myself. It didn’t suit him.

     “What?” he asked.

     “What?” I replied back.

“You said Lloyd.”

“Did I?” I didn’t realize I
verbalized my thought. “Oh. I was just thinking that you don’t look like a
Lloyd. What’s your middle name?”

     He gave a hint of a smile. “Andrew.”

“Lloyd Andrew,” I repeated.
“Sounds nice together. Mine’s Alexandria, named after my mother. Are you named
after Andrew Lloyd Webber, the famous composer?”

“No, my uncle,” he said.

“Oh. But Lloyd still sounds
too stuffy for a guy…”

     “My age?” he interrupted.

     “Well, that and well, you’re like a young Cary Grant
and hunky Steve McQueen all rolled into one, making you irresistibly hot.” I commented
before I could stop myself. Real professional there, Sunny.

     His eyes consumed me. “I am pretty hot,” he
quipped with a wink.

I smiled and together we
walked to the register.

“Did you know Cary Grant’s
real name was Archibald Leach? Not very sexy,” he commented.

     “Not in the least. Sounds like a name for an old
grandpa. Guess you’re in good company.”

 He chuckled and paid, and
that was that. I grabbed a couple of peppermint candies from the counter.

     It started snowing on our way back to the nursing
home. The ride was short and silent. When we got to the lot, I pointed out my
car, the lone vehicle in the west lot. He pulled up next to it.

     “Nice car. Looks new.”

     I turned to face my Kia Forte Koup. “It is, but
the long scratch on it is newer.” 

     He reached for my face, turned it towards him,
and gently kissed me. His lips were warm and mine were welcoming. It ended far
too soon to please me. “Well,” I said awkwardly and reached for the door
handle.

     “Give me your keys,” he said, “I’ll start your
car. You’ll need to let it warm up for about five minutes before you leave.”

     I handed him my keys and whispered thanks. He
started my car, brushed the snow off, and was back in less than a minute.

     He closed the door shut and turned on the radio
to a soft rock station. “Now where were we,” he said and pulled me close. He
kissed me again, this time more deeply and I closed my eyes. He’s a quick
mover, I thought, though not one I wanted to stop.

     “Can I see you again?” he whispered in my ear and
kissed my earlobe.

     I wasn’t in the mood to object to anything, and I
mean anything! “I’d like that,” I whispered back.

     He pulled away from me. “I’ll call you,” he said.
“Your car should be warm now.”

     Wow, he could turn it off fast too. “Okay,
thanks,” I said, somewhat disappointed. I left his car and quickly jumped into
mine. I waved to him and backed out. He followed me out of the parking lot, and
at the road, he turned left and I turned right.

     I still felt warm from his kiss and replayed the
last hour in my mind. When I was halfway home, the image of the bimbo from the
restaurant flashed into my memory. Probably not his girlfriend I told myself.
Most likely, he met her the previous night, or better yet, she was a friend of
the family who was in town. Family obligations can be bothersome.

     By the time I parked my car; I had our wedding
planned and was onto deciding the names of our forthcoming children. I kind of
liked the alliterated sound of Henry Harper. Hank Harper; sure to be a
professional baseball player. Girls names were harder:  Hazel, Henrietta,
Helena, Helga. Yuck. Maybe we’d just have boys.

     I floated on a cloud up to my apartment and let
myself in, humming a gay little tune. Brandi turned, looked over the top of the
couch, said hi, and continued giving the television her full attention.

In a dreamlike state, I went
to my room to undress, climbed into my kitty-cat nightshirt, a present from my
older sister Spring, and pattered back to the kitchen in my fuzzy slippers.

I poured a glass of skim milk,
grabbed the chocolate chip cookies from the cabinet, and took them into the
living room. The glass I placed on the coffee table, and the cookies I placed
in my lap. I ate a few and offered the package to Brandi. She took one, and
together we watched one of the stupidest realty shows ever created.

