Chapter Thirty-four: Hospital Food with a Gypsy Fortune Teller
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.
Scarlet
It’s been an awful month. I can’t wait to kiss January goodbye and be one month closer to summer. The only thing I’m looking forward to on my outlook calendar today is lunch with Maggie. The rest of the week is filled with meeting new potential inventors. Ugh!
I missed my morning run. By noon the stress of the day is an anchor pulling me under. Lunch somewhere other than at my desk will be a treat. My plan is to meet Maggie in the hospital cafeteria. Despite rumors of complaints about hospital food, Maggie claims she’s never had a bad meal at Rhode Island Hospital. Then again, she’s always on some bizarre diet. For me there’s very little that I won’t eat if I’m hungry enough.
“What are you eating?” I ask, reviewing Maggie’s tray, “or should I say, not eating?”
“I’m on the Go Green Diet. I read about it in a magazine. You can eat as much as you like of any food as long as it’s the color green. Yum, green Jell-O. That counts, right?”
“Maggie, are you sure that’s healthy?”
“Scarlet, I’m eating a plate full of vegetables. Of course, it’s healthy.”
“I’d be tempted to buy some green food coloring to start dying all my food.”
“That would be cheating.”
“What do you do for protein, Green Eggs and Ham?”
“Funny!”
“I’m serious. I’d advise that green meat be strictly avoided.”
Maggie’s plate is brimming with broccoli, green beans, spinach and a heaping pile of green gelatin.
“Maybe there’s some green moldy bread in the trash. Think of the added penicillin benefit.”
“I really loathe skinny people. You have no idea how much easier your lives are.”
“I don’t believe in diets. I only eat when I’m hungry. I exercise. It seems to work out.
I look down at my tray and see that it’s minus anything green. I selected a chicken salad sandwich, potato chips, chocolate pudding with whipped cream and a diet coke. Sensing this battle is unwinnable, I change the subject.
“How’s Joe?”
“He’s amazing.”
“Why didn’t you ask him to join us?”
“Oh, he’s swamped with surgeries. He’s the best anesthesiologist on staff so he’s in constant demand.”
“Look at you, all in love.”
“I know! I don’t know when I’ve been this happy in a relationship. I’m afraid I’ll jinx it!”
“You won’t. I can see he really cares about you, Mags. I’m so happy for you.”
The cafeteria is quiet. There are a few tables of medical staff in a variety of colored scrubs and some patient visitors. Sitting at a table alone, I notice a petite older woman wearing brightly colored clothing with a red beret. When the staff pass by, she acts as though she knows them, then hands each of them a flower.
“Who’s the gypsy fortune teller?”
“Oh, that’s Helena. She’s a fixture around here. She doesn’t exactly tell fortunes but she can see the future. People find her advice comforting. She believes that the dead look out for the living. So, the more people you have on the other side, the better off you are here. She told me once that I have several guardian angels, that I’d be surprised by who they are.”
“Huh.”
“According to Helena, our guardians protect us like an invisible force field.”
“How’s that supposed to work exactly?”
“For one thing, they come to us in our dreams, to show us things we need to pay attention to.”
“Then how do you explain nightmares?”
“Bad dreams are warnings of something; good dreams are there to guide us. Don’t you believe in the supernatural?”
“I believe there are some things that are better left unexplained.”
“Haven’t you ever had a premonition or a déjà vu?”
“That stuff is for people who let their imaginations run wild. I wonder how a person can survive selling flowers or telling fortunes for a living. I’m surprised the hospital allows it.”
“Are you kidding? First of all, she doesn’t even charge. Most people feel honored when she selects them. She won’t read for just anyone; something has to draw her to the person. She doesn’t need money anyway. She donated a fortune to the hospital. She’s like a celebrity around here.”
“No kidding. So, she’s a rich old lady who has nothing better to do than hang out in the hospital cafeteria?”
“No. Her husband had terminal cancer. He passed away a year ago. She practically lived here when he was in our care. He made a fortune in the stock market, phone company stock or something. Her children are all grown. She made friends here. I think she needed to feel connected after Charles passed. She has a daughter at Brown University, a son at RIC, then another son who’s a lawyer. They’re a really nice family.”
“How do you know so much about them?”
“I was one of Charles’s nurses. Sweet old guy. It was unbelievably sad.”
“The dead protecting the living. Well, I guess I can use all the help I can get.”
Back at the office, I have ten messages, including three from Darren Duhamel, one from Catherine, plus several hang ups. What does Duhamel want? He knows we’re passing on the ‘Urinator’. I hit the delete button three times. With no indication that Catherine’s message is urgent; I decide to wait until I get home to call her back. Catherine seems to be going through a new crisis every day. I’d rather avoid getting the reputation of someone who takes care of personal business all day at work.
I call Gary. He says that the calls are probably from a prepaid phone that could belong to anyone and is unfortunately, untraceable. He asks me to send him the phone log. Then adds that sometimes prank callers get careless and place a call from a traceable phone. He also wants me to note anyone who may have a vendetta against me. I thank him saying I will, although it all seems pointless.
Eileen Slovak 
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