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“I’ll see you tonight. For unpacking. Maybe we don’t do wine.”
“Trust me. The only way we’re going to get through those boxes is with wine.”
He gave me a smile that twisted my insides like a rag. Then he clapped me on the shoulder on his way out of the break room. Like a friend.
* * *
That afternoon, I looked for ways to contact Dr. Stephen Florris. I had decided I was just going to call him and tell him the truth, and then make arrangements to bring Peachblossom to him. The only number I could find for him was the Christmas Valley Clinic. So I gave them a ring. Averycheerful automated voice answered.
“Thank you for calling the Christmas Valley Health Clinic! ’Tis the season for your annual checkup. For Dr. McPherson’s Holly Jolly Sexual Health Clinic, press one. For Dr. Kerrington in Oh-by-Golly Obstetrics and Gynecology, press two. For Fa-La-La-La-Family Practice with Dr. Stephen Florris, press three.”
That seemed in poor taste, even for Christmas Valley. I hastily pressed three.
“For scheduling, press one. For the pharmacy, press two. For billing, press three. If you are having trouble logging into MyChart, press four–”
I tried pressing zero to see if I could speak to a human, but nothing happened. So I dialed scheduling.
“Dr. Florris’s office, this is Barb speaking.”
“Hi Barb, I…need to speak to Dr. Florris.”
“Date of birth, please?”
I told her.
“Okay, Mr. Cuthbert, I see here that Dr. Florris wanted to follow up with you about your lipid panel at four weeks, but it’s been six weeks.”
“Oh, uh. Right. That’s not actually why–”
“We’re fully booked until after New Year’s, but Dr. Florris has just had a cancellation for tomorrow morning at eight-thirty. I’d recommend taking that if you can make it. Since it has been six weeks. And he wanted to follow up with you after four.”
Barb was judging me. And if Barb was judging me, Dr. Stephen Florris probably was too. I had an evening shift tomorrow, so technically I could do it. “I’ll take it,” I blurted. Two birds with one stone. I’d get my follow-up appointment out of the way, and I could bring Peachblossom right to Dr. Florris.
I hung up, reasonably pleased with myself. I was about to make myself some sort of healthy snack that would cancel out all the gingersnaps I’d eaten for breakfast and get my lipids looking real sexy for Dr. Stephen Florris, when Ada wandered into the room. She was, for reasons unknown, wearing the velvet dress with red lace collar Mom had bought her for the Christmas Eve tree-lighting ceremony—Em had one with green lace—and weeping into her hands like a small grieving Victorian widow.
“Ada? What’s wrong?” I was by her side immediately. “Sweetheart?”
She blubbered something incoherent.
I did a quick scan for injuries but saw none. “Can you take your hands away from your face and tell me what’s wrong? Is Em okay?”
Ada nodded into her palms.
“Sweetheart, can you–?”
She took her hands from her face and wailed, “Em said she’d give me a haircut like Ben used to, but it doesn’t look like how Ben does it!”
With her chin lifted, I could now see the large hank of cropped hair sticking out from her head. “Oh my God.”
Ada’s shoulders shook and her little chest heaved. “She can’t do it like Ben!”
“Where do you girls keep getting scissors? You know you’re not allowed to play with sharp things.”
“We know where you k-keep them,” she sobbed.
Okay, well. “Honey, why didn’t you tell me you wanted a haircut? We could have gone somewhere in town.”
But Ada was beyond words, so I led her to the couch, and we sat side by side while I rubbed her back until the sobbing tapered off.
