Stella!
I turned on the bathroom light, looked at the toilet paper strewn from one end to the other, and blacked out. When I came to, Annabelle wore her Red Cross nurse’s cap, supervising Thatch’s application of cold compresses to my forehead.
Do you know who you are, sir? she asked me.
Annabelle!
Wrong! I’m Annabelle. Do you know who you are, sir?
Yes. I’m Larry Moore.
And your date of birth?
September 1946. Can I get up? My head is killing me!
That’s because you hit the toilet when you passed out, sir.
I passed out? Let me sit up, Thatch.
All right, Dr. Thatch, you can let the patient up.
Where’s Stella? I’m going to kill her.
No, I think you need to lie down for a spell, sir. You can kill her later.
I sat up. Thank you, Dr. Thatch, I said. Let me get up.
I rose unsteadily to my feet. It could be a possible concussion, I thought or maybe its the fact that my left leg had been unhappy about bearing my weight for the past several days. Feeling dizzy, I dropped to my knees, and began to pick up the yards of shredded paper.
I think you should lie down, sir, and clean up later.
Thank you, Nurse, but let me finish this and take a couple of aspirin before I do.
I put the paper into the waste basket, rose, opened the medicine cabinet, and opened the aspirin bottle. I took three aspirin and wandered into the living room.
Oh, Stella, I moaned, when will you settle down?
As I lay back on the bed, I thought, she’s still a baby.
The next morning, the knot where my head had hit the toilet was purple and very tender to the touch. I really did not want to get out of bed, and deal with anything, but there was one obstacle to that plan. Three cats dancing on my bed. Two of them sang “Food, glorious food” while Stella climbed all over my chest.
Oh, babies, I moaned, just let me die.
So much for sympathy, I thought, as I dressed and wandered off to the bathroom to wash my face. I turned on the light, saw the shredded toilet paper and the contents of the waste basket tossed all over the floor, and blacked out again. Luckily, I fell backward into the hall.
When I came to, the first thing I heard was, I hope he isn’t dead, Doctor Thatch. We’re still waiting on breakfast.
His eyes are open, Annabelle.
Oh, good. Sir, can you hear me? Do you know your name?
Annabelle!
Wrong! That’s my name, only at the moment I am Nurse Nellie Forbush. I believe you’ve met Dr. Thatch.
I lay there and moaned.
Can you sit up, sir? We’re hungry.
What’s for breakfast? Dr. Thatch asked me.
Later, as I sat at my worktable, I could hear Annabelle, Thatch, and Stella at play. I wasn’t sure of the game, but it began in the bathroom. Ready to pounce, they crouched in the bathroom door, then one jumped up and ran like hell across the open space to the windowsill, pursued by the other two. They danced on the windowsill, calling to the pigeons before one jumped down and ran under the bed with the others in hot pursuit.
They had been playing this all morning while I wrote – I was working on an orchestration for my London friend Martin – when the television and window fan suddenly ground to a halt. That meant the plug to the power cable charging them had become dislodged.
All right, I yelled! Who the hell pulled the plug?
As I limped over to the outlet, three giggling kittens ran past me as their game continued. I reset the plug and heard the sound of the window fan revving up. Oh, good, I thought.
In a rush, Stella jumped in font of me onto the windowsill with Annabelle and Thatch following. I was so startled I lost my balance and fell against the filing cabinets. The three happy kitties leaped over me on their way back to the bathroom. I sat up.
Since I’m up, I thought, I’ll get a smackerel from the fridge. Maybe a Reese cup?
I limped toward the kitchen and my right foot stepped into something wet. I knew this because I wore no shoes, only socks. I looked down. Oh, crap! Who vomited? I yelled. As I headed toward the paper towel holder, everything went dark.
When I opened my eyes, Dr. Thatch was applying cold compresses to my forehead while Nurse Nellie Forbush supervised.
Very good, Dr. Thatch, she murmured. Oh, look, doctor! The patient has opened his eyes. Do you know who you are, sir?
Oh, Annabelle . . .
Wrong! I’m Annabelle. Do you know who you are, sir?
Yes. I’m Larry Moore. I’m your Daddy.
And your date of birth?
September 1946. Can I get up?
I have more questions. What is your mother’s maiden name?
Drake.
Her maiden name was Drake? I never know that.
Then why did you ask me?
It’s necessary, sir, very very necessary.
Thatch, get off me!
You need these cold compresses, he said.
I do, I know, but I need to get up and make a phone call.
Let him up, Doctor.
Thank you, Thatch, I said. What happened?
Do you remember yelling, Who vomited?
Yes, yes, I do.
You passed out, Annabelle told me.
Again, Thatch added. This is your fourth time in a week.
Twice today, Thatch added.
Yes, I know. That’s why I’m calling my doctor. I think I should see her.
Doctor Mohr? Thatch asked.
No, baby, she’s your doctor. I’m calling my doctor.
Is she as good as Dr. Mohr? Annabelle asked.
I think so. Let me get up.
I was able to see my doctor late that afternoon. In this age of quarantine, before I could enter the office, a nurse took my temperature. I passed the test. I hadn’t seen my doctor in months, so we had a nice visit while she checked me out.
When I walked into the apartment, three cats in face masks were waiting for me.
Oh, babies, you don’t need your face masks.
Yes we do, Annabelle said. You’ve been out, and until you use the hand sanitizer, the masks stay on.
Okay, okay, Missy!
I put a a large amount of Purell onto my hand, and washed my hands along with the head of my cane. I then hanged up the cane, put my cap away, and turned to face three cats without face masks.
All right, I said, is everybody happy?
So, what did the doctor say? Annabelle asked.
She asked how you all were.
That’s nice, Thatch said. Did you bring us anything?
No, Thatch, I’m sorry. There’s no place to pick up a kitty treat around her office.
So what did she say? Does she know what’s causing these blackouts? Are you dying?
I hope not, Annabelle!
I sat on the edge of my bed and took off my shoes. I’ve got to get back to Dr. Re for another knee injection, I thought. Instead, I said, Well, first of all, I do not have a concussion.
That’s good, Annabelle said. Isn’t it?
Yes, Missy, it is.
Stella sat up, jumped off the bed, and wandered off in the direction of the window. Stella, I asked, are we boring you?
If it doesn’t involve food or games, she’s bored, Annabelle observed. So, what’s causing these blackouts?
Several things. The stress of the quarantine and no work or income combined with ERKS. That’s E. R. K. S. ERKS.
ERKS? I never heard of that, Annabelle stated.
Well, Annabelle, I hadn’t either, but I guess it’s more common than I realized.
Is it contagious? Do we need our masks?
No, it isn’t contagious. Now that I know I’m an ERKS victim, I can plan my life to control it.
That’s good, Thatch observed.
That’s a very strange medical term, Annabelle observed. There’s no “itis” at the end, like tonsillitis or arthritis . . .
That’s because ERKS is an abbreviation. E. R. K. S. ERKS! What I’m suffering from is Extremely Rambunctious Kitty Syndrome.
Are you making this up?
No, Annabelle, thanks to you three, I am a victim of ERKS, so tread carefully.
At that moment, Stella appeared on top of the stack of books sitting on the filing cabinet next to my bed. She lost her footing and fell, bringing down an entire row of books with her. Annabelle, Thatch, and Stella ran for their lives as I was pelted with everything from a first edition of Catch-22 to all the volumes of Grove’s Encyclopedia of Opera.
Stella! I yelled as everything went black.
©2020, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 