Page 75 of Freak
Breaking the stillness, Badger said, “Vote it.”
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~oOo~
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“Careful, careful. Letme help, hon.”
He gave her some of his weight and let her help.
Five days after that dark meeting in the hospital chapel, four days after Len and Bart shoved a trussed-up Kellen into the club van and drove him to Montana, and two hours after the Horde buried Saxon, Abigail guided Mel up the steps to her back porch.
He was on his feet, but he wouldn’t be doing anything fancy, like standing straight up, or walking at what could be called a regular pace, for a while. Dr. Gladwell—whom Mel would always think of as Dr. Doogie—had said he shouldn’t be on his own for at least a couple weeks, and Abigail had immediately offered to bring him to her house.
Mel considered the idea a sweet cherry, hot fudge sauce, and coconut sprinkles on the shit sundae of his recovery, so he’d agreed to it at once. Being pampered by this Earth Mother of a woman would almost be worth getting shot by maybe a brother and then gutted by a doctor.
Climbing the steps to this porch, however, had made him reconsider how much silver there was in this lining. There weren’t any steps in the clubhouse. He could’ve moved into his room there for a while and had a nonstop parade of club girls to see to his recuperative needs.
But that thought held no appeal. He didn’t want a parade of club girls anymore.
And he’d made it to the porch, anyway.
Abigail shooed the cats out from under their feet and led Mel into her house, through the kitchen, past the dining room, past the staircase to the second floor, past the front room, and down the short hallway to her grandmother’s room.
This door had been closed as long as Mel had had access to the interior of Abigail’s home, but now it was open, and the room was bright and neat. It was clearly an old lady’s room, with a full-size maple spindle bed, pale blue floral wallpaper, and about a hundred quilts—only a slight exaggeration—laid on the bed, hanging on a rail at the end of the bed, hanging on the walls, and stuffing an open armoire in the corner. The pale pink, old-fashioned recliner that had been in the front room was now in a corner between the window and the bed, with a neat stack of bedding on the seat.
The bed itself was crisply made with smooth white linens and fluffed pillows. On the nightstand sat one of her stoneware pitchers and a small Mason jar as a glass. A little stack of Zane Grey paperbacks rested next to the milk glass lamp.
She’d assembled a sickroom for him. Mel was both charmed by her thoughtfulness and depressed to need it. But either way, loving this woman and being loved by her was the best medicine in the world.
The bed was turned down, ready for him, and honestly, after more than an hour sitting in her ancient truck coming back from the hospital—she’d driven like she was afraid he’d shatter at the slightest bump, and that truck had a ride like a cement mixer—then almost two hours at Saxon’s funeral and burial, and the ride up here from town, and the slog across her yard and up the porch steps, he was damn sore and damn tired.
“Sit down, hon,” Abigail said, pushing him lightly toward the bed. “Let’s get your shoes off. And anything else you don’t want to wear in bed.”
“Just shoes,” he said. He was wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a zip hoodie. Basically pajamas, anyway. He hated that he couldn’t reach his fucking shoes, but his belly was stapled together, not to mention the parts that had been sewn up or cut out inside. He was going to need more time to climb out of the invalid hole.
She got his sneakers off and helped him lift his legs—no sit-ups in his near future—onto the bed. Once she had him tucked in, she picked up the pitcher and filled the glass with water. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? I stocked up on foods you can eat. I can make us something good, and we could watch a movie while we eat.”
With that she nodded at the bureau on the wall facing the bed. Atop it was a 25” tube TV/VCR combo that belonged in the Smithsonian. A small bookcase beside the bureau was stuffed with VHS tapes.
Laughing—carefully—Mel caught her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “I love you, Abs. I love the way you take care. Right now, all I want is for you to get in here with me so we can be close and fuckingquiet. Just you and me, finally.”
That was the thing about hospitals—they were the farthest thing from restful. Bright, noisy, and full of people waking you up to stick things into places you’d prefer they didn’t. He didn’t understand how anybody got well in a hospital.
Smiling, Abigail leaned down to kiss his forehead. Then she kicked off her shoes, walked around to the other side of the bed, and climbed gently in.
A full-size bed wasn’t really built for two, but that was just fine with him. He pulled her in close, tucked her head under his chin, and closed his eyes.
What he needed right now was only this: love and peace.
