Page 62 of Betting on the Bad Boy

“The swelling’s gone down, and we’ve started to taper off the sedatives. Ready to see how your grandmother is doing?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course.” I adjusted my crotch as I stood. Nothing like sporting a little wood in my ailing grandmother’s hospital room.

The doctor stood over her bed, shining a penlight under her lids. “Mrs. Bishop, can you hear me?”

Meemaw’s eyes fluttered, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Mrs. Bishop?” Dr. Cain moved the light.

She pushed his hand away. “Of course I can hear you. I hit my head. I’m not deaf.”

I smiled as a wave of relief washed over me. She was back.

The doctor continued his exam. “Do you know what month it is?”

“May?” Meemaw asked, a twinkle in her gray-blue eye. “I’m just joking, Doc. It’s December, or at least it was. I better not have missed Christmas. The senior center...” she flung the covers away and made a feeble attempt to get out of bed.

Dr. Cain stopped her, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders and guiding her back against the pillows. “Mrs. Bishop, you’ve been sedated for two days. You’ll need to take it easy.”

Meemaw’s face took on a greenish tinge. “I don’t feel so well.”

I stood and grabbed her hand. “You had me really worried, old woman.”

She met my gaze. “I’m sorry, my boy. I guess I’m just not as young as I used to be.”

“You’re going to be just fine, Mrs. Bishop. We’ll just need you to take it easy for the next several days.” Dr. Cain looked at me. “That means resting. No cooking, no big Christmas parties, and no more ladders.”

“Got it, Doc. Thanks,” I said, still holding Meemaw’s hand.

“We’ll keep her under observation for another night,” Dr. Cain said. “Assuming all goes well, you can take her home tomorrow.”

“Just in time for Christmas,” I said.

“Oh, pshaw. They won’t even be able to have Christmas at the center without me.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “Mrs. Blake stopped by. She said she’s got it all under control and that you shouldn’t worry about a thing.”

“Oh, Irene Blake. Sure, she’s got it under control. She’s been praying for me to stroke out for years so she could have a go at organizing a holiday meal.”

Dr. Cain laughed. “I don’t envy you, Dante. You’re going to be busy trying to keep a handle on her for the next few days.”

Meemaw continued, “Why, Bugsy told me he can’t stand her stuffing. She uses a packaged mix. Can you imagine?”

“I’m sure it will be fine.” Dr. Cain flipped the chart closed and slid it back into the slot at the foot of the bed. “We’ll have you up and around in no time. You’ll be back in charge well before the Valentine’s Day dinner.”

“You bet your sweet britches I will.” Meemaw stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “Speaking of food, who do I need to arm wrestle for a snack around here? I’m starving.”

“I’ll go get a nurse to find you something to eat,” Dr. Cain said. “Keep an eye on her, okay?” With a final look at me, he left the room.

I set a Styrofoam cup of water down on the bedside table and tucked a straw into the plastic lid. “Do you want some water?”

“Bring it here.” Meemaw reached out a shaky hand.

“You gave us all a scare. I’m glad you’re going to be all right.”

“How bad do I look?”

“Let’s just say purple isn’t your color.”