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HE’S LOOKING AT ME funny. Like I have chocolate on my face or something. I can’t stand not knowing if I’m making a fool out of myself, so I give up and ask, “Do I have chocolate on my face?,” I ask, wiping away the corners of my lips but I don’t feel any crumbs. He raises an eyebrow to me, giving a quizzical look, but he can’t respond because his mouth is full of cheesecake. “You keep staring at me like I do.”
“No,” he assures me, swallowing the remaining piece. “I was enjoying watching you devour your dessert.”
“Now I need a gallon of milk to wash all that chocolate down,” I admit.
“I don’t have any milk. Sorry. The restaurant did give us two waters. Here,” he says, twisting the lid off mine and handing it to me. He’s being such a gentleman. Is this a trick?
“Sorry if I was unladylike,” I offer. “Chocolate is an indulgence that I rarely give in to. So when I do, it’s thoroughly enjoyed.” I close the container and set down my plastic fork. He quickly grabs my garbage, placing it back into the bag it came out of. He’s a neat freak. That’s an admirable quality in a man, quite rare and surprising.
“Okay. Let’s see what’s in the main course boxes, shall we?” he asks, shuffling the bags around and pulling out two very large Styrofoam boxes. One is marked beef anticuchos, and the other is marked salmon ceviche. He sets them down and digs back in, pulling out several small containers marked green rice and roasted aji amarillo dipping sauce. He finally sits down and asks, “Do you want to split the two meals so that we both get a sample of each?”
“Yes, that’s a great idea,” I agree. This food has my mouth watering, and if I have to wait one more minute to eat it, I’m really going to be unladylike. I’m not above scooping rice into my mouth with my hands. He separates a little of both meals into each container, adds rice to each one, and gives us each a heaping dollop of the yellow sauce. It smells divine and I inhale deeply as the steam rises from the beef.
It’s delicious! As I chew, my feet do a little happy dance; tap, tap, tapping on the carpet. He notices my feet and grins, but now I’m embarrassed and stop.
“Did you try the yellow sauce?” he asks. “Dip the beef in it. It’s amazing.”
I do as he instructs, dipping it in tentatively and swirling it about to absorb some of the sauce. I pop the beef into my mouth, grazing my teeth on the fork and savoring every minute of the creamy sauce seeping into my taste buds. He’s right; it’s amazing. I scoop up a small bite of the green rice onto my fork and taste it next. Delicious. I jab my fork at another bite of the beef, dunking it into the sauce this time and not even bothering to let any of it drip off the beef before chewing it heartily.
I reach for my water and take a long cool sip. Perspiration has started to form on my upper lip. Letting out a slight cough and clearing my throat to talk. “You’re right. That is amazing,” I admit. I take another sip of my water. “It’s a little spicy, that’s for sure. Do you like spicy foods?”
“I’m Portuguese. I love anything hot and spicy,” he says, winking at me with that charming smile. It’s a little crooked, and I can see a slight dimple forming in his cheek. All of a sudden, he sets his food down and moves toward me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out sounding like a foreign language and I bite my tongue. “Outh.”
“Ava, your lips are swelling and you’ve got hives on your face,” he exclaims in panic. “Your color is fading. What are you allergic too?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nuffing,” I try to say, but it comes out gruff and breathy. He shakes his head like he can’t make out what I’m saying. I turn quickly and grab a pen and sticky note, writing ‘no allergies’ on it. He grabs the phone on my desk and dials 9-1-1 just as the coughing and wheezing starts. I try to take a long sip of my water but start to choke. He starts patting me on the back to help my air flow. I can hear him calmly tell the operator where we are. He tells whoever is on the line that he’ll take me to the lobby and wait for the paramedics, and then he hangs up the phone. He darts out my office door yelling, “Does anyone have any Benadryl or an Epi-pen?” No one responds. Everyone must be at lunch.
I race down the hallway in the direction of his voice hollering and slam into him as he rounds the corner. I’m clutching my throat and wheezing loudly; his face flushes with panic. He slaps the down button on the elevator, but it’s running too slow. He grabs my hand and we both race to the stairwell. Our feet are a mangled mess as we stomp down each stair, rounding each bend in a push and pull manner with our hands intertwined. His legs are longer than mine, so he’s ahead of me slightly pulling me along. I’m used to descending stairs in my workout, but I’ll admit, this is so much harder when you have to fight for every breath.
We finally reach the final exit door marked ‘Lobby’ and he pulls it open effortlessly. His adrenaline has kicked in, not even slightly winded from five flights of running. The wailing of the ambulance roars closer and I watch it screech to a halt in the circular driveway just as we near the front doors. Dante pulls me back to let them enter instead of me going out. “Stay here,” he commands. “It’s hot out there. You might as well have air conditioning to help you breathe easier.” He motions to them that I’m the one who needs assistance, and suddenly I’m surrounded by everyone in the lobby. Our hands fall apart and he steps back, letting them work on me as the paramedics lay me down on a stretcher.
