Can I See You Again? (27 page)

“What the hell is this all about?” Randi slings the
Close-Up
article onto my desk the following morning, scattering my paperwork onto the floor.

Gee, if only I were an expert in body language and truly understood Randi's feelings.

“Bree?” Andrew covers the office phone's mouthpiece with his hand.

Um . . . Andrew, I'm kinda busy at the moment.

“You better have a damn good, like bloodsucking-aliens-snatched-you-into-space-and-replaced-your-brain-with-an-idiot's, excuse. That's the only explanation I will accept.”

“I realize how things look, but—”

“I don't think you have a fucking clue.” Her abrasive tone is enough to strip the enamel from my teeth. “Candace is furious. Lucy Hanover retracted her endorsement. Three quarters of our presolds canceled. People are questioning the
National Tribune
's ethics for not vetting you closely enough.
I look like an asshole for representing you. And the publisher is threatening to sue. Sue. So.” She leans closer and says with a clamped jaw, “You better find a way to crawl out of the goddamn hole you've gotten us into.”

“Bree, it's important.” Andrew points at the phone.

“What is it with him always interrupting us? Whatever it is, it can wait,” Randi barks.

Andrew ignores her. “You need to take this, Bree. It's San Diego Medical Center. It's about Jo.”

I'm out of the office before Randi screams another word. I zip through the streets, passing cars with the speed and expertise of a race car driver, pushing aside my fears and memories of driving. My focus is on the path to Jo.

The emergency room's lobby is filled with patients waiting to be seen. I'm sure the construction worker and his bandage-wrapped hand, the older gentleman with a sour cough, the middle schooler clutching his swollen elbow, or any of the others waiting are important, but I don't care. I need to see Jo.

“Excuse me.” I lean through the patient window, grabbing the attention of the nearest admitting nurse. “I'm here to see Jo Caxton.
C-A-X-T-O-N.
I'm her granddaughter. Is she okay? Please tell me she's okay.”

“Ma'am, have a seat. We'll be with you in a moment.” Other nurses scurry behind her answering phones, reviewing charts, pushing random buttons on their computers.

“No, I don't want to sit. And I don't have a moment.” Urgency charges through my body in a way I've never experienced. I want to grab the nurse and shake her like a rag doll until I get my answer.
Where is my grandmother? Where?
I've never felt so helpless, so out of control. Never felt such
need
.

“We'll get to you as soon as we can.”

“No, please. Tell me what happened. Tell me she's okay.”

“I'm sorry, but the HIPAA laws—”

“Fuck the HIPAA laws!”

Her eyes widen with shock.

“I'm sorry. I just need to know, something, anything.” Streams of tears slide down my cheeks. “She's my grandmother. We fought the last time we saw each other and now she's here. Angry with me. Can't you just tell me if she's all right?”

What if she isn't? What if the last time we spoke, it ended in a fight? Just like I did with Mom and Dad.

The nurse pats my hand. “Let me find her chart.”

I'm not a spiritual person. Never spent much time in church. Never knelt bedside and folded my hands in prayer. I've taken the Lord's name in vain more often than not. But now I'm reaching out, hoping it's true, hoping he is listening like his followers always claim. Now I'm silently praying,
Please, God, let Jo be okay. Let her sit up and yell at me, tell me how awful I've been. It's okay if she hates me, just don't take her from me like this. Please, God, please let Jo be okay.

I wait, chastising myself for the person I've become. The lies I've spun. The people I've hurt. Several minutes pass and I'm tempted to climb through the window, track Jo down myself, when the nurse calls me from across the room.

She ushers me through a set of double doors and pulls me into a used exam room, clutching a chart against her chest. “I'm not supposed to do this, but I recognize you from the newspaper. I just love following your story. I haven't read yesterday's edition, so don't tell me what happens.”

Who cares about the damn article?
The fallout from the interview seems a million miles away. “How's my grandmother?”

“Right. I spoke with her doctor. Your grandmother suffered
a fall at her home. She tripped over a rug in the kitchen. They're monitoring her for a concussion. The good news is her fall activated her Life Alert and the paramedics arrived within minutes. She's been under our care since almost immediately after the incident.”

“Did she break anything? Can she walk?”

“I'm sorry. That's all I know.”

“May I see her?”

“The doctor said just for a moment.”

“Where?”

The nurse refers to her notes, then says, “Far end of the hall, last room on your right, number one thirteen.”

I hurry down the cold, sterile hallway bordered with curtain-drawn exam rooms. I dash past bleeping machines, medical carts, lab-coated doctors, and blue-scrubbed nurses who zoom in and out of my path. The smell of bleach, blood, and fear floats through the air. My breath quickens with each step.

But as I reach the door of room 113, I stop, petrified to enter. At once, I'm taken back to the last time I visited a hospital. The night my father lay on the operating table where the doctors clamped, sutured, pumped, but nothing saved him. Mom was already gone.

Just like that night, I inch through the door, terrified of what I'll learn.

This time, Jo's not hunched over and sobbing. This time, she lies in bed with her eyes closed and a blanket draped over her thin body. A fist-sized bandage is taped above her left eye. She's connected to a web of tubes and monitors. An IV is strapped to her age-spotted left hand. Her right wrist is wrapped in a splint.

