Romantic Comedy(83)
Jerry swallowed then said, “That’s enough.” Once again, he closed his eyes.
“How much did he have?” I asked.
Noah held up the container, which was still mostly full. “Three or four bites.” He stood, motioning with his thumb to the doorway. “Wanna go talk?”
I led him across the hall to my room; neither of us remarked on the white wicker furniture. I instinctively sat sideways in my desk chair, and Noah sat on the bed and lowered his mask to his chin. He said, “I meant to pack the pulse oximeter Margit got when I was sick and I forgot it. I’ll go out and see if I can find one.”
“He seems horrible, right?”
“He doesn’t seem great, but it’s hard to separate what’s because he’s old, what’s lying in bed for a few days not really eating or drinking, and what’s Covid. And we don’t even know that he has Covid.”
“This isn’t what he’s like under normal circumstances. He’s not one of those elderly people who runs marathons, but he walks around and makes sense.”
“I’m going to go look for a pulse oximeter and straws. Should I call an Uber or take his car?”
“Are you comfortable driving a 2002 Buick?”
Noah smiled slightly, and I said, “That’s a serious question.”
“Where are the keys?”
“And also, no offense, but if you’re going to Target or whatever, do you know how to shop at Target? Have you ever done it before?”
“Yes,” Noah said. “I know how to shop at Target.”
We both went downstairs, and I found the keys where Jerry always left them, on a hook just inside the door that led to the garage; the key chain was a leather oval with a gold metal duck in profile, something Jerry had used for as long as I could remember.
Noah wrapped his arms around me. I hugged him back, and neither of us said anything.
* * *
—
Leah texted Noah to say that the concierge doctor was running late, and he showed up not at three o’clock but at almost seven. Dr. Fischer arrived alone, as I hadn’t expected, and wearing so much protective gear that he was barely recognizable as human, which I suspected further disoriented Jerry. I certainly couldn’t fault Dr. Fischer for it, but in addition to a white mask over his nose and mouth, he wore a hood with a clear shield in the front and, on his body, pale blue plastic coveralls. On his hands were latex gloves, and, over his shoes, white booties. He administered a Covid test via Jerry’s nostrils, the first Covid test I ever saw, and said his office would notify us of the results the following day but that we should operate on the assumption that Jerry did have it. We were to watch for Jerry’s skin or lips turning blue, an inability to catch his breath, or complaints of chest pain; if any of these symptoms occurred, we should call an ambulance or take him to the hospital immediately. In the meantime, we should encourage fluids and use the pulse oximeter on him twice a day.
I had thought that the presence of a doctor in the house would feel reassuring, and it hadn’t. And that was even before I said, “How worried should I be?” and, a little impatiently, though maybe he was just tired, Dr. Fischer said, “He’s in his eighties. It would be highly irresponsible for me to make any promises.”
* * *
—
The next few days were a blur, a sort of inverse of the fun blur after my arrival at Noah’s house. The way the pulse oximeter worked was that I affixed it to Jerry’s pointer finger and confirmed that the number showing the oxygen level in his blood was above 90; if it wasn’t, he was supposed to go to the hospital.
At Target, in addition to buying the pulse oximeter, a jumbo pack of tissue boxes, and several jugs of Gatorade, Noah had bought a so-called bedside commode （it was gray with armrests that made it grimly throne-like）; a so-called bedside urinal （a sideways-slanting plastic thermos with a glow-in-the-dark cap）; and a medical shower chair （a lot like a regular plastic-and-aluminum chair except with a wider seat and suction cups on the bottoms of the legs）。 At some point on that endlessly long first day back in Kansas City, after Jerry ate a quarter of a scrambled egg I’d made, Noah and I together got him into the shower, and, while Noah wore a mask, running shorts, and nothing else and Jerry wore nothing at all, Noah bathed him and I changed his bedding. As I did, I played the Indigo Girls on my phone at a low volume, so that I could distract myself and have company at the same time that I could hear Noah and Jerry in the shower and help if they needed me.
When Jerry was resettled in fresh sheets, I went outside, crossed the front yard, and rang the Larsen family’s doorbell. Then, so as not to be standing overly close when the door opened, I turned and descended the three steps back to the walkway. Both Charlotte and her husband, Keith, came outside, and I thanked them profusely for letting Sugar stay with them for the day. They said it had been the highlight of the pandemic for their daughters. Keith went to get Sugar while Charlotte asked how Jerry was doing, and when Sugar bounded out to me, seeing her mournful eyes and wagging tail—it was two-thirds black and one-third white, at the end—almost made me weep. Instead, I lifted Sugar into my arms and thanked them again.
“Let us know if you need anything,” Keith said, and I turned back toward Jerry’s house.
“Sally, sorry if this is a weird question,” Charlotte said then, and I paused, and Keith said, “Not now, Char,” and Charlotte said, “But are you dating Noah Brewster?”