Royal Pains : Sick Rich (9781101559536) (14 page)

Chapter 17

Jill's worries about rain proved to be unfounded. By noon the temperature had risen into the upper eighties and the sky was cloudless, the breeze timid. The best advice would have been to find a shady spot and avoid strenuous physical activity. Not so easy at a health and fitness fair where athletic events were stacked up one after the other. The heat was beginning to exact its price.

Besides the usual bumps and scrapes, Divya and I were now seeing cases of dehydration. Most people were simply sweaty, flushed, and fatigued, a couple slightly dizzy, but no true heat injuries. Most were rehydrated with glasses of water; only one, an elderly man who wobbled in on his wife's arm, required IV fluids.

The athletic events were in full swing. From where I stood at the entrance of the HankMed booth, I could see the various age groups running the obstacle course, performing the long jump, and racing around the track. I suspected that with all this activity and without a cloud in the sky we would see more cases of dehydration before the day was over.

I decided to track Jill down and suggest that she get an easily accessible water dispenser out in the field for the participants. Divya stayed behind to cover the booth. My first stop was directly across from us at the Hamptons Heritage booth. That's where I found Jill.

“We've been seeing several people with dehydration,” I said.

“Here, too.”

“Are the only water stations the two refreshment stands?”

“I think so.”

“We need more. The kids need to drink more water.”

“What'd you have in mind?”

“Let's take a walk down to the obstacle course area.”

We waited for a break in the runners so we could cross the track and reach the infield. By the time we got to the obstacle course's starting line, the interschool contests were under way. Each grade from each school had boy and girl teams that vied for ribbons and trophies. The grand prize, a large trophy that sat on a nearby table and gleamed in the sunlight, would go to the school with the best overall score.

School colors were the dress of the day. Right now a line of green-and-white-clad seventh-grade girls stood near the starting line anxiously awaiting their turn. They giggled and high-fived and encouraged each other, saying things like “We're going to trash the competition” and “Keep your focus” and “Let's go crush them.” And who said girls aren't as competitive as boys?

“The coaches have been bringing water over,” Jill said. She indicated a tray that now held only two water-filled paper cups. The trash can next to it was filled with discarded cups. “But it looks like they might not be keeping up.”

“Maybe a couple of those big barrel water dispensers would help,” I suggested.

“Yes, they would.” She shook her head. “I should have thought of that.”

“I don't think anyone predicted it would be this hot today.”

“Still . . .” She shrugged. “We have a couple of big orange ones in our booth. I'll get someone to grab them and fill them up.” She looked around. “I'll set up another table next to the trophy display and put them there.”

“Perfect,” I said.

“I'll get the vendors to supply the cups,” Jill said. “I'm sure they won't mind.”

There were two refreshment stands, one at each end of the field. We walked to the nearest one. It was busy, with four lines of people waiting to buy sodas, hot dogs, hamburgers, and ice cream. I guess even at a health fair you couldn't keep dogs, burgers, and ice cream out.

Jill waved to a man behind the counter. He walked our way. He wore tan shorts, sandals, and a light blue golf shirt. Jill explained the situation and he readily agreed to donate all the cups she might need.

“I'll run a bunch over there right now,” he said. “And I'll check back periodically to make sure you have plenty on hand.”

“Thanks,” Jill said. “That's a big help.”

We then made our way back across the track and along the row of booths in the direction of the HankMed booth. About halfway down we ran into Evan, talking with George and Betsy Shanahan.

“Hank. Jill,” Betsy said.

“Are you enjoying yourselves?” Jill asked.

“Absolutely. You've done an incredible job.”

“Truly remarkable,” George said. “Everything is so well organized and seems to be running so smoothly it feels like this has been going on for years.”

Jill laughed. “It feels like I've been working on it for years.”

“You should be proud of what you've done.”

Jill looked around. “None of this could've happened without the support of people like you.”

