Page 100 of Baby Daddy
CHAPTER 41
Drake
Ispent the rest of the weekend in bed. Actually, make that the entire week. Right after the Dee fiasco, I did a foolish thing. While my parents left the restaurant in a huff (well, at least my father did), I stayed behind at the bar and downed a couple of Scotches. Truthfully, I lost count after two. Several women tried to hit on me and I told them I was gay. Then, too afraid to get into my car because I was positive I was going to drive straight to Dee’s house and get into a major accident on the way, I took a long walk in the pouring rain along Hollywood Boulevard to sober up. By the time I got home, I was so drenched you could ring me out and I was coughing. By Monday, I was sick as a dog with some kind of God-awful flu. The kind you cough up brown shit and your throat, head, and chest hurt so fucking bad you can barely talk, think, or breathe.
What was worse, on Monday morning, in my debilitated, feverish state, I overslept and missed my weekly breakfast meeting. At ten thirty a phone call woke me up. It was my father’s forever secretary, Barbara. Obviously, he wasn’t talking to me. And I couldn’t blame him.
“Drake, your father wants to know why you weren’t at the Polo Lounge?”
“Tell him I’m sick,” I croaked.
“You don’t sound well at all.”
I didn’t tell her that I felt like I was dying. It was more than just my throat and my lungs or the raging fever. It was that pounding muscle inside my chest that was killing me. I was growing more certain by the second that I had the plague.
“I’ll let him know. By the way, your temp quit.”
Dee quit?At her words, I coughed up more shit, and as I did, I put my hand to my aching heart as if I was having a heart attack. Which maybe I was. The coughing spell continued.
“Drake, are you okay?” asked Barbara.
“Yeah,” I rasped. Fuck no.
Tuesday began even worse. I woke up hacking and in a cold sweat from an awful dream. I dreamt I was stranded on the Santa Monica Pier in a horrible storm, and from my vantage point, I could see a ship being carried out to sea. On the deck were dozens of little boys who looked just like six-year-old me and among them was one little girl who looked just like Tyson. They were all reaching out to me and crying, “Daddy, save us!” A bolt of lightening flashed in the sky as thunder roared. But as I stood there helplessly and hopelessly, the boat sailed further and further away from me into the turbulent sea until, to my horror, it got caught in a mile-high wave and capsized. And that’s when my eyes snapped open and I bolted to a sitting position.
Brushing sweat off my damp forehead, I tried to make sense of the dream. All day long between fitful naps and hazy consciousness, it haunted me. I was in some kind of netherworld between delirium and denial. I couldn’t get the image of all those little boys out of my mind and especially Tyson. Her soulful eyes connecting with mine, her little arms reaching out for me as the ocean pulled her further and further away from me. Like a jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece, the dream revealed itself and I was frightened. The horrific dream replayed in my head over and over to the point I was afraid to go to sleep.
Wednesday began with a scare. I heard the door to my condo click open and slam shut. It couldn’t be my housekeeper because she came on Fridays. Was I being burglarized? Had fucking Kyle tracked me down? Coughing, I forced myself out of bed and grabbed the hockey stick next to it to use as a weapon. As sick as I was, I was ready to pounce.
“Darling, what are you doing with that stick in your hand?”
Holy Shit! Standing at the door to my bedroom was my mother!
“Mom?” I choked out before remembering she had a set of keys to my apartment.
Wearing one of her stylish velour tracksuits, she sauntered my way. “Darling, put that ridiculous stick down and get right back into bed. You look and sound terrible.”
Slowly, I did as she said. She was right about my current condition. Whatever it was had taken a toll on me. I hadn’t shaved, showered, or combed my hair since last Friday and when I glimpsed myself in the bathroom mirror this morning, I met the reflection of a scary-looking Neanderthal with sunken eyes and pasty lips.
My mother tucked me in, making me feel like I was a five-year-old again. She placed her palm on my forehead as I coughed.
“You’re running a fever. I’ve asked Dr. Brown to stop by to check you over.”
Dr. Brown was our concierge family doctor. He’d been with us forever. Through strep, broken bones, stitches, bee stings, and much more. Ten minutes later I was sitting up in bed with an old-fashioned glass thermometer under my tongue and a stethoscope to my back. Removing the thermometer from my mouth, he took a peek at it and then asked me to breathe deeply in and out. It was an effort to do as he asked, the inhale and exhale both excruciatingly painful.
“What is it, doc?” I wheezed while my mother was in the kitchen heating up soup she’d picked up at Whole Foods.
“You have acute bronchitis. I’m going to call in a prescription for ciprofloxacin along with a cough suppressant and have your pharmacy send them over. Take two doses of the cipro with water immediately and then another tonight. Tomorrow, one in the morning, one in the evening. You’ll likely start feeling better by tomorrow afternoon, but I want you to rest, drink plenty of fluids, and finish out the prescription.”
I nodded. “Are you sure I don’t have a heart condition?”
Packing up his medical bag, the good doctor smiled. “No, Drake, your heart sounds perfectly fine. And heart disease doesn’t run in your family.”
My mother returned with a tray holding a large bowl of soup and Dr. Brown filled her in about my condition before leaving. She set the tray down on my desk and brought me the bowl. Sitting on the edge of my bed, she forced me to have some. Despite my lack of appetite, it actually felt good to have something in me and she’d heated it just right to avoid burning my raw throat. After a few spoonfuls of the flavorful chicken noodle broth, my coughing subsided and my voice grew a little stronger.
“Mom, how’d you know to come over?”
“Your father told me you were sick and hadn’t been in the office for three days.”