The Icing on the Cake (34 page)

“I’m sorry?” I asked, not quite sure what tea had to do with golf.

The teen rephrased his question. “Is your group already on the course?”

“Um, yeah, I think so,” I answered.

“Well, I have been instructed to inform you that in order to be on the course, you must be in accordance with the dress code.”

Man, what was with these kids speaking better English than me?
I have been instructed to inform you? In accordance with?

I was coming up with a proper Englishy response, using what I thought Miles would say as a reference, when, over the top of the kid’s head, I saw Arvin. He was pretty far in the distance, surrounded by a group of six girls who I didn’t know very well and one guy named Peter who was nineteen and had just received his mission call to Argentina.

“Arvin!” I yelled.

He didn’t hear me. So, without a second thought, I took off running. I had only run a few yards when a golf cart pulled up and formed a sort of blockade in front of me. A big, burly man in a security uniform got out of the cart and approached me.

Behind me, I could see the blond teenager with the nice eyebrows yelling, “Code Green! Code Green!” into an expensive-looking walkie-talkie.

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the course,” the burly security man said, approaching me. The teen peered over at me, obviously content with letting the burly man handle the situation.

“But I really have to talk to that guy over there.” I pointed to the green where Arvin was watching while a tall, dark-haired girl practiced her swing.

“Is it an emergency?” the burly man asked.

“Um, well . . .”

“If it’s not an emergency you’re going to have to leave.”

Now, you’re going to be proud of me for this one. I did not lie. I wanted to make up some great emergency, to tell the man that I needed to inform Arvin that his prized surfboard had been stolen by a serial surfboard-stealer, but I didn’t.

You’re not going to be quite as proud for this one, though. While I didn’t make up an emergency, I did take off running full speed away from the golf course worker, toward Arvin and the singles group.

After running a few yards, I cut to the left to get around the golf cart, and as I did I lost my footing. I went flying face down onto the grass and landed with a big thud.

“Are you okay?” the burly man asked heartlessly. Underneath the question I could sense a whole lot of that’s-what-you-get.

“I’m fine,” I replied, standing up. I soon noticed that grass stains covered my Barbie pajama pants. I frowned. It had taken me forever to find a pair in my size. “Look,” I said to the man. “Can’t you see that I’m willing to go through quite a lot to talk to this person? I just ruined a really good pair of pajama pants. Could you please just bend the rules this once?”

“There’s no such thing as bending the rules once.” The man sounded suddenly philosophical.

“There is if no one knows about it.”

“But I’ll know,” the man said, keeping up the philosophical bit.

“What’s your name again?” I asked.

“Chuck.”

“Please, Chuck,” I pleaded, using his name for effect. I then attempted to bat my eyelashes. But for some reason, I found it incredibly hard to bat. It was as if my eyelids were suddenly made of lead.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Chuck asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Your face is . . . weird.”

Look, buddy, I know I’m not perfectly groomed like most of the golf club crowd, and I know you might be a little mad at me for trying to run away just now, but there is such a thing as verbal decency.
I pouted and looked away.

“I mean it. Look.” Chuck plucked a shiny golf club from the back of the golf cart/blockade and handed it to me putter—or wood, or chipper, or whatever it was—side up. “Look,” he repeated.

He wanted me to use the club as a mirror so I could look at my weird face? That was just cruel. I pretended to look into the club. I could go home and look at my weird face in the mirror, thank you very much.

“Your arms are weird too,” Chuck said.

My arms? What’s wrong with my arms?
The man was brutal.

“Fine, I’ll leave!” I hollered.

I did an about-face on my heels and took a quick glance at my arms. “My arms are weird!” I gasped, turning back around.

“I told you,” Chuck said.

I inspected my arms. They were covered in this puffy red rash that seemed to be growing right before my eyes. “What’s wrong with my arms?!”

“Maybe we should go to the first aid office,” Chuck suggested. “Dr. Schneider is still there since we have a night tournament going on.”

“Okay,” I whimpered, not taking my eyes off my arms.

Chuck helped me into the golf cart and whisked me to the clubhouse. Once inside, he left me sitting on a plush couch outside a door that was labeled
First Aid
in fancy scrolling lettering.

I was pretending to read
Golf for Women
magazine, but mostly staring at my arms, when an attractive, blond-haired man sat down next to me to the couch.

“I’m Dr. Schneider,” he introduced himself. “So what do we have here?” He didn’t ask me to go into the room, and I was glad since I’m not too big on exam rooms.

I held out my arms.

Dr. Schneider looked my arms over. “How long ago did this rash appear?

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“And what about your face?” Dr. Schneider asked.

Look, people, maybe I don’t have the money to go to the spa for a facial every week like the other ladies around these parts, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with my face. “
I think my face is just fine, thank you,” I said defiantly.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Dr. Schneider said. He disappeared into the first aid room and for a second I thought he was going to come out with a coupon for the on-site aesthetician. Instead, he appeared with a mirror. Likely to show me how in need I was of the aesthetician.

I tried to fake a glance into the mirror, just as I had faked a glance into the golf club, but It caught my eye: this horrible, red, puffy rash that looked like poison oak on steroids. I think I may have screamed, but my memory of the moment is blocked due to the sheer trauma.

“Do you have any allergies?” Dr. Schneider asked.

“Not that I know of,” I choked out.

“Did you touch or eat anything unusual today?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Does the rash itch or burn?”

“No.”

