My sister had finally gone and done it. She’d gotten herself arrested. And not just on some minor charge like Shoplifting or Driving Without Insurance. Oh no, she’d been accused of committing Grand Theft Auto, Resisting Arrest, and something else that was considered a felony - why couldn’t I remember . . . oh, yes, Aiding and Abetting a Fugitive, the “fugitive” being her skeezy boyfriend, Marco. Who knew that he was a wanted man with three outstanding arrest warrants to his name? Not Izzy. She’d sworn on the lives of our nephews that she’d been completely clueless. When Marco had picked her up in a brand-new red Ferrari, she’d believed his assertion that he’d borrowed it from a friend. Why would she doubt him? He’d never lied to her before, and she’d never witnessed him doing anything criminal.
All that had changed an hour later when they’d been cruising up I-95 and two police cars had appeared out of nowhere with lights flashing and sirens wailing. Izzy had told Marco to pull over to the shoulder, but he’d refused, putting the pedal to the metal in an attempt to elude the law. Fortunately, his escape had been thwarted by a pile-up around Exit 16. Marco had been forced to slow down to a standstill, and that’s when Miami’s finest had moved in to apprehend him, along with my hysterical sister, who’d screamed “police brutality” as the cops tried to shove her into a squad car (in actuality, the only one who’d inflicted any bodily harm at the scene of the arrest was Izzy, and Officer Alex Muñiz had the teeth marks on his hand to prove it.)
So, my wayward sibling had been fingerprinted, and a mug shot had been taken of her tear-streaked face. When I’d arrived at the jail 90 minutes after she’d been thrown into a holding cell, she was still sobbing because being booked had been the “most humiliating and traumatic experience” of her life. As angry as I’d been, I had felt kind of sorry for Izzy - she’d obviously been through quite an ordeal, and I knew that she hadn’t willingly committed any of the crimes she’d been accused of. But I’d felt even sorrier for myself when I’d had to empty out my savings account in order to retain the services of a defense attorney, then hand the deed to my house over to a sweaty bail bondsman with ketchup stains on the front of his shirt - all so that I could get Izzy released.
“Doctor Alvarez?”
“Huh?” The sound of Kyle Kotowski’s voice came as a bit of a shock to me. I’d been so busy thinking about my own problems that I’d forgotten I was supposed to be listening to his.
Sitting up straight in my chair and focusing on my patient, I said, “I’m sorry. What was your question again?”
“Does my left hand look bigger than my right?” He held them both out for my analysis.
“Well . . .” They looked identical to me, but I decided to humor him since I felt guilty about ignoring him for most of the hour. “Maybe a little bit.”
“Not just a little bit! Look!” He placed his hands palm-to-palm. “My left hand is clearly 1/8 of an inch larger than my right. I measured them both, so that figure is accurate. Did you know that an enlarged hand is a sign of Acromegaly?”
So, we were still on diseases that started with the letter A? I despaired that I would have my first gray hair long before we reached the Bs.
“I’ve never heard of Acromegaly.”
“Of course not. There are only 816 cases of Acromegaly reported in the US every year. It’s a very rare hormonal disorder that causes excessive growth.”
“And you think you have Acromegaly just because one of your hands is slightly larger than the other one?”
“That’s just the most noticeable symptom. I have plenty of others: headaches, excessive sweating, skin tags . . .”
My mind wandered once again to the Izzy situation. I really wanted to call my father and tell him what had happened, but Izzy had begged me not to. She’d said that her lawyer would “fix things,” and that there was no reason to upset our parents with the news of her arrest. Respecting her wishes was one thing, but I couldn’t shoulder the financial burden of her legal expenses alone, not if I wanted to save my practice. I thought about calling Raymond. He was family and an attorney, which qualified him to offer legal advice, and he’d probably be willing to subsidize the ‘Keep Isidora Out of the Slammer’ fund if I asked. Of course, there was no way that Raymond would do anything without consulting his wife first (my brother-in-law was a great guy, but he was totally whipped), and Ana was incapable of keeping her mouth shut. No doubt she’d break a land-speed record running to the phone to call our mother and tattle on Izzy.
“. . . and I’m pretty sure that my spleen is swollen.” Kyle tentatively touched the area under his ribs on the right side.
“Your spleen’s located on the left side, and it’s higher,” I told him.
“Oh.” He moved his fingers over to that side of his torso and began to cautiously press down on the flesh there.
“As for your hands, it’s perfectly normal for one to be larger than the other. You’re left-handed, aren’t you?”
“So?”
“So, it makes sense that your left hand would be bigger since you use it more. There’s more blood rushing to that hand, and the muscles are getting more exercise, which can make it increase in size. I’m right-handed and see,” I placed my hands together palm-to-palm as Kyle had done earlier, “my right hand is larger than my left.”
He leaned forward and gazed at my hands with rapt fascination, “Oh, wow, there’s a huge difference between your hands. The right one is at least 1/4 of an inch bigger than the left one. You should have that checked out, Doctor Alvarez. You might have Acromegaly, too.”