“Next year we'll give even more,” Betsy said. “Events like this are so good for the kids and for the entire community.”

Evan seemed distracted. He kept looking toward a booth two slots down from where we stood. I followed his gaze. The booth contained half a dozen high-tech massage chairs. Each was occupied and there were a few people loitering around, obviously waiting their turn. The three people working the booth were handing out brochures.

George glanced at his watch. “We'd better get going if we're going to see all the booths before we have to leave.”

“We have a barbecue to go to,” Betsy said. “George is never late for barbecue.”

He laughed and patted his belly. “And I've had practically nothing to eat all day in anticipation.”

After they left, Evan headed directly toward the massage chairs. Jill and I followed. The owners of Good Vibrations were two young women. Fit and tanned and wearing white shorts and pink form-fitting Good Vibrations T-shirts, they looked like sisters. They also looked like they could work at Marcy's Bodyworks. Who knows, maybe they had at one time. They greeted Evan with hugs and cheek kisses.

My brother the social butterfly.

Evan introduced Jill and me to Niki and Lisa Norris. They were sisters.

“Thanks for being here,” Jill said.

“Are you kidding?” Niki said. “Thanks for having us.” She propped an arm on Evan's shoulder. “When Evan stopped by last month and asked if we were interested, we jumped right on it.”

Evan beamed.

My brother the salesman.

“We've done more business just today than we do in a week at the store,” Lisa said.

“More like two weeks,” Niki said.

A chair came free and Evan jumped in it. “I love these things.”

Niki laughed. “He's been in the store almost daily the past few weeks.”

“And all this time I thought he was working,” I said.

“Not daily,” Evan said. “Just a few times.”

“I'd bet on daily,” Lisa said.

Evan rocked back, his legs kicking up as the chair settled into a reclining position. He worked the controls. A faint hum sounded.

“Ah, that's it,” Evan said, his voice vibrating with the chair.

“I'll leave him in your hands,” I said to Niki and Lisa. “Send him home when you get tired of him.”

By midafternoon the temperature had reached the low nineties. No clouds and little breeze left the athletic event participants to the mercy of the sun. Divya and I dealt with the consequences. The dehydration problems we had seen earlier ticked up a notch. We saw at least two dozen people with significant dehydration, cramps, and dizziness. Most could be handled with rest, shade, and a quart of water, but a half dozen required IV fluids.

Around three o'clock a very precocious young man showed up. Patrick Knight was a twelve-year-old black male with long arms and legs, oversized feet, large brown eyes that reminded me of one of those Furby dolls, and an off-the-wall sense of humor. He didn't show up on his own. His mother dragged him over. Apparently against his protests.

“What's the problem?” I asked as mother and son entered the booth.

“He's got all overheated,” she said. She was thin, with orange-dyed hair in tight cornrows and tipped braids that hung to her shoulders. She had the same large eyes as her son.

The young man crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his chin out. “Am not.”

She thumped the back of his head with a finger. “You tell the doctor here what's going on.”

“What's your name?” I asked him.

“Patrick. Patrick Knight. This is my mom. Her name is Rochelle.”

“I'm glad to meet you both.” I looked at Patrick. “Why don't you hop up here on the table and let me take a look at you.”

“I don't have much time.”

“Is that right? And where do you have to be?”

He looked at me as if I had asked a ridiculous question. “The long jump. It's going to start in about an hour. I need to stretch out.” His chin extended even more. “And I'm going to win.”

“So you're pretty good?”

“Lord, yes,” Rochelle said. “Just like his daddy. This boy is one heck of an athlete.”

“What sports do you play?”

“All of them,” Patrick said. “Baseball, basketball, track, and football.” He looked toward his mother. “She don't like me playing football, but that's my favorite.”

“Why don't you tell me what you've been feeling?”

“Nothing. I'm fine.”

