Stuck in the Middle, page 6
“Gram, I’m home.”
From the direction of the kitchen, she heard a soft sob. Her heart stuttered. “Gram?”
Joan threw her purse to the floor and dashed through the living room. She catapulted through the doorway and stopped.
The oven door stood open, and heat poured into the room. A mound of browned mozzarella and long ribbons of pasta formed an untidy lump in the center of the tiled floor, midway between the oven and the counter. Splatters of thick tomato sauce covered the floor and cabinets, and left a red trail where chunks slid down the lower half of the refrigerator. In the middle of the mess sat Gram, surrounded by shards of glass and the splattered remains of supper. Hands resting motionless in her lap, shoulders wilted, her chin trembled as she surveyed the wreckage.
Joan’s pulse thumped in her ears. “Are you alright?” With an effort, she kept her tone even. “Are you hurt?”
Her grandmother drew a shuddering breath, and then raised a tear-streaked face to Joan. “I dropped it. I was taking it out of the oven like I’ve done a thousand times, and I dropped it.” A sob broke her voice, and she lowered her head to cover her face with her hands.
Joan’s heart twisted at the misery in Gram’s voice. She stepped across the room, careful to avoid the worst of the mess, and pushed back a shard of glass before dropping to her knees beside her grandmother. Placing an arm around the shuddering shoulders, she pressed her cheek against Gram’s wrinkled one.
“As long as you’re okay, it’s not a big deal. People drop things all the time.”
“Not me.” The old woman peeked between her fingers at the mess and sobbed. “I couldn’t hold on to it. It wasn’t that heavy. But it slipped right out of my hands.”
Joan squeezed her shoulders. “Is your arthritis bothering you today?”
Gram lowered her hands and held them before her. She turned them over, studying them as though they belonged to someone else. Joan looked at the wrinkles, the dark purplish age spots, the swollen knuckles. They were the hands of an old woman, not as strong as they had once been.
“All that food wasted.” Gram shook her head, her expression tortured. “Children starving in Africa and look what I’ve done. I’m old and useless.”
“It was an accident.” Joan took Gram’s hand in one of hers and pressed gently. “It could have happened to anybody.”
Gram speared Joan with a mournful blue gaze. “I promised Carla lasagna when she got off work.”
Joan got to her feet and bent to assist Gram. “Then we’ll make another one. She won’t be home before morning, so we’ve got all night.”
Doubt clouded Gram’s features as she struggled to stand. Joan forced a confident smile to her face. “Come on. Let’s get this cleaned up, and then I’ll take you out for a hamburger and a milkshake before we go to the grocery store.”
Joan retrieved a plastic garbage bag from beneath the sink and knelt to scoop the mess into it, keeping a furtive eye on Gram. She moved slowly, picking up shards of the broken baking dish with care and placing them one at a time in the trashcan. Her hands trembled. She looked older tonight than she had this morning. Sick fear settled over Joan. Should she talk to Mom about this incident? She shied away from the idea. No reason to act like this was a big deal.
Gram disposed of the last big chunk of glass and turned a worried face toward Joan. Tomato sauce splattered her blouse and skirt and also a streak of white hair.
Joan lifted a tender smile toward her. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up? I’ll take care of this.”
She gave a single nod and disappeared down the hallway. Joan listened to the shuffle of her shoes on the carpet, and the soft click of her bedroom door.
Uncertainty clenched her throat. What if she was wrong? What if Gram really was too old and frail to be home alone?
She shook her head to clear it. No. If Gram had Alzheimer’s or dementia, Joan would be the first to admit that she needed to be someplace where people would look after her 24/7. But she didn’t. Her grandmother was perfectly rational and capable of taking care of herself. She was just getting on in years, that’s all. She’d spent a lifetime caring for others and had earned the right to grow old gracefully in her own home.
If Joan had to stand up against Mom and Allie and her entire family to protect that right, she would do it.
