Lovesick (30 page)

Leaning against the wall, the mechanism looks more like a 1930s Tommy submachine gun than it does a tricked-out walking stick. I’ve secured the iPod and tiny speaker to the shaft of the cane with some black electrical tape. Manny picks it up.

“Put it down,” I demand. “I brought that here to show Sid.”

“You ruined a perfectly good iPod,” he says, clumsily flipping the whole thing upside down and then right side up. He’s going to break it. I grab the tip of the cane and Manny grips the hook, easily yanking it away from me with gorilla strength. This triggers the playlist.

“You are a dumb person!” the cane yells at him. “Nuh-uh,” he replies. Manny is shocked.

“You think just because I’m two thousand years old that I can’t take you?” the cane screams back at him.

Manny jumps out of his seat. “Bring it on, cane,” he cries.

Manny hasn’t figured out it’s Cookie’s voice yet. Sid stirs slightly.

“Where’s the off switch on this thingamajig?” Manny asks.

“This is why you have no friends your own age,” Cookie tells him.

“I’ve got plenty of friends,” Manny insists.

“Move!” the cane yells.

“Where?” Manny asks.

“What part of ‘get the hell out of the way’ don’t you understand?” the voice says.

“Cookie?” Sid mumbles, slowly opening his eyes.

I reach over and hit the pause button on the iPod.

“Cookie’s on her way,” I promise Sid, standing up so he can see me.

“Who undressed me?” he says all groggy, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Manny.”

“Shut up. The nurse did.”

“Hand me the bed thingy,” Sid says, blindly patting down the mattress.

Sid’s eyelids are heavy. His lips are dry.

I hand him the controller, guiding his pointer finger to the “up” arrow. Sid engages the motor, slowly raising the incline of his hospital bed.

On the approach, Sid spots my ice pack.

“Don’t ask,” I say.

“How about we just swap places?” Sid suggests, livening up.

I hand him a plastic cup of water. He sips from it.

“What happened
to you?”
I ask.

“I’m old is what happened.”

“But were you doing anything out of the ordinary when it hit?” I ask him. “And what’s this about you not wanting to go to the Veterans Hospital?”

“I
hate
that place,” he yells. “They won’t take care of me.”

Manny and I exchange confused looks.

“Why didn’t we invent
this,”
Sid laments, adjusting the height of the bed with the remote.
Up, down, up, down.
“I heard Cookie’s voice,” he mutters.

“That was this,” I tell him, proudly handing him the Cookie Cane. “There’s a lot of prior art out there on canes,” I explain to him. “Walking sticks that double as pool cues and telescopes. Patented exercise canes with snap-on weights. Canes with secret compartments, beverage holders, solar-powered taillights, rear-view mirrors, headlights, even direction signals. I read about this one cane with a retractable jaw that could reposition a golf ball on a tee. But of all of the walking sticks out there, you won’t find anything like this one. The idea came to me the other day when I saw Cookie screaming her head off at this jogger.”

Sid inspects it carefully. I reach over and hit the play button.

“I will beat that computer of yours senseless with this cane,” Cookie’s voice yells.

Sid is taken aback.

I press the play button again and the walking stick blares the sound of a car horn. Sid is so startled that he drops the cane and it smashes to bits on the ground. His heart monitor starts beeping.

“That’s okay,” I say, scooping the pieces off the floor.

“I don’t like it,” Sid says like “get it away.”

“Me neither,” Manny weighs in. “I think it’s
mean.”

I scratch my head.

“I don’t get it,” Manny adds.

“It’s a novelty item,” I insist. “It’s funny.”

“I don’t get it,” he repeats monotone.

“It’s not you, Emmanuel,” Sid says between coughs. “This is Andy’s way. He invents tactile timepieces that can’t tell time and snap-on heels that snap in half. For once, I’d like to see you invent something simple, elegant,
or
useful,” he cries, inadvertently tangling the bed remote up with his IV.

I go to help him, but Sid starts yelling, “Ow, ow, ow. You’re killing me here. You know the war was over years ago.”