“Neither one of us has Acromegaly, Kyle.” The tone of my voice betrayed my growing irritation.
“You don’t know—”
“I do. Now, let’s change the subject, shall we?” Not waiting for him to answer, I forged ahead, “I want you to find a hobby.”
“A hobby?” The word appeared to confuse him.
“Yes, ‘an activity or interest pursued outside one’s regular occupation and engaged in primarily for pleasure,’” I quoted the dictionary.
“I guess that researching medical conditions is my hobby.”
“It’s a fixation, not a hobby,” I corrected him. “You need to find something you enjoy doing that has nothing to do with your health, or computers.” I excluded computers because Kyle worked with them all day.
“Okay, but why?”
“You need to take the focus off yourself and your body. Redirect all of the energy that you expend worrying about your health into something that makes you happy. If you do that, I think you’ll see an improvement in your stress levels, as well as your physical well-being, and that is our goal here, right?”
“I suppose.” The prospect of getting better made him look glum.
“Excellent. Why don’t you give it some thought and bring a list of hobbies that sound interesting to you, preferably ones that will get you out of the house and interacting with other people, to our session next week?”
“Our time isn’t up already, is it?” Kyle looked anxiously at his watch.
“I’m afraid so.”
Truth be told, I was relieved. My session with Kyle had been the longest 50 minutes of my life. I had a short supply of patience and I couldn’t concentrate with the Izzy mess hanging over my head. I had no idea how I was going to get through the rest of the day, feeling as out of sorts as I did.
I managed, but it wasn’t easy. I was so exhausted from the stress that I almost nodded off in the middle of my session with Mr. Stearne (a malcontent who hated his shrewish wife, his dead-end job, and his receding hairline and liked to spend our time together every week complaining about all of it.) And I was sorely tempted to smack Lori Bryant, who was in a particularly whiny, woe-is-me mood, when she arrived late for her appointment. So what if she didn’t have a boyfriend? At least, she had a steady income and a roof over her head, and none of her family members were looking at 10 to 15 in the State Pen.
I let Margo go right at 5:00 because I knew that she had special plans with Saul (It was the anniversary of the day they’d first said “I love you” to each other - how sweet was that?), then I settled in at my desk to work on the list of assets and expenses that Ford and I had talked about. I was hoping that if I got organized and figured out exactly where I stood financially, I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed. Unfortunately, the list ended up being horribly unbalanced with three times as many entries on the EXPENSES side and very little of worth in the ASSETS column. It was official: I was in dire straits.
A knock on my office door came just as I was toying with the idea of crawling under my desk and curling up into the fetal position. “Yes?” I called out.
The door opened and in walked Ford, holding the hand of his adorable, Yankees baseball hat-wearing son.
“Nate!” I rose from my chair. “What a nice surprise!”
“Hola, Pee-lar!” the little boy greeted me.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” Ford said. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Whatever you need, the answer is ‘yes.’ I owe you big time for yesterday.”
Ford really had gone above and beyond the call of duty when I’d gotten Izzy’s upsetting call. Not only had he cancelled all of his appointments for the rest of the day and accompanied me to the police station, he’d helped me find a good lawyer, stayed with me through the bail hearing, and even offered to loan me money. He’d been incredibly calm, comforting, and supportive every step of the way. I don’t know how I would have gotten through it without him. He’d been a real lifesaver.
“You don’t owe me anything. I was happy to help,” he assured me.
Smiling, I wondered, “What’s the favor?”
“If you’ve already got plans, I’ll understand. I know it’s a lot to ask at the last minute . . .”
“Poppa needs you to babysit me,” Nate cut to the chase as 5-year-olds had a habit of doing.
“Well, that sounds like fun. For how long?” I looked to Ford.
“An hour or so. I got an emergency call from a patient who’s off her meds and having a meltdown. Her husband’s bringing her in now and my receptionist’s already left for the day, so I don’t have anyone to look after Nate while I’m in session.”
“We were supposed to be going to Marty’s Crab Shack for dinner,” Nate groused. He was obviously not happy about the change in plans.
“Hey,” Ford tilted his son’s chin up so that he could see his eyes, “Boys’ Night Out is still on. I just have to help this patient who’s not feeling well first.”
“In the meantime, maybe you and I could go down to the beach?” I offered up a consolation prize.
“Don’t you mean ‘la playa?’” Nate gave me a cheeky grin.
“You’ve been working on your Spanish.” I was impressed.
“Poppa got me this book on Spanish vocabulary.” He pulled a small picture book out from under his arm to show me. “I’m not sure about some of the pronunciations though.”
“We can work on those together. Let me just grab my purse.” I returned to my desk and pulled my handbag out of its bottom drawer.
“Would it be okay if Nate and I got some i-c-e-c-r-e-a-m while we’re down at the beach?” I questioned Ford.
“Ice cream!” Nate clapped his hands together and jumped up and down excitedly.
“I warned you that he could spell,” Ford muttered as I came to stand beside him.