For the fifth time in as many minutes, Joan rolled over in bed and wiggled on the mattress to find a comfortable position. Fatigue dragged at her limbs, but her mind refused to release her to sleep. Counting didn’t work, though she had paraded entire herds of sheep and cows and a bunch of other barnyard animals across the dark stage inside her eyelids. She’d tried every relaxation technique she knew, to no avail. She even tried reciting “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” in her mind. When she was in school and had to memorize Coleridge’s entire work, that never failed to put her to sleep. But now she only managed to get as far as “The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared.” There were a bunch of verses between the harbour and the albatross, but she couldn’t remember how to get there.
The clock’s face glowed 2:47 in vile red numbers. With a disgusted jerk, she tore the sheet away and got out of bed. The only thing the poem had done was make her thirsty with thoughts of “Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.”
She padded up the stairs, the thick carpet cushioning any sound her bare feet might have made. A seashell nightlight illuminated the kitchen with a dim yellow glow. The overhead light might wake Gram, so Joan left it off. She opened the cabinet and scanned the contents for her favorite mug. The collection had grown over a lifetime, a mishmash of sizes and colors. Some bore slogans, like “World’s Greatest Mother,” and some came from the conferences Grandpa used to attend. Everyone in the family had their favorite. Joan moved Mom’s blue mug out of the way and pulled out the one with a flock of dancing pink flamingos in polka- dot swimsuits. She filled it from the faucet and, standing by the counter, sipped at her water.
No wonder she couldn’t sleep. This had been a difficult day, and not just because of Gram’s lasagna episode. Rosa was in a bad mood after her fight with Luis, so Joan felt like she had to tiptoe all day or risk setting her off on a tirade. And then they had a couple of customers who were poor credit risks. As the manager on duty, the responsibility of delivering the bad news that they didn’t qualify fell on Joan. She hated that, hated seeing the embarrassment and disappointment in their eyes. They didn’t often turn people away at Abernathy’s, so two in a single day was hard.
Joan gulped a mouthful of water. And then there was Ken’s visit. She reached into the cabinet to reposition a coffee mug, trying not to remember the harsh disappointment that gripped her like a fist when he talked about Tori. Of course she wasn’t surprised at his choice. And she would never in a million years let on that she thought anything more of him than a friendly neighbor with a dog. But here, all alone in the dark kitchen, she wouldn’t lie to herself. For a little while, like half a day, she actually thought Ken might be the guy to fill the empty place in her life that Roger left.
“Well, that’s not going to happen, so I need to get over it.”
Somehow the sound of her own voice speaking the words that had whirled through her brain a million times in the hours since she went to bed brought a sense of relief. She stacked the blue mug neatly on top of another one. Okay, so she was attracted to the guy. Who wouldn’t be? He was gorgeous, smart, with a good sense of humor. But he liked her sister better than he liked her. It wasn’t the end of the world. Her attraction would fade eventually. She could handle Ken as a brother-in-law. And having a doctor in the family would be great. She turned a stoneware mug so its handle faced sideways. Hopefully she could find a decent-looking guy to take her to the wedding so she didn’t look like the spinster sister.
Joan laughed at herself as she emptied her mug and set it in the sink. Look at the path her thoughts had traveled. Tori and Ken had just met. They’d barely spoken to each other, and here she stood, planning their wedding.
Besides, who was she kidding? She didn’t want a brotherin-law she was attracted to. That was just wrong. She wanted Tori to find a nice guy, sure, but somebody brotherly. Like Eric.
And, however unlikely it was to happen, she wanted Ken for herself.
She turned away from the sink, reaching to close the cabinet door as she did so. Her hand froze. The mugs lined the shelves in neat rows, arranged by color, their handles pointing the same way at exactly the same angle in military-like precision.
Stunned by the realization of what she had done, Joan couldn’t make her feet move. She had stood here in the middle of the night and organized the mug cabinet. And the worst part was that it felt good, like she had accomplished something worthwhile. She’d be able to sleep now.
Standing in the dimly lit kitchen, a deep horror stole over her. Gram’s kooky organizing quirk was hereditary!
“Dr. Fletcher, you’ve got a customer.”
