“Now that I’m up to speed,” Des said to Cavanaugh, “exactly what is it that you want me to do?”
“Go about your normal business,” he replied. “Just don’t do it anywhere near Sour Cherry Lane. Stay away from there.”
“Not a problem. But what if the unforeseen happens?”
“Such as?”
“Such as I get another routine call to go out there.”
Cavanaugh opened his mouth but nothing came out.
Which left it up to Rundle to tell her, “Pray that you don’t.”
“You’re not pregnant, if that’s what you were wondering.”
“This much I already know. I took a home test.”
“Have you taken any allergy or cold medication? Used a nasal spray?”
“No, why?”
They were all done with the physical part of her examination. Des had been poked inside and out. Blood and urine samples taken. Now she had her uniform and dignity back on as she and Dr. Lisa Densmore sat there in the tiny examining room on Park Street in New Haven. Lisa was a generously sized slab of a sister out of Newark, by way of Yale Medical School. Also a friend dating back to when Des and Brandon were living in Woodbridge. Lisa’s husband Ron, a research chemist, used to play basketball with Brandon Saturday mornings.
“How about diet pills?” she asked as she pored over Des’s medical file.
“Why on earth would I take diet pills?”
Lisa smiled at her. She had a space between her two front teeth that gave her the look of a mischievous little girl, which she was not. She was a serious, tough-minded doctor. “Desiree, you are one of the most superbly conditioned patients I’ve ever treated. When a fine, healthy specimen such as yourself tells me she’s been blacking out I start with the basics, okay?”
“Such as…?”
“Your blood pressure, which today registers one-forty-three over eighty-eight. Would you like to know what it was when you were here for your regular physical back in February?” She glanced down at Des’s file. “One-twenty- five over seventy-two. It’s been one-twenty-five over seventy-two for as long as I’ve been treating you, give or take a few points. Not only is your pressure significantly higher, it’s high. You and I will need to have a serious conversation if we establish this as your new baseline. Which it may not be. Could just be a one-time deal. Except there’s more. Such as your resting pulse rate. This afternoon it’s ninety-seven beats per minute. In February, it was seventy-four. Somehow, my dear, you have also managed to lose nine pounds.”
“I haven’t been very hungry lately.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a bit wound up. When I get tense, I lose my appetite.”
“We should all be so lucky,” Lisa sighed, patting her soft tummy. “How much coffee do you drink?”
“One cup in the morning.”
“Alcohol?”
“A glass of wine now and then.”
“How about drugs? Please be honest or I can’t help you.”
“I don’t do drugs, Lisa.”
Lisa set the file aside and crossed her arms before her chest. “Talk to me about these blackouts. How many have you had?”
“A few over the past couple of weeks.”
“Are you on duty when they occur?”
“No, I’m usually at home. Or out socializing.”
“Do they happen after you’ve just stood up?”
“No, I’m already standing up. I’ll just suddenly feel very lightheaded and dizzy. And my heart will speed up. Next thing I know, I’m either out cold on the floor or sitting there with my head between my knees, praying.”
“I know this is embarrassing, but when you black out do you lose control over your bladder or bowels?”
“No.”
“Have you been experiencing any blurring or loss of vision lately? Hearing loss? Impairment of memory or motor skills? Do you notice yourself slurring your words?”
“Nothing like that. Lisa, what’s happening to me?”
“Darned good question. You have no buildup of fluid in your ears or sinuses. Your cardiogram is normal. I could order up a whole bunch of really elaborate brain scans, but I’m not sure that’s called for at this point. Obviously, I’ll want to look at your blood work. But most likely what we’re dealing with here is something lifestyle related.”
“Lifestyle related,” Des repeated doubtfully.
“You say you don’t eat when you’re stressed out. Start eating-three square meals a day, doctor’s orders. And let’s talk about your stress load. Lord knows there’s plenty of it in your job. How is that going?”
“I enjoy what I’m doing. Sure, it can be frustrating sometimes. But I’m happy being a resident trooper. I feel like I’m helping people. Although I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m thinking about transferring to a different community. Some place where they don’t know every single damned thing about my private life.”
Lisa raised her chin at her slightly. “Does this have to do with you and that nice Jewish boy you were seeing?”
Des lowered her eyes, nodding.
“Then you’ve answered my next question.”
“Which is…?”
“Have there been any major changes in your life? The answer is Hell, yes. You’ve ended a serious relationship and taken up again with your ex-husband.”
“Are you suggesting that Brandon is hazardous to my health?”
“Not at all. But there’s no way you aren’t feeling conflicted, possibly even a bit freaked out about your decision. I know I’d be.”
“And that’s why I’ve been blacking out?”
“You want my best guess? Yes, it is. And if you were someone else I’d write you a prescription for a mild antianxiety medication.”
“No way, Lisa. I’m a first responder. I carry a loaded semiautomatic weapon that I’m expected to be-”
“Down, girl! I know this. So I am not even going to bother. But I am not happy about your blood pressure. If you’re anywhere near a clinic in the next few days I want you to stop in and have it checked again. Keep track of your numbers. If your systolic continues to average around one-forty with a diastolic of over ninety then we will have to consider putting you on medication. Let’s talk again when you call me to discuss your blood samples, okay?”
Des nodded unhappily. She was not used to warnings. Or anything short of perfect health.
“This other man you were seeing…”
“His name was Mitch. Still is.”
“Are you still in contact with him?”
“No, not at all.”
“Would you like to be?”
“It’s over with Mitch, Lisa. Brandon and I are getting along great. I’m very happy.”
Lisa flashed Des her gap-toothed smile. “Then go home and be happy.”
So Des followed doctor’s orders. Stopped off at The Works on her way home and picked up the fixings for a major romantic supper. A thick porterhouse steak for two from Paul the butcher. A wedge of Cato Corner Farms Hooligan from Christine the cheese lady. Baby greens and fingerling potatoes from Ben the produce man. And a sinful strawberry cheesecake from the bakery, where Jen Beckwith was working the counter. Little Molly was parked on a stool at the adjacent coffee bar, basketball on the floor at her feet, her nose buried in a library book.
“How goes it?” Des asked as Jen boxed up her cheesecake, face set tight with determination.
“Molly’s all excited that her dad’s coming home today. Well, not home, but you know what I mean. Nana’s hired Fred to drive her to the hospital to get him.” Dorset was too small a place have a commercial taxi or car