I winced. “Sorry. I’m used to my less advanced nephews.”
“Ice cream, Poppa. Please?” Nate begged.
“It’ll spoil your dinner.”
“No, it won’t. I have a really big appetite.”
“Okay,” Ford gave in with a sigh, “one small scoop, but no weird flavors. Remember what happened with the Peppermint Bubblegum Surprise.”
“Yeah,” he scrunched up his face with disgust, “it made me super sick.”
“That’s right, and I was the one who got the surprise when you projectile vomited on me.” Ford shuddered at the memory.
“What’s the Spanish word for vomit?” Nate questioned me.
“Don’t answer that,” Ford ordered under his breath. “You two should really get going. My patient will be here any minute.”
“Why don’t you call me on the cell when you’re done and I’ll let you know where we are, then you can come and pick Nate up?” I suggested as Ford walked us out of my office.
“Perfect. Now, Nate,” he took his son by the shoulders when we reached the corridor, “I want you to . . .”
“Don’t worry, Poppa.” He moved away from Ford and slid his little hand into mine. “I’ll take good care of Pee-lar.”
Ford chuckled and brushed Nate’s cheek affectionately with the back of his hand. “I know you will.”
And we were off to the beach. It had rained a few hours earlier, which had cooled things off a bit, so it was an almost-bearable 85 degrees. Nate and I stopped at a tourist-filled ice cream parlor along the way and bought a couple of cones. Having apparently learned his lesson from the Peppermint Bubblegum Surprise, Nate elected to get a scoop of good, old, reliable Strawberry, while I decided to live la vida locaand get Mint Chocolate Chip. As we continued our walk to the beach, we fought a losing battle with the ice cream, which melted faster than we could lick it. By the time we reached the shore, our tongues were frozen to the point of numbness, and our hands were covered with sticky goo (green in my case, pink in his), but we were smiling happily. We took off our shoes and spent the next forty-five minutes wading in the warm Atlantic, talking about the things that 5-year-old boys found fascinating: amusement parks, baseball trading cards, Harry Potter books, and sea creatures of all shapes and sizes.
“What’s whale again?” Nate asked as we sat down on an empty bench on the boardwalk.
“Ballena.”
“Ballena,” he repeated. “And shark is tiburón?”
I nodded.
“Maybe I’ll be a marine biologist when I grow up,” Nate declared. “A bilingual marine biologist.”
“I think you’re smart enough to be anything you want to be.”
“That’s what my momma said. Do you wanna see a picture of her?”
Was he kidding? I was dying to see a picture of Ford’s wife. Of course, I didn’t want to appear over-eager, so I shrugged and affected nonchalance. “Sure.”
He reached into the back pocket of his khaki shorts and extracted a small wallet; it was one of those waterproof billfolds that closed with a strip of Velcro. My nephew, Charlie, had one just like it. Nate opened the wallet and pulled a folded-in-half 3x5 out of the pocket where most people would store their cash. He uncreased the photo and stared at it for a few seconds before handing it to me.
“Poppa took that last year when we went to Coney Island,” he explained.
Sure enough, I could see a ferris wheel in the background of the photo, but the focus of the shot was a hot dog-holding Nate whose mom had her arms wrapped lovingly around him. It looked like they were both on the verge of laughing about something. Ford had probably told them to say something silly like “wiener” before snapping the picture.
What can I say about Samantha Fordham? She was undeniably attractive with her heart-shaped face, fair skin, long, honey-colored hair, and dark, wide-set eyes. It was easy to see why Ford, or any man, would fall in love with her. But it wasn’t her physical beauty that struck me most when I saw her for the first time; it was the fact that she looked soooooo . . . nice. You could tell by her warm smile and the tender expression in her eyes that she was just a really nice, caring person - the kind of person you’d like to have as a sister or a friend.
“She’s very pretty,” I told Nate who beamed at my approval of his mother.
“Do you think I look like her?” he gazed up at me questioningly.
I cupped his face in my hands and studied it intently for a moment. “I think you look like the perfect combination of your parents. You’ve got your mother’s kind eyes and your father’s nose and lopsided grin.”
“Momma said that Poppa’s grin was ‘hard to resist’ when she first met him,” Nate related as he tucked his prized photo back into the pocket of his wallet. “They met in the cafeteria at the hospital where they worked. Momma was an O.R. nurse back then. O.R. means Operating Room.”
“I didn’t realize that your mother was a nurse.” Mrs. Dr. Ford just became more interesting all the time. I was about to ask Nate if his mother was still working in her chosen field when my cell phone rang.
“That must be your father.” I pulled the phone out of my purse and checked the Caller ID. “Why don’t you answer it? Just press that button.” I pointed to the one with the blue line on it.
Nate did as I instructed and brought the phone up to his ear. “Poppa? It’s me, Nate. Pee-lar and I are having so much fun. We had ice cream and we walked on the beach. I found a really neat shell. It’s shaped like a cone, and it has these cool brown markings. I think it might be a Fly-Specked Cerith. Can we check the Compendium of Seashells when we get home?”