I don’t understand. I back away.

“I want Cookie. I want my wife.”

Dr. Yeardling is standing quietly in the doorway. There’s no telling how long he’s been there.

“Why don’t you come with me and I’ll patch that cut over your eye? Mr. Brewster needs his rest,” the doctor says. “Your uncle’s had a tough day.”

“Uncle!” Sid yells. “I’d rather be a monkey’s uncle.”

Yeardling waves me into the hall. “He’s obviously confused. That’s the medication. You’ll be sure to get me a comprehensive list of whatever he’s taking, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” I nod.

That’s when I spot Cookie limping toward us with the original Cookie Cane. She and I make brief eye contact, but before she can speak, I turn around and run in the other direction.

I SLEPT in Aisle Nine for four reasons:

1. This is where we display our summer fun flotation devices. Sleeping in an inner tube seemed like a good idea at the time, but as it turns out, honeycomb tile is a poor substitute for water. Trust me, you need the lake.
   

2. Aisle Nine is also centrally located. Toothpaste is in Aisle Eight. Sleeping aids and breakfast bars in Aisle Ten.
   

3. The far end of Aisle Nine gets the least amount of direct morning sunlight.
   

4. The hum of the nearby refrigerator makes for good white noise.
   

With the phone off the hook, I managed to get three, maybe four hours of sleep, but I awoke this morning to the physical pains and mental anguish that accompany a major automobile accident,
or in my case, a series of accidents involving everyone from my fiancée to my best friend.

I break open a box of ibuprofen and then shuffle around the store in my socks, tossing shaving cream, razor blades, shampoo, deodorant, mouthwash, and other necessities into a red plastic basket. The fluorescents in the employee washroom aren’t great, but not even Hollywood’s best lighting crew could do much with this. I still need stitches and while the swelling under my right eyebrow has subsided, the blood has drained underneath to form a black eye. Somehow I also managed to fall asleep on my cold pack, so now I have freezer burn across the right side of my face.

A delicate shave and awkward shampoo in the tiny porcelain sink helps modestly. When I’m finished with my makeover, I check behind the door. Hanging from the hook is one of Gregory’s white lab coats, his name embroidered over the pocket. I turn it inside out and slip on the loose-fitting jacket.

Belinda arrives at the pharmacy late, but I’m not complaining; I’m surprised she still shows up at all.

“Are you wearing makeup?” she screams.

“You can tell?”

“Only in the daylight.” Belinda studies me. “Oh man, let’s get you some ice. Please tell me that shiner explains why you missed my mother’s food tasting. You managed to ruin not
one
but
five
meals.”

“I feel just awful. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Tell it to the woman who spent three hours baking Paige the perfect chocolate raspberry soufflé. I considered not showing up today—to give you a taste of your own medicine—but that’s not how I roll.”

“Things are going to get better,” I promise her. “They have to.”

In walks Lara, wildly swinging open our gorgeous new front door.

“I was wondering when you were going to fix that,” she says.

I want to ask her what she thinks she’s doing here, and I bet Lara is dying to know where I slept last night and what happened to my face, but instead she tells me I’m wearing my jacket inside out.

Lara takes her rightful place at her makeshift desk, and before long, Belinda is ringing up customers, I’m behind the counter filling prescriptions, and it’s business as unusual.

Mindy Monroe of Mindy’s Stationery Shop calls. Her daughter, Elaine, has been diagnosed with streptococcus or “strep throat,” and apparently “Laney isn’t so good with pills.” Mindy wants to know whether I can whip up a few of Gregory’s trademark medicated lollipops, and seeing as I feel adventurous and we still owe her $600 for wedding invitations (collector’s items, I suspect):
Laney gets what Laney wants.

I flatten out the March 27, 1991, entry in Gregory’s notebook entitled “Lemon Lollies.” He writes in all block letters:

Everything I need to make the pops is in Gregory’s magic chest—a compounding cabinet that contains all his tools of the trade, from the safety sticks to the corn syrup to the circular molds. Today’s task is not for the faint of heart; we’re not talking about making one lollipop; strep throat requires a full course of antibiotics; that means Laney Monroe will need about twenty. Gregory’s recipe makes two dozen, leaving a decent cushion for a few subpar pops.

