Fed Up by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Read Free Book Online

messages to encourage her to speak kind words and help Josh to save face.
    “I have to go to the bathroom,” Francie announced curtly. So much for my telepathic abilities.
    “Please, can you just finish dessert? And then we’ll wrap this up.” Robin looked desperate to bolt, but she was probably no more desperate than the rest of us were. Every single one of us, I thought, had had more than enough of this episode of Chefly Yours .
    “We’re almost done. I promise,” Josh pleaded. He looked ready to sprint out of the house in shame.
    “I feel sick.” Francie rose from her seat and walked unsteadily from the table.
    Join the club! After the whole fiasco, I wasn’t feeling too well myself.
    Francie staggered out of the dining room into a large front hallway. From where I was standing, I could see her head toward a staircase. Gripping the handrail, she slowly began to make her way up the steps.
    “Christ, we’re never going to get through this.” Digger looked at his watch. “This is like a never-ending day. This blows for Josh, man.”
    “Yup, but at least it’s been interesting,” Marlee added.
    Robin drew Josh aside and was gracious enough to put her hand on his arm as she spoke softly to him. I hoped she was saying something reassuring. Maybe that the TV station would never in a million years air this horrible episode?
    Appalled by everyone’s seeming lack of compassion for Francie, who clearly was not just feigning illness, I decided to check on her. I made my way to the front hall and up the stairs. By the time I reached the landing at the top, I could hear gagging and groaning. Following the sounds, I rounded a corner and on the floor ahead of me saw Francie’s feet projecting from what was clearly a bathroom. Bright yellow towels hung on towel racks fastened inside the open door. Even before I entered the bathroom, I realized that Francie was horribly sick. She’d obviously been too ill even to close the bathroom door. Besides, the air in the dark hallway reeked. For a second, the taboo against barging into an occupied bathroom made me hesitate, but the dreadful sounds had now stopped, and the silence frightened me.
    I stepped into the bathroom and knelt just inside the door. “Francie? Can I help you?” I put my hand on her shoulder. Francie didn’t respond. She lay curled up on her side on a yellow bath mat, her hair in her face and her arms wrapped around her stomach. Bodily fluids were spattered on the old white ceramic bathroom fixtures and lay in pools on the cracked tile of the floor. The stench was overwhelming. Holding my breath and fighting nausea, I grabbed one of the thick yellow towels that hung from the door and made a senseless, panic-driven effort to rid Francie of the wet filth that clung to her dark curls and stained her white linen shell. Covering my hand with the towel, I brushed her hair away from her face, and as I leaned in to clean her mouth and cheeks, I realized she was having a terrible time breathing. Before that moment, my efforts had been directed at restoring Francie’s dignity, I suppose. The sight of her sprawled on the floor, splattered with her own bodily wastes, had triggered a powerful impulse to clean her up and make her presentable, to spare her the humiliation being seen in this godawful condition. Now, all at once, the gravity of the situation hit me. At a minimum, she was dangerously dehydrated. Without question, she needed immediate help that I couldn’t provide. My experience in hands-on first aid consisted of having treated small children with scraped knees. Now, I was facing a life-threatening emergency.
    I’d left my cell phone in my purse in the car, and even if I’d been willing to leave Francie alone, I’d have had no idea where to find a phone upstairs in the house. “Josh!” I screamed. “Robin!”
    I looked down at Francie, whose jagged breathing frightened me. “Francie?” I whispered. Then with near ferocity, I demanded, “Francie!