Page 66 of Every Good Thing
“The environment understands that I’m adapting… slowly.”
“The cast will help. We have an appointment Monday at ten. Dr. Rob Riley wants to take over your care.”
“Is he good?”
“He’s the Rolls Royce of doctors,” I reply, remembering John using the expression about my future implants.
She looks amused. “Is Rolls Royce still a thing?”
I grin. “In some circles… not ours. I love you.”
“Love you, too.” Her eyes catch the light as she looks toward me, and I think of firecrackers. “Now, eat. I don’t want you returning to the mayhem without a full stomach. Otherwise, you’ll get a migraine.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Eighteen
LENA
White tractor-trailers stream down the old country road the next morning, slowly managing wide turns into the driveway and lining the field closest to the road. The parade lasts almost a full hour. Ben and I watch from the upper deck, sipping coffee and cringing whenever the long trucks twist into the fence’s entrance. It’s a narrow turn, but they make it.
The driveway and field suffer some damage, though. A late-night storm rendered the ground soft, and the heavy trucks leave deep lines and mud tracks behind them.
“We’ll have to grate the driveway when this is over,” Ben says.
“No, they’ll grate the driveway,” I say, adding it to a mental list to discuss with the production manager, Elsie Todd.
“I should be down there.”
“We’d just be in the way. They’re the professionals,” I assure him. “I’m thinking of asking Cherry to design a logo for Saddletree… for the new van.”
“Good idea.” His green eyes latch on to me instead of watching the circus unfold. “We should go van shopping… but car shopping first. The Pilot’s totaled.”
I sigh. “I loved that car.”
“Would you love matching Jeeps?” He grins.
I perk up. “Oh, and we could take them off-roading together. Let’s go Jeep shopping after the appointment… or any shopping. We’re wealthy now.”
A bracing thud turns our attention back to the film crew, who have released the rear door of a tractor-trailer. A golf cart travels from the interior to the ground, followed by a forklift.
Ben grunts. “Looks like we’ll have many tire treads to worry about.”
“Not to worry about,” I counter, but he turns away and goes inside. Maybe he doesn’t hear me.
At ten, we meet Dr. Rob Riley in his swanky medical office near the hospital. He quickly examines my wrist—it’s shaped less sausage-like today, though still blotchy with bruises. He reviews the x-rays and shows me exercises to do when possible. My fingers and hand barely move today, but he promises some range of motion in a week. I smirk at Ben, watching nearby, as Dr. Riley demonstrates the movements.
“It’s ASL,” I say.
“Similar. You know ASL?” Dr. Riley asks.
“Yes, we use it in our house along with audible speech,” I say proudly.
Dr. Riley nods. “That’s our Ben. He likes to be prepared.”
I cringe internally at “our Ben” as if he’s property belonging to everyone. Are all the Rileys this possessive over him?
“Ready to shoot some?” he asks Ben.
