Kim nodded. He had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone else on the elevator knew more about the issue than he did.
When the elevator reached the ground floor, Kim got off and left the hospital. As he drove home, he couldn’t help but ponder about food poisoning. He continued to marvel at the shocking idea of there being two to three hundred million cases a year in the United States. If such a statistic were true, it seemed incredible that he’d not come across it in any of his medical reading.
Kim was still mulling all this over as he came through his front door and tossed his keys on the console table in the foyer. He thought he’d get on the Internet and see if he could substantiate the food-poisoning statistic, when he heard the sound of the TV coming from the kitchen. He walked in.
Ginger was at the kitchen counter, struggling with the wall-mounted can opener. She was dressed in a spandex workout suit that left little to the imagination. Both Saturdays and Sundays she did aerobics religiously. Becky was sprawled on the couch in the family room, watching cartoons. She had a blanket drawn up around her neck. She looked slightly pale against the dark green wool.
They’d spent the previous evening at home because of Becky’s condition. Ginger had made a chicken dinner, of which Becky had eaten very little. After Becky had gone to bed early, Ginger had stayed over. Kim hoped they’d gotten along okay while he was at the hospital. He’d expected them still to be in bed by the time he got back from rounds.
“Hello, everybody,” Kim called out. “I’m home.”
Neither Becky nor Ginger responded.
“Damn!” Ginger exclaimed. “This thing is a piece of trash.”
“What’s the trouble?” Kim asked as he stepped over to Ginger. Ginger had abandoned her efforts with the can opener and had her hands on her hips. She looked exasperated.
“I can’t get this can open,” she said petulantly.
“I’ll do it,” Kim said. He picked up the can, but before putting it under the opener, he looked at the label. “What is this?” he questioned.
“It’s chicken broth just like it says,” Ginger replied.
“What are you doing with chicken broth at nine o’clock in the morning?” Kim questioned.
“It’s for Becky,” Ginger said. “My mother always gave me chicken broth when I had the runs.”
“I told her I wasn’t hungry,” Becky called from the couch.
“My mother knew what she was doing,” Ginger said.
Kim put the can of broth back on the counter and walked around the central island and into the family room. When he got to the couch, he put his hand on Becky’s forehead. Becky moved her head to try to keep the TV in view.
“Feeling any better?” Kim asked. She felt warm, but he thought it might have been because his hand was cold.
“About the same,” Becky said. “And I don’t want anything to eat. It makes my cramps worse.
“She’s got to eat,” Ginger said. “She didn’t eat much dinner.”
“If her body is telling her not to eat, she shouldn’t eat,” Kim said.
“But she threw up,” Ginger added.
“Is that right, Becky?” Kim asked. Vomiting was a new symptom.
“Just a little,” Becky admitted.
“Maybe she should be seen by a doctor,” Ginger said.
“And what do you think I am?” Kim responded hotly.
“You know what I mean,” Ginger said. “You’re the best cardiac surgeon in the world, but you don’t have much chance to deal with children’s tummies.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and get me a thermometer,” Kim said to Ginger.
“Where would I find it?” Ginger asked agreeably.
“In the master bath,” Kim said. “The top drawer on the right.”
“How about your cramps?” Kim asked.
“I still get them,” Becky admitted.
“Are they any worse?”
“About the same,” Becky said. ‘They come and go.”
“What about your diarrhea?” Kim asked.
“Do we have to talk about this?” Becky asked. “I mean, it’s like embarrassing.”
“Okay, Pumpkin,” Kim said. “I’m sure you’ll be feeling your old self again in a few hours. But what about eating?”
“I’m not hungry,” Becky said.