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Tuesday

Natalie

When she hears the car pull into the garage, she’s in the kitchen putting groceries away with her grandfather.

“They’re back!” her grandpa says. “I’ll put the coffee on. You open the door and then hold the dog. Can’t let ’er jostle your mom’s hand, okay?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Natalie pulls the door open and then intercepts Lickie when she comes flying through the kitchen to investigate. “Sit,” she says.

Lickie sits.

“Good girl,” Natalie whispers. She’s been told to monitor Lickie carefully and to be both firm and calm with her. They have to watch closely for any signs of doggie PTSD. There’s a risk that Lickie could become quicker to violence after her justified attack of She Who Must Not Be Named.

Natalie won’t let that happen.

It takes a minute for her parents to appear in the doorway, her mother first, carefully cradling her hand in a fiberglass cast. Her father appears just behind her, grasping her elbow as if to help her into the kitchen.

“I’ve got it, Harrison. No need to hover.”

Her father steps back, contrite, and then follows her into the kitchen when he can.

“How’s the hand?” her grandpa asks, folding up the last grocery bag.

“Painful,” her mother sighs. “But I’m pretty happy to be out of that hospital. Natalie, would you put a plastic bag on my cast for me in a few minutes? I’m desperate for a shower.”

“Sure.”

Natalie ends up sitting on the toilet seat while her mom showers, assisting with the shampoo bottle and the conditioner.

“What a pain in the ass this is,” her mother grumbles. “Can you hand me a towel in a sec?”

“Yup.”

Together, they do the clumsy work of shutting off the water and wrapping her mother in terry cloth. “What if I brushed out your hair?” Natalie asks.

“Maybe just this once.”

“What clothes will be easiest to put on?”

“Good question. I don’t really want you to button my jeans.”

Natalie laughs. “Let me find you some sweats. Let’s be quick, because I’m supposed to go to work at noon.”

“Is your dad working, too?” her mother asks.

“Nope. We’re alternating for a little while. Just until you can, you know, get dressed without help.”

“This is a disaster,” her mother complains.

“No, it’s really not,” Natalie insists.

It was close. But she knows the difference.