Part 18 (2/2)
”I've got an Angela Anselmo and her two kids down here,” the guard in the lobby said. ”They're asking can they come up.”
”They look dangerous to you?” I asked.
”Not really.”
”Then what are you waiting for?”
A minute later, Angela, Marta, and her fifteen-year-old brother, Nico, stepped off the elevator. Marta was carrying her violin case. Angela and Nico hefted plastic grocery bags.
”Happy Thanksgiving!” Angela and Marta cried in unison while Nico looked sullen and embarra.s.sed to be in their company. Angela unpacked the bags, covering the city desk with Tupperware containers filled with what turned out to be roasted turkey, pomegranate-and-giblet gravy, sausage-and-mozzarella stuffing, sweet potatoes flavored with lime and ginger, and an a.s.sortment of Italian pastries. They'd also brought paper plates, plastic utensils, and a ten-cup Dunkin' Donuts Box 'O Joe.
”You didn't need to do this,” I said.
”We wanted to!” Marta said.
”It was Marta's idea,” said her proud mama.
The little girl beamed, opened her violin case, tucked the instrument under her chin, and began to play ”We Plow the Fields and Scatter.” The holiday skeleton crew, a half-dozen reporters and copy editors, stopped tapping their keyboards to listen. When she was done, everyone in the room except Nico, who looked even more uncomfortable than before, applauded the performance.
”Enjoy your meal,” Angela said as Marta packed up her violin. She and Marta both hugged me and then turned for the elevator, Nico slouching along behind them. I picked up a plastic fork and dug in. The food was as good as it looked, tasty but mild enough to soothe the gnawing pain in my stomach.
Late that night, I cracked open a fresh pint of Bushmills, collapsed on my mattress, and sipped from the bottle. The Irish whiskey did its job, keeping the little girl with no arms at bay. But in the morning, I woke up with a hot poker in my gut. I shuffled to the bathroom, felt the bile rise to my throat, and threw up in the sink. The vomit looked like b.l.o.o.d.y coffee grounds.
I drove myself to the hospital, where an emergency room doctor gave me a quick going-over and promptly admitted me. I spent the rest of the day getting studied, stabbed, and prodded.
Next morning, I awoke to find Brian Israel sitting by my hospital bed, a stethoscope draped over his Hugo Boss suit jacket so the hot young nurses would know he's a doctor.
”How long have you had pain in your abdomen?” he asked.
”Couple of years.”
”And you didn't think it was worth seeing me about it?”
”I've been a little busy.”
”So you've been self-medicating.”
”I have.”
”With what?”
”Rolaids and Maalox.”
”And about a month ago that stopped working, right?”
”Pretty much.”
”And still you didn't come see me?”
”I was going to, soon as I could make the time.”
”When did your clothes stop fitting right?”
”How'd you know about that?”
”Just answer the question.”
”Couple of weeks ago, I guess. Figured I'd just gained a little weight.”
”More likely you were bloating.”
”Because of what I've got?”
”Yeah.”
”And what I've got is an ulcer,” I said.
”Looked up your symptoms on WebMD, did you?”
”Matter of fact, I did.”
”The EGD-the tube with the little camera on it that we stuck down your throat-told us you've got a one-centimeter gastric ulcer.”
”How big is that in English?”
”About the size of a dime.”
”Okay.”
”Because you didn't get it treated, it perforated your stomach lining.”
”That explains the b.l.o.o.d.y vomit?”
”Exactly. When we did the EGD, we cauterized the wound. We also biopsied your stomach lining and found Helicobacter pylori.”
”I'd heard he was missing.”
The doc didn't crack a smile. ”It's a bacteria,” he said. ”It's what caused your problem, but there were probably contributing factors.”
”Such as?”
”Still smoking cigars?”
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