Page 16 of Merry Mayhem
Just because this is my very tiny hometown and the traffic laws seem to be more guidelines than actual binding legal requirements doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be paying attention while I drive to my grandfather’s house for dinner.
I lift my hand in a tinyoops, sorrywave, and the guy in the truck waves back.
I start to proceed. But so does he. We slam on our brakes again.
I realize that it was probably his turn to go, but I’m more or less blocking his way now.
In my defense, I wasn’t looking at my phone screen or something. I was just lost in thought.
Sure, that’s also dangerous. But I wasn’t texting while driving, at least. And I’m definitely not under the influence. Not under the influence of anything other than annoyance at least. I’m trying to figure out how I can possibly see all of my patients on the day after Christmas, since they have now all asked to be rescheduled from the next two days to December twenty-sixth.
They act as if they just now realized when the dates for Merry Mayhem are.
Or just realized they want to be at Merry Mayhem.
Both of which are ridiculous.
Merry Mayhem has been happening on the twenty-second, twenty-third, and twenty-fourth of December for the past five years. And everyone in town always wants to go.
Should I have realized that these people were making physical therapy appointments with me on the twenty-second and twenty-third and that they would very likely be canceling? Maybe. But they’re grown adults. Why did they sign up for those timeslots if they knew they would rather be downtown watching the obstacle course or relay race?
Okay, fine, my receptionist, Lana, probably just told them, ‘See you on Wednesday’ rather than pointing out that it was December twenty-second.
Life in Rebel, Louisiana, is kind of a day-to-day thing for a lot of people.
Still, everyone’s been talking about Merry Mayhem for over a month.
My cousin Nora, Director of Parks and Recreation, and creator of Merry Mayhem—and a lot of the other mayhem that happens in town—has been sure that everyone is talking about this annual event.
The truck honks at me again.
I scowl at him. Then realize it’s not him honking. It’s the truck behind me. Because the red truck and I are just sitting in the middle of the intersection at a stalemate
I gesture for him to go. He lifts a hand in acknowledgement and turns right. Then I proceed through the intersection, following him down Main Street.
I don’t recognize his truck, and I get even more curious when he takes another right turn down the next street I need to take.
I follow him for three more blocks, and then my frown deepens as he pulls up at the curb in front of the house I’m headed to.
I pull into the driveway behind my parents’ car and shut off my Jeep.
All the lights are on in my grandfather’s house, and I know that I’m about to walk into a noisy, aromatic, boisterous gathering of my family. And this is just a regular weekday dinner. It’s nothing like Christmas dinner will be in a couple of days.
But I’m not thinking about dinner, or my growling stomach, or the fact that I am fifteen minutes late and will hear about it from my mother and my grandpa Bruce.
They do not understand—never have, even now that my grandpa Harley is in physical therapy himself—that my schedule is dictated more by when my patients decide to show up and how long they need to rehash the latest town gossip—there’s always something new—exchange recipes in the waiting area, and compare notes on their rehab progress before they get to any actual rehab.
They are all scheduled for hour-long time slots, but no one stays in my clinic for less than ninety minutes.
Of course, I can’t charge them for all of that time because most of it isn’t specifically physical therapy. But, as counterproductive as their chatting is for staying on myown personal schedule, I understand that their visiting and comparing notes about when their staples are coming out, and their range of motion measurements, and how far they walked the dog yesterday, all function as emotional and mental therapy, and that is just as important as the physical aspects I attend to.
“What is he doing?” I mutter as I watch the man from the red truck get out, grab a container off the front seat, then proceed up the front walk toward my grandfather’s front door.
But he stops at the top of the path before the porch steps and turns toward me. As if waiting for me to join him.
I sigh and tuck my keys into the front pocket of my bag and get out. Might as well see what this is about.
“Well, hey, Danger.”