 At ten, we called it a night.
Tomorrow I’d tell Autumn about Lloyd, but for now, I wanted him all to myself.

Chapter
11

Tuesday,
February 14th

The night‘s dreams provided yet another morning
migraine. Visions of Mr. Schroeder’s deranged daughter calling me a slut
haunted my short-term memory. Subconscious guilt. Normally making out with
strangers, no matter how handsome, wasn’t my norm. Well, it was now. So sue me.
I liked it!

     Brandi rarely rose before ten, so usually I had
the mornings to myself. She slept like a log, so nothing short of an explosion
woke her. Therefore, when I tripped getting out of the shower this morning and
pulled the shower bar off the wall by the curtain, she continued snoring. I
knew I would be in serious trouble if I ever had a life-threatening situation
while she was asleep. Time wasn’t on my side this morning, so I left the mess
for her to clean up. I dressed quickly, making sure to wear my red sweater for
St. Valentine’s Day. I made a lunch of undesirable leftovers and left the
apartment, ten minutes later than normal. Not much, but enough to change the
amount and flow of traffic.

     The roads were wet, not snow-covered. I silently
thanked God for small favors. I made up some time, still arriving late. An
ambulance was at the front entrance. Mr. Schroeder was being rolled into the
building when I reached the doors. I briskly walked to the time clock, avoiding
Phyllis, by ducking down a hall. Eventually I’d see her at the morning meeting,
but that was an hour away.

     Today I planned to do a little research on Mr.
Rodney Schroeder. I sat at Shantel’s desk and turned on her computer. Reaching
over to the phone, I hit the night button and three phone lines rang in quick
succession. Rubbing my forehead, I picked up the first line and gave the
standard greeting, followed quickly with ‘please hold’. I did the same with the
next call and took the third call, which was a Miss Loretta Brown, a Medicaid
caseworker with an unpleasant attitude. She told me she needed some documents
faxed a.s.a.p. to complete a case, or she would close it. I knew for a fact I
submitted this particular application two months ago and had already faxed the
requested documents twice before. In my opinion, the Medicaid office needed a
complete overhaul, beginning with her. Ninety percent of the time Miss Brown
refused to answer her phone; the other ten percent, she was too busy to be of
assistance.

A short, chubby, girl with a
ruddy complexion approached the desk as I took the first call. She asked for an
application as I patched the call through to a nurse on the Medicare wing. I
took an application from the drawer, a pen from a cup on the desk and attached
both to a clipboard, which I handed to her through the open sliding glass
window. She took a seat in the lobby and I turned my attention to the last
call.

 Dr. Gustapa demanded my name
and told me how he felt about having his call put on hold. I wanted to tell him
my time was just as valuable as his was, but I figured I could say the same
thing to my mechanical pencil and get the same reaction. I mumbled that I was
sorry, put the call on hold, and paged the unit waiting on his call. No doubt
he would speak to Phyllis about this and I’d get a tongue-lashing. I glanced at
the computer clock. It would be another fifteen minutes until Shantel arrived—an
eternity.

A barrage of calls requesting
certified nurse aide training came in during the next ten minutes. They all
asked the same questions and the calls were a daily occurrence. You had to be a
very nice person to be a certified nurse aide, or a glutton for punishment. The
job was overwhelming and the pay was insulting for the responsibility of the
position. However, for the younger staff, I guess eight bucks an hour beat
minimum wage.

The phones were quite busy, so
it was difficult to do much computer research. I called up Mr. Schroeder’s
medical record and went straight to the nursing notes. There was a daily
breakdown of his treatment, showing when he began experiencing the hair loss
and nausea. I briefly browsed through the census and saw the frequency of his
hospital visits and the length of stay.

Once his Medicare stay ran
out, he would have to switch to private pay based on his finances. Since his
daughter had already complained about the cost of his care, I doubted very much
that she’d pay his bills unless we threatened discharge. If Donna had
documented his resources accurately, it appeared he had the necessary resources
to stay private pay for a long time.