“I’m a regular.”
Christine goes to my desk, flips through the glossy pages of a “See Sea Haven” tourist magazine she must’ve picked up when she stopped off to buy toilet paper.
“They might have a coupon in here. Everybody else does. Score! Twenty percent off!”
The Dinky Dinghy advertises itself as “fine dining without the atmosphere.”
It’s basically a squat, flat-roof building that could double as a dry cleaner’s. Bright, shrimp-pink poles hold up signs advertising clams, shrimp, lobster, and chowda. It’s mostly a fresh fish market that does a brisk takeout business but has five or six picnic tables out front in the gravel lawn for people like Christine and me.
We take a table two away from one occupied by a tourist family on their first day of vacation (you can tell by the farmer tan lines and SHNJ tee-shirts). They’re happily digging into a seafood feast, what the Dinky Dinghy calls “The Works”: fried shrimp, fried scallops, crab cakes (sort of fried), fried flounder filets, fried clam strips, a bucket of fries, and a quart of coleslaw. I don’t think the coleslaw is fried but I bet they’re working on that.
“This looks amazing,” Christine says, sitting down with her blackened salmon sandwich, garden salad, and bottle of Vitamin Water Zero. I went with the “Scrumptious Scampi.” Lots of garlic. If I know my breath stinks, I won’t be so tempted to kiss Christine when our non-date dinner date is done. I’m drinking a Stewart’s Orange ’N Cream. We came in my car. I am the designated driver.
“You want a beer or some wine with dinner?” I ask.
Neptune’s Nog, a package store, is right across the street, on the other side of Ocean Avenue.
“No, thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Thank you. Some of the meds I take … well, it’s best if I don’t drink.”
“Cool,” I say, even though I probably should’ve thought of something better.
Christine pushes her tray a few inches away. Gets this serious look on her face.
“It was right after Katie died,” she says. “My whole life went into a kind of free fall.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“I do, Danny. You and Ceepak and Ceepak’s mom have done so much for me. Besides, talking is good.”
“Okay.”
“It started right after Katie died. I just couldn’t do my job any more. Every time the ER doors swung open, I saw Katie, covered with blood, lying on the gurney. It could be a guy who’d been in a motorcycle wreck, but I’d see Katie. I started making mistakes. Little things. But even little mistakes can kill someone who’s already in a trauma situation.”
“So you quit?”
Christine nods. “They called it a long-term leave of absence. Set me up with a program. The hospital was very helpful.”
“Because you’re a very good nurse. They don’t want to lose you.”