I tuck the double burner under one arm, steady all the ingredients and utensils with my free hand, and melodramatically push past Lara.

One by one, I slowly drop all the supplies on the black granite countertop. Then I plug in and preheat the stovetop, set out the plastic molds, and systematically position all twenty-four safety sticks.

“Whatcha got cooking, bud-dy?” Manny asks, smacking his lips.

Somehow I missed the entrance of the lumbering woolly mammal.

“You’ve got to give me a sec,” I tell him. “The deliveries aren’t ready.”

Manny promises to return in one hour.

Lara is whispering over the counter to some guy I don’t recognize. The gentleman looks to be in his early thirties, with a long horse face, thick black plastic glasses, and black hair parted to one side. She encourages him to “take all the time he needs.”

I pull our supply of tetracycline off the shelf. The recipe calls for 6,000 milligrams—that’s twenty-four pills. I begin crushing them with my mortar and pestle, six pills at a time. Then I dump the white dust in a plastic cup. In a small pot, I mix water, corn syrup, and our secret ingredient, sorbitol—Gregory used to use this sugar substitute in all of his candy and cough syrups. I stir the mixture over low heat until all the good stuff dissolves.

The candy thermometer reads 160 degrees.

There is a small boy no more than four or five years old at the end of the school supplies aisle. Strands of red hair poke out from beneath his crisp new Oakland A’s baseball cap, and he keeps saying “he wants”: he wants the glossy Batman portfolio and matching pencil case; he wants chalk, paste, a twelve-inch ruler, construction paper, and a three-ring hole-punch.

Standing beside the precocious boy—indulging his every wish (including the hole-punch)—is Grandma. It takes me a moment be fore I realize that it’s Ruth Mulrooney. In twenty-four hours, she’s gone from bad to worse. No designer-wear to speak of. No makeup. Just deep, dark creases across each cheek and purple bags under the eyes. It’s only now—hatless and handkerchiefless—that I realize she’s no longer a redhead. The sherbet-orange hair dye grew out ages ago.

Her companion is running her ragged, but I suspect the gloom runs deeper and outside her control. I check the computer. It’s been weeks since she refilled her prescription for antidepressants.

Ruth takes Paxil, but we’re fresh out, and seeing as I’ve managed to cut off most of our legitimate and illegitimate distribution channels, I’m not expecting a new supply anytime soon. I decide to give her Prevos instead.
What could go wrong—they both start with P.
Actually, Janus’s microprocessor confirms the adequacy of the substitution. Gregory used to make this swap all the time.

As I count out a one-month supply, I can feel Ruth trying to make eye contact. When I give in, she greets me with a wide grin.

“I understand you’ve dumped me for a younger model,” Ruth says softly.

“Take me back,” I beg her as I close the prescription bottle and set it down beside her.

Ruth rests her shopping basket on the counter and studies it.

“You’re a peach, but I’m fine, Andrew,” she lies.

She speaks so softly and in such monotones it’s hard to understand her.

“I guess it can’t hurt to have extra, just in case,” Ruth admits, shaking the bottle. “You and Paige sure make a lovely couple. She’ll make a beautiful bride.”

She gives my hand a firm squeeze.

“Now did my wedding invitation get lost in the mail or what?” she asks.

“To be honest … you may not be missing anything,” I begin.

Lara’s ears perk up.

A shelf of tiny tin drums crashes to the ground. Ruth’s grandson has gotten to the Pringles potato chips in Aisle Two.

“Uh-oh,” the child yells.

“Arnie!” Ruth screams back as only a concerned grandmother can.

“I got it,” Belinda volunteers.

Despite the commotion, nothing breaks Lara’s horse-faced friend’s concentration. He is at the far end of Aisle Eight inventorying how much toothpaste we have and aggressively punching keys on his personal organizer. I assume he’s with Longs Drugs or CVS or one of Lara’s other potential buyers.