They are efficient in their movements. They don’t ask too many questions, understanding that I can’t talk. I look up and see Dante speaking to a member of their team, probably giving them the full story of what I ate. He hands the paramedic the sticky note I gave him. I feel the sting of the Epi-pen as it injects into my thigh and the prick of the I.V.
The next thing I know, I’m wheeled outside through the double doors towards the ambulance. Someone must have retrieved my purse because it’s stuffed into my side and strapped in with me. Tears well up in my eyes. I’m scared beyond belief, and can’t talk. My eyes dart back and forth trying to gain the attention of someone, anyone that will pay attention. My lips feel like the thin layers of my skin are singed and peeling back from my face. People die of anaphylaxis, and no one is telling me I’m going to be okay. Am I going to be okay?
“Ava,” Dante says, placing his hand on my shoulder. “They are going to take you to Mercy Hospital, okay? I’ll be with you the entire time. I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to be okay.” He pats my shoulder in assurance, squeezing it tight. I shake my head in agreement, letting him know I understand. He steps back as they lift me up into the rear of the vehicle, and climbs in after me.
He settles on the bench that’s built into the rear, and reaches out taking my hand in his. His thumb draws circles on my inner wrist, sending goosebumps up my arm. The constant swirling relaxes me for the ride. We race through the city street lights as the siren blares. All I can think of is that I want to crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment. I’m sure my face is a frightened mess.
The paramedic checks my vital signs again, and scribbles down some notes on his clipboard. He asks Dante more specific and personal questions about me that he doesn’t know the answer to. I reach inside my purse and feel around for my wallet, handing it to the man to review my driver’s license. The look on Dante’s face is pure appreciation.
We arrive within a few minutes and they take me inside quickly. The whole intake process is seamless and efficient. Within moments of arriving, I’m branded allergic with a large red label wrapped around my wrist. My face goes hot again with more embarrassment, only this time I feel dizzy. Now I know how cows feel when they get tagged and branded. It’s humiliating to wear a label, and I want to let my tears rain down my face, but I can’t. I have a feeling I’m about to be poked and prodded, and right now, tears won’t help so I keep them welled up inside.
They wheel me back to a private area separate from the other emergency room pens, and I watch another red ‘allergic’ label get taped to the outside curtain. Branded. I don’t like it. It eats at the very core of me. It’s no different than ‘weird’ or ‘ugly’ or ‘fat’. Ugh. Labels are for bullies. Might as well slap a bumper sticker on me that reads ‘she’s different and therefore, unworthy’.
I thought I had left all of my labels behind from my childhood. I fought so hard to shake them by putting all of my effort into being ‘normal’.
Every action and thought is methodical so that I’m not made fun of. I eat right and exercise daily. I dress professionally, and I don’t follow trends that go out of style quickly leaving me to look like a fool. I also work hard at being a team player for my colleagues; working quickly through obstacles that might hinder me.
Those childhood labels seem to have been traded for other ‘adult’ labels. New labels that are more business oriented, but I’m proud of one of them: corporate ladder climber. It’s just a slang term for goal-oriented, and that’s something I definitely am. The other more unsavory labels I ignore because they’re petty: gold-digger, ass kisser, and bitch. I don’t quite know where ‘allergic’ is going to fit in, but it still makes me seem weak, and I don’t like it.
A beautiful woman in a gorgeous gold dress pulls the curtain back, and smiles first at Dante and then me. He stands and shakes her hand before they both step towards me. “Hi, Miss Kimball. I’m Dr. Rojas. How are you feeling?” she asks.
They both wait patiently for me to respond. “I’m fine,” I breathe, harshly.
“Okay, don’t speak any further. You’re vocal chords are still inflamed, and we don’t want to cause any further damage in having you speak,” she advises. “As you are probably aware, you’ve eaten something, an allergen, which your body is trying to attack as a foreign substance, causing this massive inflammation and wheezing, known as anaphylaxis. With proper monitoring and medical care, you will recover quickly and be on your way shortly. You’ve been given an antihistamine to reduce your symptoms, and steroids to keep your airways open to assist with normal breathing. They should not return, but within the next five to seven days, I highly advise you to make an appointment with an allergist for testing to check the extent of your allergies to avoid them in the future. Knowledge is power and will keep you alive. Understand?”
I shake my head, and watch her type a few notes into the computer system before turning to smile and leave. As soon as she is gone, a nurse comes in with some ice and a water pitcher offering me something to drink, finally. I take a long draw of the cool water through the straw, completely parched. Dante watches in amusement, chuckling as I practically drink the entire cup in one drink. He quickly refills it from the pitcher and places it in front of me again.
“Wow. You must be dehydrated. Drink up if you have to,” he chuckles again under his breath. I narrow my eyes at him, getting angry. “Don’t tease me,” I whisper in the harshest voice possible. “I don’t like it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, snapping his heels together and saluting me like I’m a general giving commands.
All I can do is snap and wag my index finger at him, mouthing the word ‘stop’. He notes the angry set of my jaw and my narrowed eyes, as he plucks a white tissue from the box and waves it at me. Truce. Yes, Dante, truce. I’m too tired to fight right now. I close my eyes and shut out the world.