There Was an Old Woman (15 page)

Chapter Forty

Mina felt warm, buoyant, like she was floating in bathwater, oddly out of kilter and misconnected like one of those Picasso portraits with the drooping eyes. She was surrounded by people in white. Angels? The joke would be on her if there turned out to be any.

Beep, beep, beep.
Beyond the figures huddled over her she caught glimpses of neon-green lines tracing out wave patterns.

One of the figures was bending over her now. She felt pressure on her side. A pull on her leg. Stronger pulling.
Pop.
She felt it ripple down her leg and across her pelvis. A moment, just a moment of what she diagnosed as pain. Lightning zapping through her.

Beep-beep-beep.
The sound accelerated.

“There. It's back in.” A man's voice.

“Blood pressure's a hundred and thirty-five over eighty.” A woman's voice.

“I've got it.” A man's. Pressure on her arm. A pinch.

There.
Moments later Mina settled. Her Picasso eye was in alignment now. She felt her leg being lifted, bent, straightened.

“Looking good.” The man's voice again, the words reaching her as if through wads of cotton batting. Like the soft diapers her mother used for years to dust the furniture, until they turned to shreds.

Mina felt herself moving now, ceiling lights streaming overhead like the white lines on a highway. Into the elevator. Doors closing.
Home.
Mina was sure she could hear her own voice.
Take me home.

But when she woke up later, who knew how much later, she was in a hospital room.

“Mrs. Yetner?” Was that Brian's voice? Why would he be calling her that? “Can you hear me?”

Mina opened her eyes. A man was stooped over her and silhouetted against the sun, which was low in the sky and shining in through a window. A hospital window. The man had on a white coat, but his face was a blur. All Mina could make out was that he had a full beard.

“I'm Dr. Milner. How are you feeling?”

Mina's tongue felt thick, and her throat was raw. She reached out a hand, groping for her glasses on the table by the bed.

“Here. Let me help you with those.” He slid on her glasses and smiled down at her. White teeth. The beard was neatly clipped. He couldn't possibly be more than twenty-five. “Are you in pain?” he asked.

Was she? She'd felt worse. She gave her head a tiny shake.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

That made Mina smile. She remembered the many times she'd watched the staff at Pelham Manor ask Annabelle that question, and the day when she'd answered, “Anne Shirley.” Not too long after that Annabelle couldn't come up with an answer to that question at all.

Mina cleared her throat. “Wilhelmina Yetner.” It came out weak but clear.

“Excellent. Do you know what happened to you?”

Of course she knew what happened. “I fell. In the parking lot. Idiot driver.” She looked around and made a guess on the answer to the question he'd be asking next. “Bronx Memorial Hospital.”

He chuckled.

“Your turn,” she said. “How am I?”

“Dislocated your hip, I'm sorry to say.”

Mina knew which hip it was. The one that had been replaced. The one on the side that was starting to throb. Her arms were scraped raw, too, she could tell, but it could have been much worse.

“Has that happened before?” the doctor asked.

“Never.” She was always careful not to overflex, to never go beyond the ninety-degree angle as her surgeon had warned her.

“Well, it's back where it belongs now. You took a nasty tumble, but I don't see why you shouldn't expect a full recovery. We were concerned about your blood pressure. It was very low when you came in. Then it spiked during reduction. We're pretty sure that was from the shock of the accident, but we're going to keep you overnight to monitor your vital signs and make sure it's all systems go.”

Just overnight? Well, thank goodness for that. “So I'll live?”

“Absolutely.” He unhooked her from a monitor, lowered the mattress, and cranked up the back. “And now, we need to get you up and about. The sooner the better.”

The royal “we.” The staff in the home talked to Annabelle like that, too. Like she was a toddler.

He brought over a walker. Another milestone on the slippery slope to infirmity.