Sweet Jo.

The female doctor—who looks no older than a Girl Scout—lifts her stethoscope from Jo's chest.

Another nurse stands behind the doctor, adjusting the tubing of Jo's clear-fluid drip.

“You must be the granddaughter.”

“How is she?”

“She's stable. She suffered a supraorbital ridge laceration, a possible concussion, and a distal third scaphoid fracture.”

I'm sorry, what?

The doctor recognizes my confusion.

“Cut her forehead. Bumped her head. Broke her wrist. We stitched her up and now are monitoring for any peculiarities, as her blood pressure spiked quite high upon her arrival. We're waiting for the CT scan results to rule out a concussion.” She lays her hand on Jo's splint. “But all in all, the scaphoid is minimally displaced, mitigating the need for surgery. I think with a short cast and a lot of rest she'll recover quite well.”

“Okay, that's good.” Relief pours through my body. I step closer to the bed. “May I . . . speak to her?”

“Sure, but only for a couple of minutes.”

“Hi, Jo.” My voice cracks as I slide her hair from her eyes, careful not to touch the swollen spot. “I don't know if you can hear me. I don't know if you even
want
to hear me, but I'm here. I'm right next to you. You're going to be okay.” I want to scoop her into my arms and squeeze away her pain. But she looks so frail I'm afraid she'll crumble like one of the dried-out sand dollars I collected. I slide the blanket to her waist and make a mental note to bring her favorite throw from home.

If she were to sit up, what would she say? What does she see when looking at me?

Please be okay, Jo. Please. You're all I've got.

“I'm sorry, but she needs her rest,” the nurse says, standing at the door.

“Please let me stay. I won't make a sound. I can sleep on this chair.”

She steps fully inside the room. “Wait a second. You're Bree Caxton, from the
Close-Up
article?”

“Yes, I am.” Who knows, maybe my fifteen minutes of fame will pay off and she'll let me stay. Maybe she hasn't seen yesterday's article.

“People are pissed at you.”

Or maybe she has.

“Yes, that's what I'm told.” I stare at my feet, then offer a coy plea. “So, can I stay? Please?”

“Sorry, but hospital policy doesn't allow it.” She shrugs. “I don't have the authority to say otherwise. But we'll call you if there's any change.”

“Promise? No matter what, you'll call?” I realize that I sound like a child, but I can't help it. I
feel
like a child. Helpless. Confused. Scared. I want to climb into the bed and snuggle with Jo, smell the black cherry on her lips.

The nurse pulls Jo's chart from the slot near the door. “I almost forgot. The paramedics said something about a dog left at the patient's residence. They're asking if they should call animal control.”

Martin.

I glance at Jo and almost smile.
Did you do this on purpose? Even asleep, you get the last laugh.
“No, don't call animal control. I'll take care of him, thank you.”

“All right, then.”

“What time can I come back in the morning?”

“Eight a.m.”

“Okay. Call if anything changes.” I rattle off my cell phone number.

“We will.” She pats me on the back and escorts me through
the door. I start to walk away when she calls after me, “You know, it's too bad.”

I spin around. “What is?”

“You and Nick. I really thought you two were perfect together.”

I pull up at Jo's curb when Sean calls me.

“Hey.”

“It's as if you fell off the face of the earth. I phoned and texted you several times. Andrew said you left the office this morning in a hurry. I saw the paper. Everything all right?”

“Jo fell. She's in the hospital.”

“Is she okay?”

“I think so, but she cut her head and broke her wrist.”

“Want me to come?”

“No, that's okay. I'm picking up Martin, then heading home.”

“When can I see you? Like I said, we're no longer a secret. All of America read that article. My phone's been ringing all day. My friends are stoked. Except Mom. She didn't like learning of our engagement through the article.” He laughs. “We'll have some damage control there.”

“Yeah, can we talk later?” I haven't explained the escalator clause fiasco and don't feel like doing it now. “I'm at Jo's house now. And I don't want to miss a call from the hospital.”

We hang up and I grab the newspaper off Jo's doormat, then slide the key into the lock. Prepared for Martin to lunge at my feet, I grip the
National Tribune
tight, ready to swat his little ass out of the way.

But when I open the door, Martin's not there.

“Martin?” I step into the kitchen. There's a pool of dried blood on the floor next to the wrinkled kitchen rug. Must be where Jo fell.
Oh my God. Poor thing.

I right Jo's toppled-over chair, then check the dining room for her fuzzy buddy.

“Martin? Come here, boy.” I check the living room, too, but he's nowhere. I'm about to leave Jo's bedroom, uncertain what to do, when I see the tip of his tail poking out from underneath the bed.

He's shaking.

“Hey, Martin.” I crouch to my knees and touch his tail. Slowly, I slide my hand toward his back and stroke his soft fur. He doesn't bark or growl, just trembles. “It's okay, little fella.” I curl my hands underneath his body and gently pull him out from under the bed. He doesn't jump out of my hands. He doesn't claw at my face. He doesn't growl. The six-pound fur ball falls limp as I clutch him against my chest. “I miss her, too. She's gonna be okay.”

