Cody drives me to the hospital which is all of about 5 minutes from the school. I’m so thankful for a small town right now. I think I’m starting to feel a little loopy. Thankfully, Cody opens the door to the car for me before I can say something really embarrassing. And once again, he places my purse in my lap and carries me into the hospital.
“Hello, Hun. Long time no see,” a woman greets Cody as we walk in the door. “What do we have here?”
“Hello, Ms. Marg. I have Angel.”
“Angellica,” I but in.
“Like I was saying, I have my girl, Angellica, here, and she is really sick with some bug she caught from the kids at school.”
“Whoowhee,” she says. “Must be the strep all those kids had a few weeks ago. We’ll, get you in right now, doll. Go ahead and take her into room three. The doctor will be in soon. He’s just checking out Mrs. Jones’ new baby.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he tells her before carrying me down the hall to room three.
Room three looks like any other beige room in any other medical facility that I have ever seen. Cody places me gently on the wax paper covered table and gives me a stern once over.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” He asks. “Or called my mom or my Gran or your…” But he stops abruptly.
“My what?” I ask when the hair on the back of my neck rises.
“Your aunt,” he says. “Why didn’t you call your aunt home?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. And I am. I think.
“Damn it, Angel! You are not fine!” I flinch but he keeps on keepin on. “How do you think I would feel if something happened to you? How do you think I feel knowing you were here, suffering alone, while I was at camp?”
“It’s not like I have leprosy,” I say sullenly. Now, I feel like a real brat. And Cody is just standing there with his hands on his hips and his feet shoulder width apart, staring me down. Thank god, the doctor chooses that time to walk into the exam room. Jesus, is everyone in this town freaking gorgeous or what? The doctor is a little older than us. Late thirties, forty at the very most. Sandy brown hair and very familiar brown eyes. He has to be related to Sam.
“Well, what do we have here?” He asks. “I’m Dr. Wilson, but you can call me Mark.” Yep, totally Sam’s brother. Or hot older cousin. Young uncle? I’m mulling this thought over when Cody interrupts me.
“Apparently, nothing important because it’s not leprosy,” Cody fumes.
“Could we maybe act like adults?” I harp.
“You first!”
“Get out,” I shout as I point to the door but fall into a huge coughing jag.
“Over my dead body,” Cody counters.
“I think I can figure out what’s wrong,” the doctor tells me as he listens to my lungs with his stethoscope. He puts his hand on my forehead, frowning. “We need to get that temp recorded.”
He puts a thermometer in my mouth. I’m still glaring at Cody. Cody is glaring at me. The doctor is checking my blood pressure. And he’s doing more frowning. Finally, the thermometer beeps and the doctor takes it before I can see it.
“Stick your tongue out,” he tells me and I gag on that God damned popsicle stick. I howl like a feral cal. “Nurses make the worst patients. Better the nurse, worse the patient. From what I’ve heard she was the best in her field in New York, you might want to wear a cup,” he tells Cody. I narrow my eyes and growl.
“Truer words, my friend,” Cody tells him.
“I don’t think I like either of you right now,” I tell them both honestly.
“Well, that’s fine because here’s the deal. You most definitely have bronchitis, probably strep but as you know I have to send that culture off to the labs. Your fever is 104 which you also know is very high for an adult. So, I am going to send you home with one hell of an antibiotic, some super cough meds that will probably make you sleep,” He says to me and then to Cody, “But if they don’t hold onto your hat because she’ll be a nut.”
“Now,” Mark says to me, “Because of the fever and how progressed your illness is, I don’t want you alone in that big rambling house. I know Mable is out of town so someone needs to stay with you,” he looks pointedly at Cody.
“Not a problem, she’s staying with me,” he tells the doctor. “Will you go willingly?” He asks me.
“Do I have a choice?” I counter.
“You do not,” he replies.