She pushed back the covers, took the hand he offered her, and pulled herself up. Slowly, gingerly, she inched her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet dangled inches from the floor, and for a moment she could see Annabelle's feet and legs, the way they'd grown childlike and slack from disuse near the end. Better to die than waste away like that.

Mina summoned her strength and pressed her feet to the floor. She half expected the doctor to say
upsadaisy
as she shifted her weight to her good leg. Holding on to the walker, she shifted her weight gradually to the other side, too, worried that the ball would slip out of the socket again. But it held, and though it was sore, the pain was tolerable.

“No deep knee bends, now,” the doctor said, backing up so she could move forward under her own steam. “But normal movement shouldn't be a problem. If we need to, we can get you fitted with a hip brace.”

A hip brace? She'd just as soon not. Mina leaned into the walker and stepped forward with one foot. Then the other. Lifted the walker and moved it forward, thinking all the while of the old people at Pelham Manor tethered to their walkers and oxygen tanks. She gritted her teeth and took another step forward. The walker did make her feel more stable.

“Terrific,” the doctor said, watching her with a critical eye.

What was terrific was that she could shuffle her way to the bathroom and take care of her own business. When someone had to wipe for her, she'd be ready to check out.

By the time Mina was back in bed, she was sweating from exertion. She collapsed, shivering against the pillows. Accepted some pain medication. The doctor was tapping at a computer when she closed her eyes for what she thought would be a few moments.

“Aunt Mina?” This time it
was
Brian's voice.

Mina opened her eyes. The bed was still cranked up, but now it was dark out. Brian was standing by her bed. Her purse sat on the tray table. Beside it Brian set her key ring. Mina squinted at it. Something looked different. Then she got it. Her car keys had been removed.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore. A little shaky. Not so bad, considering. Where are my car keys?”

“I drove your car home and left it parked in your garage,” he said, eyeing her coolly and taking a sip from a paper coffee cup.

“I want my car keys.” She extended her hand, palm up. “Now.” No matter how hard she stared at it, her hand still trembled. Damn him. She was not about to beg.

“That car isn't safe. What is it, thirty years old? And you shouldn't be driving it.”

Mina felt her jaw trembling as she tried to stare him down. “I have never gotten a speeding ticket. Ever. Or had a single accident. And
I
don't drink.” What did he think, that she'd forgotten the DUI that got his license suspended a while back? Or maybe he was still insisting that the police had singled him out, that he'd barely tested intoxicated after his car spontaneously accelerated and that fire hydrant took out the front quarter panel of his precious Mercedes. He'd had to “borrow” money from her to make the repairs—money that she'd long ago kissed good-bye.

“Facts are facts, Brian,” Mina went on. “I am a safe driver—”

“—who can't remember where she parked her car.”

“Well . . . that . . .”

“Who walks oblivious behind parked cars.”

“Really, Brian, I don't think you're being fair.”

“Fair? I'm sorry, Aunt Mina,” Brian said, though there wasn't a drop of remorse in his tone. “But, as you are so fond of saying, facts are facts. Seems crystal clear to me. If you can't find your car, you shouldn't be driving one.”

Mina pushed herself upright, wincing at the dull ache that pulsed through her side. She shifted to find the least uncomfortable position. “Thank you very much for your concern, Brian, but I can take care of myself. I'm not a child, you know.”

For a moment, he actually looked wounded. “Well, neither am I, in case you haven't noticed.” He pulled over a molded plastic chair and sat in it, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking the chair back on two back legs. Of course he was doing that deliberately. He knew she'd remember the time he'd leaned back like that one Thanksgiving dinner and cracked her mother's dining room chair legs.

He stared down his nose at her. “There will come a time, and I'm afraid it's not in the too distant future, when you're going to want . . .
need
to move somewhere more appropriate.”

Appropriate.
Appropriate?
Mina seethed. “You are not in charge of my life.”

Brian gave a heavy sigh. “Sadly, no one is. That's what scares me.” The chair creaked ominously as he leaned back still farther, as if taunting her.

