Page 66 of That's Not a Thing

The barista’s head whips toward me at warp speed. Suddenly, she has found the ability to move quite quickly, and for a petite little thing, the glint in her eye has turned surprisingly ferocious. She begins to chide me with her teeth clenched tightly together, uttering each word slowly, as though she is on the verge of erupting, “I am in the middle of something.”

It’s the way my mom used to yell at me when I was maybe five or six years old and simply driving her crazy. Like if she opened her mouth any wider, she would be unable to contain the savagery of her roars.

“You and your Hermès bag don’t run the world,” the girl continues, stepping closer to me, “and I will help you, only”—she pauses to look me up and down with a sneer—“when I am ready. Bitch.”

Her reaction to me is so shocking that I am still trying to catch my breath when a voice speaks up from behind me. “Excuse me!”

I turn to see my former office mate, Nicola, standing in line a couple of people behind me. Great. Two against one. I brace for whatever criticism Nicola is about to throw at me, seeing that this day is clearly just not going my way.

To my surprise, she lays into the barista instead. “That is no way to speak to a customer. Not only is it entirely unprofessional, but it was also completely uncalled for, given the circumstances of the current situation. This line has been moving at a snail’s pace—a pace, which I may add, that has not been warranted by the behavior of the patrons in line nor by the complexities of their orders. Which would lead one to conclude that fault lies with you, the barista in charge of the orders, who is slowing the pace of this line and the productivity of everyone waiting herein. Moreover, this particular customer was only alerting you to the fact that she was in a hurry. She did nothing to condemn or insult you, and your reaction was thoroughly unjustified. I think that you owe her a free coffee this morning, wouldn’t you all agree?” She turns back toward the gaping customers on the line, a few of whom begin clapping. I know my chin must be on the floor, so surprised am I that Nicola would ever defend me in any way.

The barista doesn’t know what has hit her. Her eyes dart to her bleary-eyed coworker and then back to Nicola. “Um, uh, yeah,” she stammers, “you’re right. Uncalled for. I can do a free coffee.” She never even looks in my direction, her focus solely on containing Nicola’s wrath. She scribbles something on a cup and then seems ready to serve the customer behind me.

“Wait.” I try to use an authoritative tone like Nicola’s, and I rattle off the two other drinks I had been waiting to order.

Apparently satisfied that I’ve been treated properly, Nicola turns from the counter back to me. She’s changed something about her hair since I saw her last. The blond color is less white than I’m used to, more golden. The softer look suits her.

“I don’t think I even want a coffee now,” she tells me with a sigh. “I’ve been trying to cut down my caffeine, and maybe this was the tipping point.”

“Thanks for having my back there,” I offer.

“Well, if there’s anything I can’t stand for, it’s lack of professionalism, right?”

True that, I think. “Still, I appreciated it.”

“Well, once you go into public-interest law, you won’t even be able to afford things like Starbucks, so I thought I should help make one of your last upscale coffee experiences worth what it costs, at least.”

I can’t decide whether she’s being obnoxious or actually trying to joke with me. Her eyes sweep over me, and she turns back to the barista. “And by the way,” she calls toward the girl, “that bag is not Hermès. It doesn’t even look like Hermès.” She glances back at me like that was the clincher. “Gotta go. Some of us still have a job.” She shrugs and heads out, taking a gust of air with her.

I shake my head quickly to clear it from that unexpected experience, reminding myself that people are complicated. Realizing I’m still running late, I grab the cardboard tray full of frothy drinks and hurry out the door to the hospital.

When I finally arrive, the nurse is just finishing attaching Gladys’s IV bag to the metal stand beside her recliner chair.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I announce as I feel myself burst into the brightly lit room with too much force.

“Nonsense.” Gladys looks up with a smile as Mitch walks over and takes the Starbucks tray from my hands before kissing me on the cheek. Gladys is wearing a gray zip-up hoodie, and I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen her in such casual attire.

“It’s great you’re here,” Mitch tells me, reaching for his Frappucino. “They found a structural issue with one of our projects, and I really should head in to the office at some point today. It’s a relief knowing Gladys won’t be alone.”

“Go now,” Gladys tells him. “That way, you can be back before she has to leave.”

“I can stay the whole time,” I tell them. “My schedule’s kind of wide open these days.”

“Well, if my darling wife could see fit to tell our son about her condition, we wouldn’t even be in this predicament. There’d be a whole other person to lean on.” He looks at her pointedly, as though they’ve clearly had more than one discussion about the issue.

“When I can’t hide it anymore, I will tell him. Not before.” She looks toward me and adds, with forced nonchalance, “Always beating dead horses, this husband of mine.”

“Go,” I tell Mitch. “We’ve got this.” I smile at Gladys as Mitch nods and begins collecting his things—a newspaper, his briefcase.

After he leaves, I settle in to update Gladys on my job search and the great interview I had yesterday at the Tri-State International Advocacy Group. As I’m talking, I notice that she keeps rubbing her chest, a slight grimace on her lips. “You okay?” I ask.

“Fine, dear. Tell me, what would the hours be like there for you?”

“Strictly nine to five,” I answer with a proud nod, acknowledging how different the work schedule would be from the potentially infinite hours that I was required to be available to Harrison, Whittaker & Shine.

As usual, the bitter black coffee that I ordered from Starbucks has gone right through me, and I excuse myself to hurry to the restroom down the hall. I’m drying my hands with a brown paper towel that feels like cardboard, hoping that it at least came from recycled material if it is going to feel this unpleasant, when I hear a commotion in the hallway outside. I step out of the bathroom cautiously, not wanting to obstruct any emergency medical care, and two women in scrubs hurry past me. I hang back in case anyone else will be following, but then I notice that the women are running to Gladys’s room. I imagine they’ve gotten the wrong room—I was only in the restroom for a minute or two, and she was perfectly fine before I left. But then I see an orderly running from the other end of the hallway with a gurney, also heading this way. I hustle back to Gladys’s room and see one woman racing to add a medication to Gladys’s IV line and another nurse frantically adjusting the recliner that Gladys is in, like she’s trying to open it up so Gladys can lie flat. As the dark-haired woman moves to the side, I catch a glimpse of Gladys’s face and see that she’s unconscious.

“Oh my God!” I shout. “What’s happening?”