In Front of God and Everybody (31 page)

“No,” Mama said, “She has come down with a cold this morning, and she won't leave her house until she is sure she's no longer contagious. You know Mama Grace.”

“She said used up a whole box and a half of Kleenex day before yesterday,” I put in.

Isabel shook her head. “And she won't see a doctor.”

“You know Grandma,” Myra Sue said.

“Stubborn to the very core,” said Mama.

“And then some,” I added. “I just hope she don't get the pneumonia.”

“When I called to tell her about your accident, she said to tell you she's praying for your quick recovery,” Mama told Isabel.

Isabel lay back against the pillows and sighed. “That's kind of her. But after everything I've been through in the last eight hours . . .”

Her voice trailed into nothing as Ian came into the room. He looked worse for wear, let me tell you—all wrinkled and droopy, with bags under his pale blue eyes and his shirt half untucked. Ian usually looks well-groomed, even in work clothes. Right then his wispy blond hair was wispier than ever and he had mud on his shoes. He saw us and smiled a little bit. Ian's not so bad once you get used to him.

“Afternoon,” he said wearily. I have to say, we three Reilly females greeted him with a lot more enthusiasm than his wife did.

“Is that my coffee?” Isabel said to him without so much as a howdy-do. Have I told you yet that she can be rude? R-u-d-e, rude.

“Yes. I had them brew it fresh for you at Gourmet Coffee, just like you told me.” He peeled back the little tab on the lid. Steam came out and the smell of coffee temporarily overcame the icky stink of medicine and sick people.

“There's a coffee vending machine at the end of the hall,” I told him. “Right next to the machine that sells potato chips and gum and Oreos.”

He gave me a tight smile. “She didn't want that.”

“Oh.” Enough said.

“And where are my cigarettes?” Isabel took the Styrofoam cup from him.

Ole Isabel says she's going to quit smoking, but your guess is as good as mine as to when that will be.

Ian hesitated. “Your doctor said you must not smoke until he's sure you're all right,” he said finally. “You might have injured your lungs in that accident, lambkins.”

She glared at him from her black and blue eyes.

“Have a little pity, can't you? I am in deadly pain, I've totally lost the use of one arm, and I haven't had a cigarette since . . . since . . .” Her look of outrage fled as panic replaced it. “Oh! Oh! I can't remember the last time I had a cigarette.”

She leaned toward Ian in desperation, “I might have brain damage, darling! Oh! Oh, please don't leave me, darling!”

See what I mean about High Drama? Good grief.

“Oh,
Isabel
!” hollered Myra Sue, as if someone was taking out her own personal appendix without her permission.

“You're recovering from a wreck, Isabel, so it's only natural to have a little memory lapse or two,” Mama said soothingly, a complete Voice of Reason.

“Yes, lamb,” Ian murmured, all sweet and kind. “The doctor said your concussion was mild.”

He tried to smooth her messy hair but she jerked her head away.

“A lot you care. Or know. And I can remember just fine what happened right up until I . . . until I . . .”

It was obvious the way she visibly grasped for memories that she couldn't remember right up until Whatever. I tried to help.

“Why don't you just tell us what you remember, then maybe all the rest of it will come back to you?”

She dragged her pitiful, bruised gaze from her mister and looked at me. When her swollen lips parted in a smile, I saw where her two front teeth were chipped. I wondered if she knew about that. I bet she didn't, because if she did, she would already be screeching for a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon to give her a mouth transplant.

“You always have the
best
ideas, April,” she said.