“Sit properly, Brian,” Mina said. She plucked a tissue from the box by the bed and blew her nose. “It doesn't matter. Keep the keys. You should probably have a set anyway. I have copies.”

“Of course you do.” He leaned forward, setting the chair straight and narrowing his eyes at her. “But do you remember where you put them?”

Mina's vision blurred and her throat started to close, but she refused to cry. Absolutely refused. She could hear her mother's voice:
There is a little bit of good in the worst of us and a little bit of bad in the best of us.
She wasn't sure if Brian was one of the worst, but he was a boatload of arrogant, smug, and annoying.

Brian's look softened. “Aunt Mina, let's not fight. I don't want you to hurt yourself. Or worse, for you to hurt someone else. Imagine how you'd feel.”

She wanted to slap that smirk off his face. “I am not going to live in one of those . . . places. If you think I am, then you've got another think coming. As soon as I'm fit again, I am going home.”

“Fit? You've got to be—” Brian stopped. He pinned her with a hard look, and after a moment of stony silence, he said, “Yes. Fine. I agree. You're going home.”

Mina was too stunned to reply.

“Tomorrow, most likely,” Brian continued into the silence. “I'll arrange for someone to stay with you and help out for a while. Until you can get around on your own.”

Mina felt breathless, as if a closed door she'd been pressing against had suddenly been pulled open on her and she'd gone tumbling, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

“What's the matter?” Brian said. “I thought that's what you wanted?”

“It is. Of course it is.”

“I know when to stop beating a dead horse.” Mina winced at his analogy. “Besides, it's your life. And who's to say, maybe you're right.” He glanced at his watch. “I've got to go.” He stood, fished Mina's car keys from his pocket, and threaded them back on the key ring. “Here,” he said, tossing the key ring on the tray table. “Drive, if you insist. Be my guest.”

Mina snatched the keys before he could change his mind. She knew he was up to something.

Chapter Forty-one

It was dark out by the time Evie left the ICU with Ginger. Now she knew what “serious but stable” condition looked like. They left their phone numbers stuck to their mother's chart at the nurses' station.

As they rode down in the elevator, Ginger said, “I feel so awful about saddling you with all this. Insisting that you come and take charge. I didn't realize it would be like this. That she'd . . .” Ginger swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand and fished a tissue out of her purse. She dabbed at her eyes, then continued. “It was me that Mom especially asked Mrs. Yetner to call. And now she's in a coma that she may never come out of. And I can't remember what the last thing I said to her was.” She blew her nose. “It was weeks ago, and I'd been so relieved she wasn't calling and waking us up in the middle of the night that it never occurred to me that something might be, you know, wrong.”

They got out in the lobby. Evie looked around the cavernous space, so much emptier and quieter now than it had been when they arrived. A siren wailed outside.

“Love you, Ma,” Evie said. She felt exhausted.

“What?”

“That's what I'm sure you said to her. It's what you always say last.”

“Oh, God, I hope so.”

“I know so. Because you're the good daughter.” Evie hooked her arm in Ginger's and gave her a zerbert on the cheek. “You go home. I'm going to find Mrs. Yetner. She's been so kind to me and she doesn't have much family, only a nephew. Then I'll go back up to check on Mom to see if anything's changed before heading home.”

“Promise you'll call me if there's anything?”

“Promise.” Evie went to the information desk to find Mrs. Yetner's room number. When she got back, Ginger was drying her eyes.

“I'm coming with you,” Ginger said.

“You don't need to do that.”

“Yes, I do. Mom told Mrs. Yetner to call me.”

Evie and Ginger took the elevator to the third floor, General Medical. As they got closer to the open door, a man Evie recognized as Mrs. Yetner's nephew backed into the corridor. “I'll see you tomorrow.” He turned and almost ran smack into Evie and Ginger.

“How is she?” Evie asked.