Ken swiveled the desk chair toward the nurse standing in the doorway. “Thanks, Debbie.”
She slid a thin folder across the desk and disappeared. Ken rubbed his eyes. Bad enough to work the midnight shift, but sitting in this closet-sized office while he filled out endless reports on the computer was enough to lull anyone to sleep. Good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic.
He opened the folder. A ten-year-old male with a laceration on the bottom of his left foot. Immunizations up-to-date, compliments of the health department. Vitals all good. Weight a little light for his height, but in the acceptable range. The responsible party was his mother. Ken closed the folder and left the office. He walked past the row of empty hospital beds to the one across from the nurses’ station. The curtain had been pulled closed for privacy. He took a breath and arranged his features into a pleasant expression before stepping through the curtain.
The boy sat unmoving in the middle of the hospital bed, as though afraid to soil the crisp white sheet. His shaggy dark hair looked like it hadn’t been washed, or even combed, in days. A fresh pressure bandage, no doubt compliments of Nurse Debbie, wound around one filthy foot. The kid’s chin rose as he threw a defiant glare toward Ken. But Ken detected a hint of fear buried in his tough-guy stare.
“I’m Dr. Fletcher. And I’ll bet you’re Michael.”
The boy didn’t respond, just stared. Ken shifted his gaze to the woman who sat in a hard plastic chair beside the bed. She looked like she could stand a shower too, and some clean clothes. He took a step toward her, his hand extended, and kept the smile on his face though he nearly flinched at the sharp odors of cigarette smoke and sour alcohol that rose from her. She looked maybe twenty-five. Surely not old enough to have a ten-year-old son.
“You’re Mrs. Lassiter?”
Her grip was timid, as though she wasn’t accustomed to shaking hands. “I’m not married.”
“Ms. Lassiter, then.” Ken grinned at the boy. “But you’re this big guy’s mother, right?”
The kid rolled his eyes and looked away. Okay, too old to be called a “big guy.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
Ken kept his hands behind his back as he bent over the boy’s filthy foot. “So, Mike, I see you’ve got a battle wound here. Mind if I take a look?”
One edge of the boy’s mouth twisted. “That’s why we’re here.”
Smart-aleck kid. Ken swallowed a sarcastic response, and crossed to the sink against the wall to wash his hands. Both sets of eyes followed him. He pulled on a pair of examination gloves and unwound the bandage. As soon as he pulled the gauze away, blood seeped from a two-inch wound. Deep. Broken glass, probably. Ken had seen a couple like this in Cincinnati. He glanced at the boy’s face.
“Want to tell me what happened?”
“I stepped on a busted bottle.” His voice was tight. “Didn’t see it in the grass.”
“How long ago was that?”
His mother spoke. “About half an hour ago. I brought him straight here, soon as I saw it.”
Ken glanced at the clock on the wall. 2:47. “Out kind of late, weren’t you?”
The boy shrugged. Ken kept his gaze on the wound but saw the woman bristle out of the corner of his eye.
“We fell asleep in front of the TV.” She sounded defensive. “Michael must have got up and went outside without me knowing.”
Passed out was more likely, considering the smell of her breath. His jaw tightened as he bit back a disapproving response. “Mike, can you move your ankle up and down, and wiggle your toes?” He did, which brought a fresh flow of blood. Ken blotted the wound with a clean Steripad. “Good. Now I’m going to push on your foot, to see if I can feel any glass still in there.” He caught Michael’s eyes with his and held them. “It might hurt a little.”
The boy’s throat convulsed, though his expression did not change. He lifted a shoulder.
The nurse had already attached a portable magnifying lamp to the bed rail. Ken swung it into place and watched the wound as he probed. The gash looked clean, the edges neatly sliced. He found no evidence of glass still inside. Michael stiffened a couple of times, but not a sound escaped those tightly clamped lips. A tough guy, huh? Well, better that than a screamer. Ken had seen older kids lapse into hysterics in similar situations.
The initial examination complete, he flipped off the lamp and lowered the arm, then perched on the edge of the bed.
