Page 93 of This Is How It Started
“Yes,” I say. “If they’ll have me.” I gaze around the room. “Will you guys come?”
“Do I have to?” Adam grins, and Hannah swats his head.
“Of course we’ll come,” she says. “Mom, too, even if she’s in a wheelchair.” Which I think will probably be the case.
We’re the only ones in the ER eating, but that’s the Golds for you. No place is too sacred for a nosh. The cute guy returns Mom to the room, and we wait for the doctor to come with her results.
Brooke pops in again, takes one look at our sandwiches and lets out an exasperated breath. “Any news yet?”
“Still waiting,” I say.
Mom is dozing, which sort of worries me, given that we haven’t exactly been quiet. Brooke checks her pulse on the screen and gives me a thumbs-up.
“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” she says. “I’m off shift. You want me to stick around?” It’s her way of offering to help without intruding.
“Nah, go home and relax,” I tell her and realize that it’s not because I’m trying to rush her off or keep her at arm’s length. It’s because Brooke looks tired and the rest of us have got this.
“Okay, but call if anything comes up.”
When she leaves and is well out of earshot, Adam says, “I guess we’re all one big happy family now.”
Not quite,I think. But something tells me that we’re moving in that direction.
* * * *
Mom’s hip isn’t broken, just sprained, which seems like a miracle given all the swelling. The doctor said she’ll have to stay off it until it heals. Treatment includes copious amounts of ice and elevation. Because she has a mild concussion, she can’t take anti-inflammatories for a while.
“I think I’ll take a shower,” my mother says as soon as we get to her townhouse. I’ve been elected to stay with her tonight.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea. You’re not supposed to be on your bad leg.”
“So I’ll sit.”
I know better than to argue with her, so I help her to the bathroom, which is as large as most San Francisco apartments. Together, we get her undressed. Her shower is the size of a one-car garage and has a built-in bench. I manage to half lift her in, get her situated on the seat and turn the water on without getting soaking wet.
I find a fresh towel in the linen closet and make myself at home on her vanity stool while she bathes, occasionally pressing my face to the shower glass to make sure she isn’t sprawled on the marble floor.
“How’s it going in there?”
“It’s delicious and just what I needed.”
“Let me know when you want me to turn the water off.”
“Five more minutes.”
The mirrors are fogging, so I turn on the fan and open a window. “Are you hungry?” Unlike us, Mom didn’t have a sandwich at the hospital.
“Maybe we’ll order something from the Chinese restaurant down the street and have it delivered. What do you think?”
I’m not hungry but I say, “Sure” anyway.
“It’ll be like a slumber party,” my mother coos. “Were Saul and Pauline terribly disappointed?”
“I think so. But I promised to light a candle here, and that seemed to make them feel better about it. Josie volunteered B’nai Israel. You think if we borrow a wheelchair from someone you can go?”
“Oh, I can just hobble in on the crutches the hospital gave me.”
I lean into the shower and turn the water off before my mother turns into a prune. “Time to dry off.” I hand her the towel and go in search of pajamas. On second thought, a nightgown will probably be easier.
