Authors: Patti Hill
Seeing Things (6 page)
I'm done walking on eggshells!
“You've taught me how to live,” he was saying, “and quite selfishly, I don't want the lessons to stop.” Emory spoke from a deep well. “I want to be more than your dance partner, Birdie. I want to be your husband. I live for the times you walk into the pharmacy. I'm so muddled I can barely count to ten when you're in the room.” I heard him swallow. “Marry me, Birdie. Give this old bachelor a reason to wake up in the morning.”
Oh my. “Can I have some time to think about this?”
“I waited six months like you asked.”
“You did. You certainly did. It's just that . . .”
“I never intended to ask you over the telephone. I'm sorry, Birdie. You deserve better. I promise, not another word until you get home.”
“Don't apologize, but we do have a lot to talk about. I'll be home in no time. We can sit on the porch and talk all we want.”
“I would climb a fourteener for you. I just want you to know that.”
“I know, but you don't have to.”
“I guess I better go,” Emory said, his voice dragging the floor for dust bunnies.
I'd wanted to delay this conversation to gain clarity, perspective, not pull the plug on Emory's manhood. See what I mean about those eggshells?
He said, “Have your daughter-in-law prescribe something for heartburn. Nexium won't interact with any of your other meds.” Is this a dream guy for an old lady or what?
“I'll ask.”
“I miss you, Birdie.”
“I miss you too.” And I did.
Chapter 7
The surgeon and assistant entered the exam room, a flurry of white coats and rustling papers. I'd prepared myself to dislike the man, sure that he expected me to worship the ground he walked on. After all, he'd left me alone in an exam room for more than an hour, which he kept chilled to just above freezing. Surprisingly, he didn't fill my expectation as a hard-bodied athlete, angular and terse. Instead, a shiny pate and an ample stomach sidled up to the exam table where I sat like a turkey in a meat case, only colder. I rubbed at the goose bumps on my arms.
“Good heavens, it's like a meat locker in here.” He spoke to the assistant whom I hadn't determined as male or female yet. “Get this poor darling a warm blanket, and tell Hannah to call maintenance. The air conditioner has turned renegade on us again.”
The doctor scooped my hand from my lap and held it between his warm hands. “I'm Dr. Milner. Please forgive my tardiness. I've been out of step with the world since I pushed the covers back this morning. Despite a frostbitten nose, how are you feeling?”
“Well, my ankle's fine. Aches a little now and then, especially when I've been moving around more than I should.”
He hummed “Moon River” as he clipped my x-rays to a light box, and I ached to waltz across the dance floor with Emory.
“Fabulous,” he said. “The bones are perfectly aligned. A gifted surgeon put you back together. The plate and screws are well placed, although not quite the way I would have done it. Surgeons, and I'm no exception, have healthy egos, Mrs. Wainwright. Please forgive my lack of humility.”
The assistant returned with the warmed blanket. Short-cropped hair. A hint of lavender. I made a tentative diagnosis: female.
Huck filed in behind her, shivered, and hopped to sit on the counter. His shirt pocket bulged and wiggled. He pulled out a glorious frog, nearly as big as his palm, khaki colored and covered with chocolate spots and sergeant's stripes on its legs. Golden eyes with pupils of onyx looked about for the nearest pond.
“Mrs. Wainwright? Are you with us?” Dr. Milner asked.
I directed my attention to my wounded ankle. The doctor bent low and turned on a bright light. I squinted against the glare.
“I don't like the look of these stitches,” he said. “Are you on a blood thinner?”
Red lines marked my ankle. “Yes, Plavix, should I be worried?”
“Have you been staying off your ankle?”
“I use a walker and hop around; do most things sitting down.”
“These stitches aren't ready to come out, but no, you shouldn't worry. No two people heal the same.” He fingered the skin around the incisions. “No swelling. No unsightly pus oozing from the incisions. The skin just isn't knitting together as I'd like.”
I imagined myself lying in Andy's guest room until Christmas and shivered. “What does that mean?” I said with panic squeezing my voice.
“It means you'll be back to see me in a week or so, and I'm going to put you in a supportive boot. You won't like the looks of it, if you're the least bit fashion conscious, but you'll love the way you feel wearing it.”
He spoke to his assistant. “Gary, go get an air boot. Size large.” He leaned against the exam table and crossed his arms over the shelf of his belly. “The boot will help reduce your swelling. It's right out of
Star Wars.
Your grandkids will love it. Most folks complain about the added weight, but they all end up thanking me.”
Star Wars.
Your grandkids will love it. Most folks complain about the added weight, but they all end up thanking me.”
The frog leapt from Huck's hands onto the floor. He rolled his eyes and jumped down from the counter after it. The frog hunkered behind the trash can. Huck plucked it up and deposited the frog back into his pocket. He sat on a chair, head in hands, looking as smug as a bug.
“Mrs. Wainwright?”
I snapped my head around.
The doctor shuffled through papers. “Now, what sort of discharge instructions did your doc give you?”
“First of all, no dancing.”
“Obviously not a person familiar with the melodious tunes of the swing era. My deepest regrets.”
“Do you dance?”
He patted his stomach. “Not nearly as often as my doctor or my wife would like.” He turned to study my x-rays again.
Huck pumped the blood pressure cuff. An inquisitive fellow.
“What about weight-bearing restrictions?” Dr. Milner asked.