He spoke to the mother. “It’s deep, but he’s lucky. If the glass had cut the extensors, he would have needed surgery to repair the damage.” He swung his gaze to the boy. “We’ll stitch this up, and you’re going to have to stay off of it for a day or two. And it’s important to keep the area around the wound clean.”
“What are you going to do to me?” His voice wavered, and he clamped his mouth closed as though irritated he had allowed his fear to show.
Ken blotted the wound once again, and spoke matter-of-factly. “First we’re going to spray on some anesthetic to numb it. Then I’m going to give you a shot.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “I don’t like shots.”
He gave a sympathetic shake of his head. “Neither do I. Unfortunately, you’re going to get two, one in your foot and a tetanus shot in the arm.”
“In my foot?” Michael didn’t bother to hide the alarm in his voice. “You mean in the cut?” His voice rose in pitch until he almost shouted the last word.
“Shut up,” his mother snapped. “It’s your own fault, you little idiot. If you’d stayed in the house like you were supposed to, none of this would have happened. Stupid little . . .” She ended with an obscene exclamation that made her son flinch.
Ken felt his own lips tightening. He’d seen parents berate their kids for getting injured before, but that didn’t make it easier to witness. He ignored the woman and placed a hand on Michael’s leg. “I won’t lie to you, it might hurt. But only for a few seconds, and then you won’t feel a thing. When the area around the wound is good and numb, the nurse is going to wash it. Then I’ll stitch it up and you can go home.”
Michael studied him while a pleasant female voice from the speaker in the ceiling paged Dr. Anoush. Ken kept his face impassive. Finally, the boy nodded.
“Good.” Ken stood. “Let me get the nurse and we’ll get started. You’ll be home before you know it.”
He slipped through the curtain and crossed three steps to the nurses’ station where he outlined the treatment plan to Debbie. While she assembled the necessary equipment, he stepped into the tiny office to type his notes into the boy’s file. They returned together to the examination room, Debbie’s white sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.
“Okay, Mike, are you ready?”
The kid didn’t look as brave as he had a few moments before. His eyes were glued to the stainless steel tray Debbie carried, the one with two hypodermic needles on it.
“Look,” the mother interrupted, “how much is this going to cost me? I’m not working right now, so I can’t afford a big bill.”
Ken bit back a sarcastic comment about the cost of cigarettes and alcohol as compared to the health of a child. Instead, he picked up the chart and studied the admission form. “Says here Michael is covered by the Kentucky Child Health Insurance Program.”
Debbie spoke up. “They’ll handle all costs above the deductible you already paid. We get a lot of patients with KCHIP. They’re good.”
The woman nodded. “Do I have time to go outside for a smoke?”
A look of pure panic crossed Michael’s face. The boy quickly replaced it with the belligerent expression he customarily wore, but Ken felt his own jaw clench. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have children.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to stay in the room while we treat your son, Ms. Lassiter.”
The woman folded her arms across her chest, red fingernails clutching her forearms. “Fine. Can we get on with it, then?”
Ken put on a fresh pair of gloves and picked up the topical anesthetic. “Okay, Mike. I’m going to spray your foot with this. It won’t hurt a bit.”
Michael nodded, and watched closely as Ken sprayed the wound. His foot jerked as the cold spray hit and the sharp smell of antiseptic filled the air. “It kinda tickles.”
Ken grinned up at him. “I told you it wouldn’t hurt.”
They waited a few moments, and then Ken caught and held the boy’s eye. “Okay, now we’re ready for the first shot. Have you ever been stung by a bee?” Anxiety creased the kid’s forehead as he nodded. “It’s going to be something like that, but only for a few seconds. Then it will go completely numb.”
The muscles in Michael’s cheeks bunched as his jaw clamped shut.
“You can scream as loud as you want. There’s nobody else in the emergency room right now, so you’re not going to bother anybody. Understand?”
Michael gave a single nod. His mother rolled her eyes and turned her face toward the wall.
Debbie handed the syringe to Ken and stepped up to the bedside. “Hold my hand, honey. It helps if you squeeze something.”
