Page 27 of Nobody's Fool

“Don’t scratch it,” I say.

The valet looks at the exterior. “Might make it look better,” he replies.

“Good one,” I say. “If I had cash, I would tip.”

“I take Venmo and Zelle.”

“Let’s chat later, shall we?”

Debbie and I enter a sea of white. The barn has high ceilings and big picture windows. Plush white leather chaise lounge chairs line all four walls, with what looks like a round cocktail bar in the middle. The clientele wear white terrycloth robes and lie on the chaises.

They have IVs in their arms.

Debbie leans toward me and says sotto voce, “You know what this reminds me of?”

“What?” I ask.

“My mother getting chemo.”

I say nothing for a moment. This is the first time Debbie has ever revealed anything even slightly personal.

“Except this is way more ritzy.” She thinks about it. “Do you say ‘more ritzy’ or ‘ritzier’?”

“‘Ritzier,’ I think.” Then I add, “I’m sorry about your mom.” I’m thinking about asking how her mom is or if she’s dead or alive or still going through chemo or in remission, but Debbie shakes me off like a baseball pitcher who doesn’t like what the catcher is signaling.

“Do you think that’s what this is?” Debbie asks. “Like rich-people chemo?”

“No,” I say.

“Me neither. Everyone at chemo had brittle yellow skin. These rich people glow like rich people.”

A receptionist with a constant blink, as though midseizure, steps in front of us. “May I help you?”

“My dad wants to buy me a treatment,” Debbie says. “It’s my birthday.”

“Oh wow, how wonderful.”

I smile at her. The proud father. In my peripheral vision I see the four girls from the convertible come out in white bathrobes. They are led to four chaises on the right wall. They sit-lie, and four womendressed in pink scrubs like pediatric nurses put IVs into their left arms. They sip what might be piña coladas from cocktail glasses with small umbrellas.

“Ivy,” I say softly. “Like IV.”

“Yes, that’s our service,” the receptionist says. Her voice turns a tad condescending. “Our IV therapies start at eight hundred dollars.”

“American dollars?” I ask.

“I have a brochure.”

She opens it. There are treatments called Super Immunity and Beauty Boost and Elite Energy. There is something called a Myers Cocktail and HydroBlast and VeinVitalizer and HornyHelper. I look at Debbie and then toward the Convertible Girls. Debbie understands my meaning.

“Can we talk about the options over here,” Debbie says, trying to look embarrassed, “like away from my dad?”

“Oh, of course.”

They move away, leaving me be. The girls are all lying back as though tanning on a beach. Now or never.

I stick out here like a snowman in a sauna. Still, the initial looks I’m getting from the four girls are more curious than accusatory. They are in a peppery, animated conversation punctuated with an indiscernible blend of young exclamations including “I know, right”s and “sus”es and “it’s giving”s and “sending me”s and “mid”s and “simp”s. They barely look up until I am standing over them. I don’t say anything. I wait. The conversation fades away like the end of a song more than it stops. Then a few “what the f” giggles start up as I just stand there and give them my warmest smile.

The girl who was driving is the first to speak. “Uh, can we help you?”

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