Page 11 of The Cutting Edge
My phone buzzes with a response from Lana.
Nurse is all set for tonight, please send the address when you have it.
Poppy’s nanny has also replied that she'll meet us at Mrs. Markham’s house in a half hour, and take Poppy home from there.
There’s also a text from my shooting coach, Rocco, that I don't even want to read tonight. I'm in a serious fucking slump and I don't know what to do about it. My usual obsessive analysis isn't working. (And believe me, nobody is better at spotting problems in my playing than me.) But if I don't get my game together fast I'll be screwing up the playoff chances for everyone on my team. And I can't let that happen. I'm the captain; it's my responsibility.
I deal with a couple of emails while Poppy finishes her popsicle. I really don't want to engage much more with the nurse unless I have to – I really don't want her to get the wrong message. That happens a lot.
"You can pull your car right up to the chemo drop-off point on the side of the hospital, "Alexis says. "That way Mrs. Markham won't have to walk very far to your car. If you take these elevators down to the first floor, the chemo drop-off is on your left. You're welcome to bring your car around now. She should be done in 10 minutes or so. By the time you pick up your car and get back up here, she should be just about ready to go."
“Great idea, thanks," I say, motioning for Poppy to follow me. She's laser-focused on that cherry popsicle, but slowly trudges in my direction.
“Do you want to push the buttons in the elevator?" I ask her. Her smile brightens, revealing pink-stained teeth, and she runs toward the elevator bay.
"Up or down, Daddy?"
"Down please, "I say, and she mashes the button with glee.
Poppy finishes her popsicle as we wait for the elevator to come. I place the wrapper in the waste receptacle, kneel down to Poppy’s eye level, and use one of the wet wipes to quickly clean the sticky red substance off Poppy’s cheeks, lips, and fingers.
She kisses me on my forehead and I melt like that popsicle. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“Anything for you,Poppy-si-cle,” I respond, and I’ve never meant anything more in my life.
As we ride down in the elevator, I tap out a text to Coco, feeling a wave of unexpected delight that I now have her number in my phone:
Mrs. Markham is finishing up her chemo now. Poppy and I are going to drive her home in a few minutes and she’s agreed to let me send a nurse to her house overnight. It’s all set up, you don’t need to worry about anything.
A second later I add:
I hope your head is okay.
I’m really sorry about the puck. Anything and everything I can do to make it up to you – just say the word.
I watch the screen closely all the way down in the elevator, and either she hasn't seen it yet, or she doesn't have her read receipts turned on. I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, hoping for the bubbling dots that would indicate she’s typing a response.
Nothing.
The hospital is busy tonight, and our elevator stops on every floor for people to get off or on. We finally make it to the ground floor and I scoop Poppy up in my arms and rest her on my hip. She is a tiny little thing, light as air, which delights me to no end every time I pick her up. She throws her little arms around my neck and rests her head on my shoulder. We head out of the door to the left of the elevator bay so I can orient myself and figure out where the chemo drop-off point is.
Fortunately for me, there is a sign, and it only takes a second from where I am standing to spot the parking garage where my Escalade is parked.
I give Poppy a kiss on the cheek, and we walk briskly toward the parking lot. A few minutes later we are parked in the chemo loading zone with our blinkers flashing. Poppy unbuckles her car seat as I clear off the passenger seat and stash my practice bag in the back of my SUV.
“Shake a tail feather, Popcorn,” I say as she gets herself out of the car seat. It’s faster if I do it, but her Montessori teacher says it’s better for her development if Poppy does it herself. “Need some help?”
“I’ve got it, Dad,” she says matter-of-factly. That she does.
She unlocks the final buckle and jumps from the floor of the car into my arms.
“Nice one,” I say, heading inside.
“I’ve got the buttons,” she shrieks as we approach the elevator, but a grumpy old guy holding a newspaper under his armpit jabs the button before Poppy can reach it. Instantly tears begin filling her big hazel eyes.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I promise you can push the button for our floor.”
When the elevator doors slide open newspaper grump steps in, not even pausing to let anyone off the elevator. Poppy and I wait until everyone exits and then enter the elevator.
