Ice Cream
William Cass
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It didn’t take long in our small town for word to get around about my wife leaving. I was assistant principal at the lone elementary school, and she moved in with another teacher at the local private high school where they both taught. I’d just brought her roses for our mid-April wedding anniversary. I hadn’t seen a thing coming, wasn’t aware in the slightest of their ongoing affair, and was completely floored, devastated.
Our seven year-old daughter and severely-disabled/medically-fragile son, who was two years younger, stayed with me at our house. Our son was dependent on adult care for all basic living needs. We had a home health nurse who provided that from 7-3 each weekday, but my position often involved afterschool meetings that prevented me from getting home until 4:30 or 5. This necessitated my wife still filling those gaps followed by excruciatingly awkward encounters at the front door as I arrived and she exited. Sometimes, I had to pry our daughter’s arms from around her waist to terminate those exchanges.
Because of our jobs, we were both well-known in town, so the weight of stares and whispers from others during that period quickly became overwhelming. Our longstanding family phisician, Dr. Edwards, was obviously aware of the situation, too, because when I called his office to make an appointment, he left a return message himself saying he’d meet me there on Saturday afternoon at two when I knew it was closed and no one else would be around. He was a nice guy, early-thirties like me, and widely held in high regard. I’d recently helped resolve a problem at school in which his son was being picked on by a classmate, and I’d been touched afterwards by his heartfelt email of appreciation for my efforts.
My daughter sat in the waiting area reading to her brother in his tiny wheelchair from picture books she’d brought while Dr. Edwards and I went just down the hall into an exam room. He closed the door most of the way, I took my customary spot leaning against the edge of the exam table, and he regarded me with understanding eyes and pressed lips.
We looked at each other through a shaft of dusty, spring light from the room’s window until he finally said, “Listen, I’m sorry about what’s going on. What you’re going through.”
I felt my own eyes well, but fought away tears and just shrugged. “That’s kind of what I’m here for, actually,” I told him. “It’s embarrassing, but I’ve gotten used to that these days…and you’ve been our doctor for a long time, so…” I paused, looked down, then back at him. “I’ve developed a little rash around my crotch. Never had it before and don’t know anything about STDs.” I could feel my color rising. “I haven’t been intimate with anyone except my wife since our marriage, but with these new circumstances…” I hoped my next shrug didn’t look as helpless as it felt. “Well, I just thought I better have it checked out.”
“Sure,” he said evenly. He reached over to the counter and pulled a pair of rubber gloves out an open box there. “Let’s take a look.”
I unbuckled my belt and dropped my jeans and boxers. “These two partial rings,” I mumbled. “On either side.”
Dr. Edwards bent close, probed a bit with his gloved fingertips, then promptly straightened. “I’ve seen plenty of STDs, and that’s definitely not one.” His voice held a combination of reassurance and relief. “Just a simple fungus of some sort.”
He snapped off the gloves, tossed them in the trash can under the counter, and pulled a prescription pad and pen out of his lab coat pocket. He scribbled something on it along with his signature. “This ointment should take care of it. Twice a day for a week.”
“Okay,” I told him, rearranging my clothing. “Thanks.”
Dr. Edwards started to rip off the script, but halted the motion, and gazed at me next like he had when we first entered the room. “Look,” he said. “There’s something else you should probably know.” He glanced at the doorway through which my daughter’s voice could just be heard, closed it a bit more, then continued. “Better now than discovering it when your next health insurance statement arrives or you’re logged onto your family’s patient portal.” I watched him lick his lips. “So, your wife came to see me last week, had labs taken, and she has a UTI. Prescribed meds for her, of course.”
I felt myself blinking rapidly. I stared out the window and muttered, “Jesus…”
“It’s not always caused by what you’re thinking,” he said quickly. “Not necessarily.”
“On my health insurance,” I whispered and shook my head. It wasn’t exactly as stunned as I’d felt when she first told me she was leaving, but it was close. I resisted the urge to howl.
“Yeah.” After long moment, his hand fell on my shoulder. “Listen, I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but it must be awful. I can add a prescription here for a mild sedative if you’re having trouble sleeping. Or maybe you want to try an anti-depressive.”
I shook my head again, turned back to him, swallowed once, and said, “Not right now. Appreciate it, though.”
He gave my shoulder a pat, ripped off the script, and handed it to me. “Well, if you change your mind…or need anything…just give a call.”
I nodded, and he held the door open for me but didn’t follow me into the waiting area. My daughter stopped reading and looked up at me as I approached. As it had so many times since her mother had left, her face clouded with concern when she saw mine. I willed some semblance of a smile as I came up to them. A trail of drool ran down one side of my son’s chin onto the gauze pad under his trach ties. I used the bandana we always kept tucked into his shirt collar to wipe it away, then kissed them both on the forehead.
I said, “Nice warm day. How about some ice cream?”
My daughter’s arms closed around my waist like they did during those tortured exchanges with my wife at our front door. Into my stomach, her muffled voice said, “I love you, Daddy.”
I reached down, rubbed her back, and said, “Love you, too.” I heard the exam room door click shut and the sound of Dr. Edwards’s footsteps fade away down the hall towards his office. “So, let’s go,” I said as cheerily as I could. I ruffled my daughter’s hair, then released the brake on my son’s wheelchair with my toe. “There’s ice cream waiting.”
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William Cass has published over 350 short stories and won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. He’s been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, six times for the Pushcart Prize, and had three short story collections released by Wising Up Press.
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Posted in Blooms in Dusk and tagged in #boudin, #fiction, Fiction