Nursing The Doctor by Bobby Hutchinson

few minutes.”
    It took the better part of an hour, but when the staff finally finished transferring him, his bed and his belongings, when he was at last alone in the tiny room, Greg felt a profound sense of relief.
    For the first time since the accident he had at least the illusion of privacy. The only sounds and smells he’d have to endure were his own. It was a minuscule improvement in the grotesque melodrama his life had become, and he was grateful for it. Here, he wouldn’t have to guard himself so rigidly against the emotions that kept sweeping over him.
    Here, if he was awake at 3:00 a.m., he could turn on his bed lamp without being reprimanded for waking up his roommate.
    The unbelievable effort it took to get hauled out of bed and loaded into a wheelchair and then have the process reversed was taking its toll. He was almost asleep when his mother’s familiar, hesitant voice sounded at his door.
    “Greg, hello. I see they’ve put you in a different room. How are you feeling?”
    Elise was, as always, impeccably dressed. She was wearing a tailored navy suit with a cream shirt, and as usual the smell of White Shoulders wafted its way to Greg’s nostrils. She carried a black raincoat slung over one arm, and expensive gold bracelets jangled as she came to stand beside his bed. It surprised him that the quick glance he gave her revealed that her mascara was smeared as if she’d been crying.
    He couldn’t believe she was here again. Twice, or was it three times now, he’d made it clear he didn’t want to see her. What would it take to convince her?
    “Nothing’s changed, Elise.”
    After that first glance, he refused to look at her. Instead, he turned his head toward the window, where the gray November afternoon was already drawing to a close.
    “It has changed, Greg.” Elise’s soft voice was trembling uncontrollably. “I just came by to tell you that your Grandpa Stanley died this morning.”
    A sob broke in her throat and her face crumpled. She had to struggle to continue. “He hadn’t been well, so a neighbor dropped by. He found him on the kitchen floor. He’d had a massive stroke while eating his breakfast. Dr. Constantine phoned to tell me, and I knew you’d want to know.”
    Grandpa Stanley.
    Dead?
    Greg’s brain conjured him up, the way he’d seen his grandpa last, a tall, spare figure in an immaculate white shirt and trademark red suspenders, standing in the doorway of the old white house on the hill, smiling and waving goodbye as Greg drove away.
    Greg’s own heart seemed to falter, and pain that had nothing to do with his injuries ripped through him with ferocious force.
    He’d only stayed with Stanley two nights that last visit, he remembered. He’d planned a fishing trip with his buddies and he’d been anxious to get away from Greenwood early, to meet them and pack.
    Oh, Gramps. Grandpa, I should have stayed with you. I knew you wanted me to, although you never said so. You were too proud, and I was too selfish.
    He was aware of Elise’s hesitant hand on his hair, and he flinched and moved his head, terrified that the slightest contact would shatter the minute amount of control he was able to summon up.
    He would not, he could not cry in front of her.
    “I know how much he meant to you.” The pain in his mother’s voice made Greg swallow in spite of himself, but he wasn’t about to let her use Stanley’s death to bridge the distance between them.
    “I appreciate your coming to tell me,” he managed to say in a formal, dismissive tone, and now it was her turn to flinch away from him. “Are you going through to Greenwood for the funeral?”
    “Of course I am,” she said passionately. “He’s my father. We didn’t get along, but he was still my father.”
    Then her voice broke and the tears came freely.
    “Greg, how can you be this way with me, so...so cold, so...unfeeling? How can you talk to me as if I’m some stranger? I’m your mother.” Technically she was, but to