cut herself getting out of the shower, nicked it badly on the sharp edge of the cheap shower doors, and nearly passed out, a combination, the doctors told her, from her Coumadin dose being too high, her blood being too thin, and her doing too much when she should have been taking it easy.
Classic Rosemary Delaney, I could have told them, although I was still reeling from the blood I’d seen, the way it had coated the bathroom floor, my mother, her leg, her hands, and how it had nearly made me pass out, too. For a long, awful second, I’d stood there in her room, with a very nervous, green-faced motel manager beside me, sure she was dead, sure I was looking at a horror film remake of my worst memory, before I’d spun back into action and called 9–1–1.
But now, in the pristine, white, antiseptic hospital, it seemed as if all of that hadn’t happened. My mother’s medication would be adjusted, she’d take care of herself—or I’d yell at her—and we’d go home tomorrow.
Uncle Morty, and the division of my late grandmother’s possessions, would just have to wait.
While I’d been waiting in the emergency room, I’d left another message on Nick’s machine, then called Karen, and talked to her, telling her about my mother. A half hour ofspilling my guts to my best friend had left me feeling much better, and shored up for the battle ahead with my mother.
Who was being stubborn. Big surprise there.
“I didn’t want—” my mother waved a hand at me, then at the IVs, the bandage wrapped around her leg “—this.”
“The hospital? The huge Band-Aid?”
“You. Worrying. Hovering.”
I sank onto her bed, covered her hand with mine. Regardless of the words we’d flung at each other over the years, the wall that remained between us, she was my mother and I loved her. “Ma, that comes with the DNA.”
A smile crossed her lips. “Yeah, it does. I had a lot of those nights myself.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t exactly an easy kid.”
“Yeah, well, that was a million years ago.”
I leaned closer, staring at her. Wishing I could read her mind as easily as she seemed to read mine. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You just had an opportunity to run down the list of my bad choices, to pick apart all the mistakes I have made, and I know I have quite the list. You have me, right here, apology in hand, and you wipe the slate clean, just like that?”
She shrugged. “I’m not in the mood for a fight.”
I snorted. “Since when? I have never seen The Bulldog in the mood for anything other than a fight.”
“You knew about that nickname?”
“Ma, you were on the cover of American Lawyer . I may have skipped Algebra, but I did go to English class and learn how to read.”
“You read the article?”
“Yeah.” I studied the white sea of sheets around her. Smoothed out a wrinkle. Ran a finger over the hospital’s name, imprinted in faded cranberry letters, then finally rested my hand again on hers. “I was…well…proud of you, too.”
I didn’t look up. But I felt her hand tighten under mine. And that was enough.
A nurse came in and provided enough chatter and distance so that both of us could pretend that moment hadn’t happened, and by the time my mother was in a regular room and eating a crappy, cardboard-looking lunch, we’d gone back to our usual bickering, with her complaining about my disheveled state and lack of appropriate footwear.
All was normal in my world. Exactly how I liked it.
Except…
That empty feeling I’d woken with had yet to disappear. My cell phone bulged against my jeans pockets—turned on despite the hospital’s poster in big bold block letters banning all cellular usage. I’d talked to a couple of my friends, to Karen three times, to Ernie twice, but not to Nick.
I refused to call him. No matter how many times my fingers traced over his phone number, the pad of my thumb hesitated a breath above dialing. I did not want
Classic Rosemary Delaney, I could have told them, although I was still reeling from the blood I’d seen, the way it had coated the bathroom floor, my mother, her leg, her hands, and how it had nearly made me pass out, too. For a long, awful second, I’d stood there in her room, with a very nervous, green-faced motel manager beside me, sure she was dead, sure I was looking at a horror film remake of my worst memory, before I’d spun back into action and called 9–1–1.
But now, in the pristine, white, antiseptic hospital, it seemed as if all of that hadn’t happened. My mother’s medication would be adjusted, she’d take care of herself—or I’d yell at her—and we’d go home tomorrow.
Uncle Morty, and the division of my late grandmother’s possessions, would just have to wait.
While I’d been waiting in the emergency room, I’d left another message on Nick’s machine, then called Karen, and talked to her, telling her about my mother. A half hour ofspilling my guts to my best friend had left me feeling much better, and shored up for the battle ahead with my mother.
Who was being stubborn. Big surprise there.
“I didn’t want—” my mother waved a hand at me, then at the IVs, the bandage wrapped around her leg “—this.”
“The hospital? The huge Band-Aid?”
“You. Worrying. Hovering.”
I sank onto her bed, covered her hand with mine. Regardless of the words we’d flung at each other over the years, the wall that remained between us, she was my mother and I loved her. “Ma, that comes with the DNA.”
A smile crossed her lips. “Yeah, it does. I had a lot of those nights myself.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t exactly an easy kid.”
“Yeah, well, that was a million years ago.”
I leaned closer, staring at her. Wishing I could read her mind as easily as she seemed to read mine. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You just had an opportunity to run down the list of my bad choices, to pick apart all the mistakes I have made, and I know I have quite the list. You have me, right here, apology in hand, and you wipe the slate clean, just like that?”
She shrugged. “I’m not in the mood for a fight.”
I snorted. “Since when? I have never seen The Bulldog in the mood for anything other than a fight.”
“You knew about that nickname?”
“Ma, you were on the cover of American Lawyer . I may have skipped Algebra, but I did go to English class and learn how to read.”
“You read the article?”
“Yeah.” I studied the white sea of sheets around her. Smoothed out a wrinkle. Ran a finger over the hospital’s name, imprinted in faded cranberry letters, then finally rested my hand again on hers. “I was…well…proud of you, too.”
I didn’t look up. But I felt her hand tighten under mine. And that was enough.
A nurse came in and provided enough chatter and distance so that both of us could pretend that moment hadn’t happened, and by the time my mother was in a regular room and eating a crappy, cardboard-looking lunch, we’d gone back to our usual bickering, with her complaining about my disheveled state and lack of appropriate footwear.
All was normal in my world. Exactly how I liked it.
Except…
That empty feeling I’d woken with had yet to disappear. My cell phone bulged against my jeans pockets—turned on despite the hospital’s poster in big bold block letters banning all cellular usage. I’d talked to a couple of my friends, to Karen three times, to Ernie twice, but not to Nick.
I refused to call him. No matter how many times my fingers traced over his phone number, the pad of my thumb hesitated a breath above dialing. I did not want
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