Dr. Schneider brought his hand to his chin in a thoughtful gesture. “My guess is that you’re having some sort of allergic reaction. Unfortunately, I don’t have any prescription strength antihistamines. I ran out last week.”

“So what should I do?” I asked, distraught.

“I think you should go to the nearest urgent care center or emergency room. But you had better hurry because I think your eyes are swelling shut.”

I looked in the mirror again. The sight was even more mortifying than the one I had seen just moments earlier. Sure enough, the puffiness around my eyes was increasing. I was beginning to look like something that would scare young children.

Quickly, I stood up from the chair. Time was of the essence. In the back of my mind, I thought of my purpose for being at the golf course in the first place. I needed to get that key from Arvin.

But one more glance in the mirror made me forget about that.

I knew I couldn’t drive when I tried for five minutes to get into the wrong car. I flipped open my phone and pushed the number one to speed-dial my parents’ home number.

“Hello?” Dad’s voice answered.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Bellie.”

“Are you busy?” I asked hesitantly.

“No. Your mom and I were just eating some peach cobbler.”

“Tell her I made it with my own canned peaches,” Mom called out in the background.

“Did you hear that?” Dad asked.

“Yep,” I replied, smiling. Well, as much as my face would allow me to smile. “Listen, I need help,” I said, my tone suddenly serious.

“Is everything okay?” Dad asked worriedly.

“I’m fine. I just have a bit of a rash. I need to go see a doctor, but my eyes are swelling shut and I can’t really see, so I can’t drive. Some people from singles ward are here, but I don’t know how I’d find them, and plus I look pretty scary so . . .”

“So you need a ride?”

“Yeah, if you could.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the Pine Hills golf club, in the front parking lot.” I tried to look around through the blurry slits that were my eyes.
At least I think I’m in the front parking lot.

“See you in fifteen minutes.” Dad hung up the phone.

Less than fifteen minutes later both Dad and Mom showed up in the parking lot. Mom jumped out of the car before Dad had even fully parked.

“Oh, honey!” she exclaimed, rushing to me.

“That looks pretty bad,” Dad said, following behind Mom.

Mom gave him a little don’t-say-that hit with her hand. “Why don’t you get in the car,” Mom instructed. She held onto my arm, guiding me into the backseat of the tan station wagon.

After a little bit of debating, we decided that since the hospital was close by, we should go to the emergency room rather than to an urgent care center. With ambulance-like determination, Dad drove to the ER.

“Okay, thanks for the ride,” I muttered once Dad had pulled up to the curb. “I’ll just call when I’m done, I guess.” My words said I’m-an-independent-woman, but my tone was pure I-need-my-mommy-or-daddy-to-stay-with-me.

“Don’t be silly,” Mom pronounced. “I’m staying with you.” She jumped out of the car, opened my door for me, and offered me her arm.

“Do you want me to stay too?” Dad asked.

“We’ll be fine,” Mom told Dad, her words rushed. “Besides, I think I might have left the oven on.”

“Then I’ll pick you ladies up later. I’m sure everything is going to be fine.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said.

Mom said a quick good-bye to Dad and then hurriedly guided me through the ER’s automatic doors.

Once inside the waiting room, Mom filled out the registration forms for me, and we found a pair of unoccupied seats in a corner. Through my blurred vision, I could see that there were about ten other people in the waiting room besides Mom and me.

I reached for a magazine on a nearby table and held the magazine close to my face so I could read the cover. It was a three-month-old issue of
Central Coast Living
. Like a flash, my switched-article predicament returned to my mind. I slapped the magazine back onto the table, flipped open my phone, and dialed George’s cell phone number. Voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Reluctantly, I dialed his home number. Answering machine. I hung up before the beep.

This horrible anxious feeling took over my chest. It was the feeling I woke up with the morning I slept through the SAT. I tried to breathe and told myself that George had to get home sometime, and that when he did I would get a hold of him and this whole thing would be on its way to being over.

Then, to get my mind off of things, I busied myself by attempting to read a pamphlet on preventing athlete’s foot, and prepared for the long wait.

The very long wait.

The ridiculously long wait.

Finally, Mom—who I think had read four entire issues of
Good Housekeeping
from cover to cover, including the ads in the back for things like tanning beds and padded underpants—approached the curly-haired receptionist at the front desk. “Do you have an idea how much longer it will be?”

“What’s the name?” the receptionist said in a tired voice.

“Annabelle Pleasanton.”

“It looks like there are a few people still ahead of you. We only have one doctor on staff right now, so it might be a while.”

“Thanks,” Mom said. She walked back to my side, looking tired. “There are still a few people—”

“I heard,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m ruining your night.” I looked at the cracked clock on the wall. I moved my head into various positions, trying to read the clock with my blurry sight. “Does that really say it’s after midnight?” I asked.

“Yes,” Mom replied wearily. “I need to move around. I think I’ll go to the vending area. Do you want anything?”

“Chocolate,” I answered quickly.

Mom smiled, and headed to the vending area a few yards away, rolling her shoulders slightly as she walked. She returned with a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and a bag of pretzels. I ripped into the candy while Mom daintily ate a few pretzels.

“What were you doing at the golf course anyway?” Mom asked.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Can we talk about that later?”

“Annabelle Pleasanton?” The deep voice of a male nurse seemed to boom through the waiting room.

I stood up, and Mom took my arm, leading me down a hall and into a room where she helped me step onto a scale. She stood behind me as the male nurse proceeded to call my weight out loud enough for the entire hospital to hear.