“Patrick Henry Knight, you tell him right now. You hear me?”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I knew I shouldn't of told you.” Patrick nodded his head toward his mother. “She makes a big deal out of everything.”

“That's what mothers are supposed to do,” I said.

“I reckon. Anyway it's not much. I had some cramps in my legs and got a little bit light-headed.”

“What were you doing when this happened?”

“We'd just finished some races and I was standing around.”

“Let me guess. Not drinking much water?”

“That's right,” Rochelle said. “I told him he wasn't drinking enough.”

“Any headaches or nausea or blurred vision or anything like that?” I asked.

“None of that.”

I smiled. “You wouldn't tell me anyway, would you?”

He looked at me. “Probably not.”

I gave Patrick a quick examination and found everything was normal. His lungs were clear, his heart rhythm steady and regular, his abdomen soft, and no tenderness in his legs.

“You're a little dehydrated.”

“Okay, so I'll drink more water. Then go do the long jump.” He slid off the table. “Thanks.”

“Not so fast,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Four glasses. You have to drink four glasses of water before I let you leave.” I patted the exam table.

He jumped back up on the table. “I can do that standing on my head.”

“A little hard to drink in that position, don't you think?”

“You're funny.” He looked at his mother. “I didn't know doctors could be funny. He's a lot funnier than that guy you take me to.”

Rochelle shook her head. “See what I have to put up with?”

I filled a twelve-ounce plastic cup from the two-gallon water dispenser we had sitting on the corner of the desk and handed it to Patrick. He chugged it, so I refilled it.

“A little slower.”

“Man, come on, I've got to do some jumping.”

“Dr. Lawson?”

I looked up to see Jonathan Wiggins. He owned Wiggins Waters, a boutique water store in Southampton. I had seen his booth earlier. Down at the far end of the field. He had a hand truck stacked with four cases of his branded mineral water.

“Can you use some mineral water?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Divya said.

“I'll leave you a couple of cases. I'm taking the others over to the Hamptons Heritage booth.” He glanced that way and then back at me. “With all this heat we've been doing a bang-up business and I figured you guys could probably use some. On the house, of course.”

“That's very kind,” Divya said. “We don't want to take your entire inventory, though.”

“No problem there. I sent my son over to the warehouse to load up the truck.”

Jonathan removed two of the cardboard boxes and placed them on the exam table. He tore one open while I opened the other.

He lifted a plastic bottle filled with yellow-tinged water. “This one is lemon-lime, and the ones you got there are raspberry. There's lots of magnesium and potassium in them.”

“I'll take a raspberry,” Patrick said.

I handed him one and then asked Rochelle, “And you?”

“I'd love a lemon-lime.”

“Here you go,” Jonathan said as he handed her a bottle. “I need to get these over to the hospital booth. I'll bring some more by as soon as my son gets back.”

“Thanks.”

“Man, this is good,” Patrick said. “When I get back from winning the long jump I'll try lemon-lime.”

“You seem pretty sure you're going to win,” I said.

“He probably will,” Rochelle said. “He can do just about anything he puts his mind to. Athletics, even his schoolwork. The problem is keeping him from breaking his neck.”

“You're saying he's a little rambunctious.”

“That hardly seems strong enough. Been that way his whole life. When he was five—when we lived down in Florida—he tried to jump off the garage roof. Had the corners of a towel tied together thinking that'd be a good parachute. Five years old. Can you imagine?”

Actually I could. Maybe not at five, but around age twelve I talked Evan into climbing on the roof with me. We had parachutes made of bedsheets. Evan went first. Cracked a bone in his foot. I thought about not jumping as I stood there watching him roll around on the ground, foot pulled to his chest. But that wasn't an option. I couldn't chicken out after Evan had jumped. So I prayed nothing bad would happen and off I went. Nothing broke, but it wasn't nearly as much fun as I'd thought it would be. I had envisioned us floating to the ground, not dropping like sacks of potatoes. I suspected Patrick had had the same vision.