Page 30 of That Weekend in Paris
“Yes, you do. You’re white as that towel.”
“Thanks, Dillon,” I say. And then another wave of nausea hits me. I lean back and close my eyes, praying I don’t throw up again.
Dillon
“The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.”
?Marcus Aurelius
I CALL THE front desk and ask if there is a concierge doctor available at the hotel.
“Oui, yes, madame. Bien sûr. You have an emergency?”
“I don’t think so, but if the doctor could come as soon as possible, that would be best.”
“Of course, madame. I shall ring him right away. He will arrive at the room within fifteen minutes. Is this the room you wish him to come to?”
“Yes. Yes, please. Thank you so much.”
I find a glass on the desk by the window and pour from a bottle of water nearby. I take it into the bathroom, sit and squat beside Klein, holding up the glass. “Here. You should drink something. Do you think you could be dehydrated?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never really had anything like this before.”
“Have you taken anything?”
“Just the supplements I take when I get up.”
“And you’ve taken them all before?”
“Yes,” he says. He presses a finger to each of his temples, grimacing.
“Can I help you get back to the bed?”
“I’m not sure I’ll make it without throwing up, and I certainly wouldn’t want to subject you to that,” he says.
“Please. Don’t think about me. This is about you and getting you feeling better.”
“Can we just sit here for a few more minutes?”
“Of course,” I say. I’m silent now because I feel like forcing Klein to talk is not the kind thing to do. Within a few minutes, a knock sounds at the door. I get up and open it and find a pleasant-faced, older Frenchman holding a doctor’s bag standing on the other side.
“Bonjour, madame. You have called for a doctor?”
“Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much. Please come in.” He follows me inside, and I lead the way to the bathroom where Klein is still sitting with his back against the wall.
“Bonjour, monsieur. How may I help you?”
“I have an excruciating headache,” Klein says in a weak voice. “And nausea.”
“Perhaps we can help you to the bed?”
The doctor and I both help Klein up and guide him back to the bedroom. I stand a few feet away while the doctor checks his vitals. He pulls a digital thermometer from his bag, inserts it into a plastic sanitary sleeve, and sticks it under Klein’s tongue.
He then does a series of visual tests asking Klein to identify how many fingers he’s holding up. “It is possible that your headache is a migraine as you suspect. But have you ever had this headache before?”
“No. Nothing like this one.”
“I have a very strong medication to give you for help with the pain. This should last several hours, but you will need to remain in bed. No driving. It is quite sedating.”
