I groaned. They noticed. The gum-chewer came right out and asked, “What’s the matter?”
I laughed. “Nothing. It’s just my grandma—she’s driving me crazy with texts.”
The itchy girl, who I couldn’t help but notice was quite pretty, thought this was the cutest thing she’d ever heard. I know this because she said, “That’s the cutest thing I ever heard! A grandma who texts!”
“I taught her,” I responded, knowing damn well that that would now be the cutest thing she’d ever heard. I was right.
“Oh my god, you taught her, that is the cutest thing I ever heard!” She smiled through her itchiness. She was a trouper. I looked at the chart.
“So, Samantha Schwartz”—Jewish, I noted to myself, silently cursing my grandmother for brainwashing me—“it says here no allergies. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. Well, never before today,” she added sadly. I could tell that she loved that dress.
“Let’s get you on an IV of Benadryl, then see what this dress is made of.”
The friend held it up. It was the dress of the season. Which I knew only because my bubbe had texted me a picture of it on the cover of Women’s Wear Daily a few months back with the caption, “Grandpa’s going out on top.” I’m usually not this chatty with my patients, especially given the fact that the pretty one obviously had a serious boyfriend, but my grandpa is my idol, and with his retirement imminent I was feeling extra-proud of him and his accomplishments. I took out my phone and found the picture while the nurse set up her IV.
“Look, your dress was on the cover of Women’s Wear Daily!” The itchy Jewish girl—Samantha Schwartz—took my phone. She smiled and handed it to the gum-chewer, who looked duly impressed.
“It’s her dream to be in WWD,” she said.
The Benadryl was delivered and I attached it myself. “This may make you sleepy, but the rash should start clearing up quickly. Now let me take a closer look at this dress.” As I grabbed the dress, a familiar smell hit me. A deeper sniff of the fabric instantly transported me back to my first year of medical school, when we first began working with cadavers. Formaldehyde—not a smell one easily forgets.
“Where did your boyfriend buy this dress?” I asked.
“Bloomingdale’s…I mean, it came in a Bloomingdale’s bag,” she responded tentatively.
I sniffed it again, in a few different spots. “I hate to tell you this, but this dress is covered in formaldehyde.”
Samantha Schwartz immediately threw up at my feet and then began to sob loudly. There was absolutely no consoling her. Her gum-chewing friend explained what Samantha’s boyfriend did for a living and therefore what must have happened. I have to admit, I almost cried for her. What kind of idiot would take a dress off a corpse and give it to his girlfriend? I’ve seen a lot of crazy in this ER, but this may have been the worst.
My phone buzzed once again, and this time I welcomed the distraction. Even if it was my bubbe again.
Luke, If you don’t have a date I know a nice girl, Mrs. Mandelbaum’s niece, who you can bring to the party. I’m worried for you to come alone.
“Is that your bubbe again?” Samantha asked between sobs. She could clearly use some distraction as well, so I told her everything. I smiled. “She’s trying to convince me to bring a date to my grandfather’s retirement party. She says she’s worried about me coming alone.”
The gum-chewer spoke up. “She should be worried. So should you. A nice Jewish doctor going alone to a party that’s probably packed with nosy grandparents of single girls. You’ll be live bait.”
Samantha blew her nose and agreed. “She’s right. Just bring someone—anyone.”
I looked down at her leg. “Look, the rash is clearing up already.”
She smiled. “Thanks…I feel much better.”
“You can get dressed and go…”
We all realized my blunder at the same time: she had nothing to wear but the death dress. I bit my lip. The gum-chewer rolled her eyes, and Samantha started to sob again.
“Believe me, this isn’t the first time an ER patient has had to go home in doctor’s scrubs. I’ll get you a pair.”
As I left I heard her tell her friend, “As close as I’ll ever get to a Max Hammer. And on my birthday. I want to die!”
Should I? I debated with myself. It wasn’t like me, but it was the obvious move here. I took out my phone to text my grandmother back.
If I bring a date, Bubbe. Do you think Grandpa can get me a dress?
CHAPTER 36
Curtain Call Two
By Sally Ann Fennely,
Runway Model/New Yorker/Broadway Star