Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) Read Free

prophylaxis antibiotics.
    Angelica smiled at me briefly then buried her face in Nico’s neck.
    “It is nice to meet you, Angelica.” I kept my voice soft . “I’m actually here to talk to you and your-your-your dad about a research study which might help you feel better.”
    Curses!
    I didn’t know why I stuttered over “your dad,” but I did know I needed to pull my shit together before shit got everywhere and shit got crazy.
    “Oh, Lizzybella, Angelica isn’t Nico’s. Nico is her uncle.” Rose leaned forward, and her whisper assumed a wavering, watery quality. “Angelica was my Tina’s.”
    I nodded in dejected and horrified understanding. On the tragedy scale this news was an eleven . . . ty thousand; that’s right: eleventy thousand . Not only did sweet Angelica have a chronic life-threatening disease, her mother—Tina—was dead. Tina was Rose’s third daughter. My father told me of Tina and her husband’s death last year via freak car accident.
    It was horrible and senseless , and I now felt the sudden need to drink scotch, brood, and read Edgar Allen Poe or the ending to Hamlet . Maybe I would top it all off with some YouTube videos of drowning kittens while listening to Radiohead.
    “I see.” Was all I could say.
    Again, without meaning to, my gaze sought Nico’s. I found him studying me. I tried not to fiddle with my stethoscope, hoped my eyes conveyed my condolences. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel foolish and inadequate. I wasn’t used to feeling foolish and inadequate, not any more, not since high school.
    H e made me feel foolish and inadequate.
    At last Nico spoke. The sound of his voice—deeper than I remembered, raspy—made my spine stiffen in automatic response.
    “We’ re in Chicago to see a visiting disease specialist, but then came to the ER because Angelica had a fever this morning. She’s on the inhaled antibiotics since two weeks ago. I’m worried that—” he paused, his soulful eyes shifted from me to his mother then back. “We’re worried that they aren’t as effective and they did a chest X-ray downstairs, but we haven’t heard anything about the results.”
    I motioned to the aptly appropriate depressing beige furniture and endeavored to slip into Elizabeth Finney, MD” mode; “Here—let’s sit down and I’ll take a look at Angelica’s chart.”
    Rose sat next to Nico on the couch and Angelica moved from his lap to hers. I deposited the consent forms on the table then crossed to the mounted computer station on the wall; Angelica’s electronic medical record had two procedural tabs for April 1. The first was a full blood panel and the second was a chest X-ray. The actual image wasn’t yet available, but the radiologist’s report indicated that her lungs were negative for infection.
    “Well, the good news is that the radiology report came back and it looks like Angelica’s lungs are—currently—free of infection. Her labs aren’t in the system yet, but the attending will be able to review them with you before discharge.” Unable to find a reason to loiter any longer with the electronic medical record, I crossed to them and chose the beige chair across from Rose. “The reason I’m here is to talk to you about a research study, which it looks like Angelica may be eligible for.”
    Nico nodded. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, his hands tented before him; “Yeah, the nurses downstairs said that you guys were doing a study and it might help, with the symptoms? Reduce the infections?”
    The hope in his voice was heartbreaking. I tried to distance myself from my history with him, with Rose, with this family, and review the study and consent with measured impartiality, like I would approach any other family.
    But, because I was unable to completely detach myself from the strength of memories and guilt—and, therefore, historical emotions—involving Nico, I kept my gaze fastened to Rose as I explained the study visits, risks and