their flakes.
Charla dipped her wooden spatula into the scrub and swirled the mixture with vigor. “This smells heavenly.” She smiled with her whitened teeth at her bridesmaids and swiped the first generous blob of scrub onto her cheeks. Then she grinned at herself in the small mirror propped up in front of her. She dolloped more scrub on her face.
The women chatted and giggled for a few minutes, and I encouraged them to gently rub the mixture in a circular motion on their skin while the moisturizer worked. Someone took a picture of Charla, her face all goopy.
“Ladies, I’ll be right back.” I smiled at the quintet whose main focus was themselves. “I’ll get some damp rags so you can wipe the scrub from your faces in a few minutes.” Melinda and Tess nodded.
I moved to the small sink in the corner where customers could try soap for themselves and ran a few washcloths under the water. When I returned, I noticed Charla rubbing her neck.
“Remember, your neck skin is a bit sensitive.” I put a fresh smile on.
Charla coughed, then cleared her throat. She frowned and the room seemed to darken. “Oh.” She slathered gobs of the scrub on her cheeks and forehead. “This doesn’t feel right—”
What happened next moved in slow motion, like the time Ben and I went to the drive-in to watch a movie and the film got stuck and dragged, frame by frame.
I viewed each detail around the table as if posed and captured by the photographer in my head.
Charla, knocking the bowl away from her. Cherry scrub, splattering across the table.
Charla, grabbing her face, scratching at swelling cheeks.
Oblivious laughter from Emily and Tess. Mitchalene scrubbing her own face for all she was worth.
Then everything shot into fast-forward mode. Melinda leaped to her feet.
“Charla!” She fell to her knees and scrambled on the floor for Charla’s purse. “She’s having an allergic reaction!” All laughter stopped.
“What?” I grabbed a damp cloth and soaked it in the pitcher of water, then started wiping scrub from Charla’s face. I could barely see her eyes for the swelling. Jesus, help us!
Melinda dumped the contents of Charla’s purse onto the table. “Where’s her EpiPen? It’s not here. She’s always leaving it at home. Oh, c’mon, Charla, how could you?” The other girls stared with mouths agape.
“Someone call 911—”
I ran for the phone and dialed. “Please, we need an ambulance at 564 Main. A woman’s having a severe allergic reaction—hurry!” I threw the phone down, leaving the dispatcher on the line. He called to me from the phone, but I ran back to Melinda.
She and Emily had dragged Charla to the floor, where her breaths came in ragged gasps.
“Hang on! Hang on! Help’s coming!” Melinda’s wide-eyed gaze darted around the room. “Benadryl? Anyone have Benadryl?” No one did.
I knelt down next to Charla and prayed in whispers, holding her hand that now squeezed mine in a viselike grip. Her body shook in spasms.
“What’s taking so long?” Melinda wailed.
I ran back to the phone and grabbed the receiver. “Where’s the ambulance? She can’t breathe. We don’t have Benadryl or an EpiPen.”
“Ma’am, they’re en route. They’ve just left County Hospital and are about five minutes out. Try to keep her airway clear.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll try.” I flew back to Charla’s side. “She said they’ll be here in about five minutes.”
Charla’s eyelids fluttered, then closed.
“No–o–o–o!” Melinda wailed.
“Tilt her head back.” My basic first-aid training took over. “Try to keep her airway open.” I felt her pulse, racing too quickly for me to count. Lord, no, please!
“Her pen’s got to be here!” Melinda went back to the table, where the other girls stood, clasping hands to mouths. Mitchalene’s face was streaked with tears.
Charla’s fingers were turning blue, her lips now a deep purple and twice their normal size. Not good. A siren wailed in
Charla dipped her wooden spatula into the scrub and swirled the mixture with vigor. “This smells heavenly.” She smiled with her whitened teeth at her bridesmaids and swiped the first generous blob of scrub onto her cheeks. Then she grinned at herself in the small mirror propped up in front of her. She dolloped more scrub on her face.
The women chatted and giggled for a few minutes, and I encouraged them to gently rub the mixture in a circular motion on their skin while the moisturizer worked. Someone took a picture of Charla, her face all goopy.
“Ladies, I’ll be right back.” I smiled at the quintet whose main focus was themselves. “I’ll get some damp rags so you can wipe the scrub from your faces in a few minutes.” Melinda and Tess nodded.
I moved to the small sink in the corner where customers could try soap for themselves and ran a few washcloths under the water. When I returned, I noticed Charla rubbing her neck.
“Remember, your neck skin is a bit sensitive.” I put a fresh smile on.
Charla coughed, then cleared her throat. She frowned and the room seemed to darken. “Oh.” She slathered gobs of the scrub on her cheeks and forehead. “This doesn’t feel right—”
What happened next moved in slow motion, like the time Ben and I went to the drive-in to watch a movie and the film got stuck and dragged, frame by frame.
I viewed each detail around the table as if posed and captured by the photographer in my head.
Charla, knocking the bowl away from her. Cherry scrub, splattering across the table.
Charla, grabbing her face, scratching at swelling cheeks.
Oblivious laughter from Emily and Tess. Mitchalene scrubbing her own face for all she was worth.
Then everything shot into fast-forward mode. Melinda leaped to her feet.
“Charla!” She fell to her knees and scrambled on the floor for Charla’s purse. “She’s having an allergic reaction!” All laughter stopped.
“What?” I grabbed a damp cloth and soaked it in the pitcher of water, then started wiping scrub from Charla’s face. I could barely see her eyes for the swelling. Jesus, help us!
Melinda dumped the contents of Charla’s purse onto the table. “Where’s her EpiPen? It’s not here. She’s always leaving it at home. Oh, c’mon, Charla, how could you?” The other girls stared with mouths agape.
“Someone call 911—”
I ran for the phone and dialed. “Please, we need an ambulance at 564 Main. A woman’s having a severe allergic reaction—hurry!” I threw the phone down, leaving the dispatcher on the line. He called to me from the phone, but I ran back to Melinda.
She and Emily had dragged Charla to the floor, where her breaths came in ragged gasps.
“Hang on! Hang on! Help’s coming!” Melinda’s wide-eyed gaze darted around the room. “Benadryl? Anyone have Benadryl?” No one did.
I knelt down next to Charla and prayed in whispers, holding her hand that now squeezed mine in a viselike grip. Her body shook in spasms.
“What’s taking so long?” Melinda wailed.
I ran back to the phone and grabbed the receiver. “Where’s the ambulance? She can’t breathe. We don’t have Benadryl or an EpiPen.”
“Ma’am, they’re en route. They’ve just left County Hospital and are about five minutes out. Try to keep her airway clear.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll try.” I flew back to Charla’s side. “She said they’ll be here in about five minutes.”
Charla’s eyelids fluttered, then closed.
“No–o–o–o!” Melinda wailed.
“Tilt her head back.” My basic first-aid training took over. “Try to keep her airway open.” I felt her pulse, racing too quickly for me to count. Lord, no, please!
“Her pen’s got to be here!” Melinda went back to the table, where the other girls stood, clasping hands to mouths. Mitchalene’s face was streaked with tears.
Charla’s fingers were turning blue, her lips now a deep purple and twice their normal size. Not good. A siren wailed in
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