I confessed to the gruesome sentence my surgeon in Grand Junction had passed. “No weight on the ankle for six to eight weeks.”
“You know, Mrs. Wainwright, you could be a pinup girl for bone density. If you're amenable, let's adjust those orders to âweight as tolerated.' Now, that won't get you onto the dance floor tonight, but getting around should be easier. Once Gary gets you fitted, I want you to ease your weight onto the injured ankle. If the pain is between a two or three, proceed with caution.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm. “I hear from Suzanne that you're a hiker.”
“I've climbed nineteen fourteeners, and I didn't start until after my husband and I retired.”
“That's truly humbling, but I must make you promise to save number twenty until you've completely rehabilitated that ankle. I don't want to see you airlifted off a mountain on the ten o'clock news. You're out for this season, young lady.”
“Next year?”
“If you're a good girl and do what I tell you.”
“I suppose I could try being a good girl if it gets me back on the mountain.”
He stopped at the door. “You probably already know this, but Suzanne beats me out as surgeon of the year on a regular basisâbut only by a few votes.” He said this with a wink in his voice. “Your daughter-in-law knows how to relate to hurting people. She's truly gifted.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
Gary returned with the boot. The sound of Velcro ripping made me shudder. He held the boot for my inspection. I saw the shape of a black, knee-high boot, period. Rather than ask to feel it, I listened. Old ladies have healthy egos too. “When your ankle gets to aching,” he said, “press this bulb to pump more air into the boot. You'll figure out quickly what makes you feel better.”
Huck watched over Gary's shoulder as he adjusted the many Velcro straps. Once I'd proven my boot-pumping skills, I looked around for a congratulatory wink from Huck, but he was gone, probably chasing after a corn snake somewhere along the river. And, oh, how I longed to be with him.
I'M NOT MUCH OF one for lying around in bed, even if it's a fancy bed that adjusts this way and that. Since sequestering myself in the bedroom as Suzanne ordered, I'd got to thinking of the bedroom as a cell. After a few days of living under house arrest, Bee and I ventured out to the living area while Lupe busied herself cleaning the upstairs bathrooms. Unless I wanted a matching cast on my right foot, I needed to locate area rugs, power cords, footstools, anything that would send me hurling. Besides, this was my first chance to snoop around a bit, see the house as more than a glance of wood here and a glimmer of stainless steel there.
Just outside my bedroom door, the great room lay to the left, the kitchen straight ahead. I shuffled my way toward the great room sofas until I caught my toe on an area rug. The exuberance of red poppies woven against a white and green background well nigh toppled me. Leave it to Suzanne to find the thickest rug on the market, one that couldn't be ignored even by the legally blind. The rug rose a good two inches from the floor. Bee nosed my hand.
“You stay off this rug. Do you hear me? Don't shed whatever you do. A muddy paw on that white, and you'll find yourself in a maximum-security kennel.”
Bee whimpered. I scratched behind her ears. “You know better than that. No dog of mine will be sent off to live in a cage.” I bent to be thanked with a wet kiss.
Finding the light switches proved easier than usual, pounded out of copper as they were. And besides a set of leather chairs with ottomans, the room proved easy to negotiate. However, glass vases and mica lamps topped every table, perfectly within range of Bee's tail.
“We better keep moving. Now, show me the dining room, girl.”
Against the oak paneling, the light switches proved more difficult to find. I felt the wall on either side of the entrance until I found a row of switches and a dimmer. On the rug under the dining room table, royal blue and rust fronds of the tropical kind danced around the border, but more importantly, the edge folded back with a push of my toe.
“Here's a rug to watch,” I told Bee.
I stepped onto the rug to get a feel for the thickness and steadied myself with one of the chairs. I prayed I'd never have to move that chair. It weighed as much as my Volkswagen, maybe more. I rubbed at the tabletop with the cuff of my robe, knowing I'd left plenty of smudges on the glasslike top.
“We better move on before Lupe catches me undoing her work.”
I followed the tapping of Bee's claws toward the front door. Another rug, a runner this time, nearly filled the hallway and silenced Bee's progress. “Stay with me, you sorry excuse for a hound dog. My ankle's starting to ache, and I still want to see the kitchen.” I paused at the bottom of the stairs that led to the family's bedrooms. At home I'd marked my stairs with orange tape to differentiate one step from the next. The Wainwright staircase was nothing but an oaken slide to my sorry eyes. I wouldn't be going up there any time soon. I turned back to the kitchen.
I found the refrigerator quite by accident, thinking it was the pantry. My mouth watered with anticipation of treasures within. No such luck. Soy milk. Brown rice. Tofu. The pantry, when I finally found it, was bigger than my garage, but not one thing sitting on the shelves appealed to my sweet tooth. The raisins were hard nuggets.
I must confess that I coveted the double ovens under a sea of burners. Just think of the pies I could bake in all that space! Elsie begged me to increase my output on a regular basis, and the extra income would buy paints and watercolor paper.
“Lord, if it would make you smile, I'd love a double oven. Of course, you're going to have to add on to my kitchen too.” My tummy did a tumble when I thought, quite involuntarily, about Emory's double wall ovens. Even I wouldn't marry a man just for his ovens. Would I?
Before settling back in the bedroom, I scanned the space for any sign of Huck. Nothing. I sighed, surprising myself.
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