She has to be.

I gather his leash, dog food, bones, chew toys, and his favorite bed. I climb into the car and set him on the passenger seat.

Martin whines, then hops into my lap and curls into a ball.

“Okay, you can stay here.” I pat his head.

Martin and I arrive at my house and I set his things on the kitchen floor, filling his food and water bowls. He's not hungry.

Nor am I.

Martin follows me into the living room, where I plop on the couch and call the hospital.

The nurse tells me there's been no change, that Jo's resting comfortably and that they would call if necessary.

I glance down at Martin, who sits by my feet. He doesn't crawl into his bed or eat his food. He doesn't bark or growl. He doesn't gnaw the skin off my ankles. Instead, he stares at me with heartbroken eyes.

“You want up?” I reach for him and settle him into my lap. The two of us lie there on the couch, missing the most important person in both of our lives. Worst of all, we're unable to help. Nothing we can do but wait.

Worried about Jo, I'm up half the night. So my seven a.m. alarm jars me from a deep sleep. I hop into the shower, throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, brush my teeth, and wrap my hair in a loose bun. I feed Martin and take him for a walk, where he sniffs and piddles on every single bush around my block. Once I'm certain he's exhausted and will sleep while I'm gone, I toss him his bone. “Okay, little buddy, I'm gonna check on Jo.”

Martin lifts his ears as if he understands.

“I'll be back later. Be a good boy. And by
good boy
I don't mean eating my ficus leaves. Or chewing up my
other
flip-flop.”

With her favorite throw in hand, I grow nervous, uncertain how she'll react to seeing me. After our conversation at her door, I fear our relationship is in jeopardy.

But I'm not giving up.

I text Andrew, asking him to cancel my appointments for the day.

Who am I kidding? Since the article released, I have no appointments.

A few minutes later, I knock on her opened door and walk inside.

A different and older doctor stands by her bed.

“Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“No problem. We're just giving Ms. Caxton a quick peek.” He checks her pupils and heart rate, then lifts the tape to check her laceration.

She's awake. There is color to her cheeks and a clean bandage on her head. But she doesn't look in my direction. Doesn't wave. Doesn't wiggle a pinkie.

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, what's your pain level?”

“About a four,” Jo says. “I'm real tired and sore and feel like an idiot for slipping on my fanny, but other than that I guess I'm okay.”

“Well, that's to be expected. You're certainly not an idiot, but your body did suffer a great deal of shock.” He checks the mobility of her fingers. “Depending on how your wrist looks once the swelling is down, we'll address the cast situation.” He wraps the stethoscope around his neck. “You had one heck of a scare. We want to monitor you for another couple of days, but if you keep at this same pace, you'll recover quite well.”

“Thank you.”

I say the same.

“My pleasure.” He nods and steps out of the room.

“So . . . hi . . . Jo,” I say with trepidation. “How are you feeling?”

“Didn't you hear what I told the doctor?” She presses at the tape of her IV.

“Yes, well . . . I brought you this.” I show her the blanket.

“I'm not cold.”

“Okay, I'll just set it on this chair.”
Next to my sorrowful heart.

A stocky male dressed in scrubs walks inside with a huge bouquet of yellow daisies, carnations, and roses. “Someone's got an admirer.”

Damn. I didn't even think about sending flowers.

“Well, now, aren't they beautiful. I have to admit, I laid here a bit depressed in this boring old hospital room. Nothing but tubes and monitors and cheesy wallpaper. Flowers just liven up the place. Don't you think?”

“Where do you want them?”

“On the table over there is fine. Read the card. Tell me who they're from.”

The attendant says, “From your family at Life Alert.”

“Those gals are so sweet.”

“Have a good day, ladies.”

Jo smiles at the bouquet.

“So.”
Yoo-hoo! I'm over here.
“I thought you should know I have Martin and—”

“You have him?” She grips the bedrail. “Dear Lord, I've been worried sick. The nurse said a young lady picked him up, but seeing how you don't like Martin, I figured someone else had him. Where is he? How is he?”

“He's at my house. I fed him and took him for a long walk before I came. He's fine—so comfortable, in fact, he chewed up my favorite flip-flop.”

“Don't worry. I'll call one of my friends to pick him up straightaway.”

“No, no, I didn't like those flip-flops anyway. Martin's no trouble. I'm happy to have him. I want to have him.”

“He's very important to me.”

“I know that, Jo.”

The air is silent and awkward between us.

I suppose there's no reason to dance around the elephant in the room. She's mad. I feel bad. Let's get this shit worked out.

“Jo, I want to apologize again for the article and the lies. I want to explain—”

“I'm tired. I need to rest.”

Or not.

“You'll take care of Martin?”

“Yes, of course.”

She closes her eyes and folds her hands across her belly.

“Sure, right. I'll go.” I walk out wanting to press the code blue lever.
I need a doctor. STAT.
Someone to suture my broken heart.

At least now I know. My questions are definitely confirmed. Jo never looked me in the eye. Not once.

Just like the rest of America, she hates me.