“Feisty as ever.” Brian glanced over his shoulder into Mrs. Yetner's room, then back at Evie. “I guess I'd be a lot more worried if she wasn't.” He strode off down the hall.

Evie went to the open door and peered inside. Mrs. Yetner was lying in the raised hospital bed, facing away from the door.

“Hello?” Evie said. “Can we come in?”

Mrs. Yetner turned her head. “Oh! It's you.” She gestured Evie into the room. She was as pale as the bedsheets, but her eyes were as clear and sharp as ever.

Evie went over to the bed. “I ran into your nephew. He said you fell? That you had surgery?”

“Surgery?” Mrs. Yetner seemed to summon her dignity, sitting straighter, but a spasm of pain stopped her. “Not exactly. They put me out and snapped me back together. My artificial hip.”

Evie winced, thinking of the pop beads she and Ginger used to play with.

“Painful but not life threatening. Unfortunately for Brian.”

“Hi, Mrs. Yetner,” Ginger said, coming from behind Evie and approaching the bed. Gently she took Mrs. Yetner's hand. “You remember me?”

Mrs. Yetner's eyes widened. “Ginger? Of course I remember you. Miss Root Beer Popsicle. I used to keep some in the icebox, just for you.” Under Mrs. Yetner's appraising look, Ginger smoothed her rumpled T-shirt and patted her hair.

Mrs. Yetner's gaze shifted back and forth from Evie to Ginger. “Oh, girls, don't look at me like that. I'm not ready for last rites. And I've already been up and around.”

“You have? That's wonderful,” Evie said, wiping away an unexpected tear.

“And I'll be going home soon. As long as that thing”—she pointed at the monitor by the bed—“doesn't misbehave.”

Ginger pulled over a chair. “Thank you for calling me about Mom. We'd never have known otherwise.”

Mrs. Yetner smiled. “How is she?”

“She's okay.” Ginger mouth quivered as she exchanged a look with Evie. “She's not okay. She's in a coma. She's never going to be”—Ginger hiccuped—“okay. Oh, I don't mean to burden you with all this. You've got your own problems to deal with. But the message you left me? You said she wanted me to know something, but then you didn't get a chance to say what it was.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Yetner blinked. “What did she say? Something about don't tell him—”

“Who?”

“She didn't say. I wrote down her exact words. I'm sure I did. Because I knew I'd forget.” She looked at Evie. “You'll find it in the house. It was”—Mrs. Yetner strained to find the memory—“on a slip of paper that the ambulance person gave me. She wrote down Ginger's phone number, and when I got in the house, I wrote down exactly what your mother said because my brain is a sieve these days.” She pushed the key ring that was on her tray table over. “Here. Evie, you go in and see if you can find the note. And please. I've been so worried about Ivory. Could you feed her and let her sit in your lap for a bit? She won't eat dry food. There's tins of wet food in the cabinet. Tuna and mackerel—that's her favorite. And could you see that she has fresh water and scoop out her litter box?”

“Should I let her out?”

“Let her out?” Mrs. Yetner looked horrified. “As in
outside
out? She wouldn't know what to do with herself. She's used to being inside, and she's used to having company.”

“I could take her home with me.”

“Heavens, no. She's never lived anywhere but with me and she's a bit high-strung. If you get there and can't find her, she'll be hiding under the living room sofa.”

“I'll feed her as soon as I get back,” Evie promised. “And I can check in the morning and feed her before I leave.”

“Or . . . why don't you stay in my house? Would you?”

Evie had mounds of trash yet to deal with, and she wasn't sure it was a good idea to leave her mother's house empty overnight. “Why don't we play it by ear?”

“The upstairs bedroom is all yours,” Mrs. Yetner went on. “There's fresh towels and sheets in the linen closet. Just until I'm back, of course. And then, when I get home”—Mrs. Yetner cleared her throat—“we can have that talk about what it was like. You were right. I was working at the Empire State Building on that terrible morning.”