“Grammy!” I start, shaking my head. “I told you, Jamison and I are over. And yes, Juniper will be there, but as I’ve saidmanytimes before, we are just friends. Kiana and her friend Holden will be there too. It’s a group thing.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, baby girl. Group or not, I’m so glad to see you enjoying yourself for once. Oh! And you’ll need a dress.”
“Blood is drawn and will be sent to the lab,” Pamela says, standing up and pulling off her gloves. “The doctor should be in shortly.”
“Thank you,” I say to Pamela as Grammy inspects the Band-Aid Pamela placed over where her blood was drawn. “At least it was quick and clean this time,” she mutters. And then, “Lyric, baby, hand me my purse.”
“No, Grammy. I don’t need any dress money. I’ve got it all covered, I just—”
“Hmmmph.” Grammy swats at me dismissively. “Give it.”
I sigh and hand over her bag. Grammy rifles through it and then, from some secret pocket, draws out a crisp fifty-dollar bill and waves it in my face. “For the dance! Use it for dinner before or something. I don’t care. Just have some fun.”
“Grammy—where did you get that?”
“None of your business. Just take it. This is TREAT YO’ SELF money. So, don’t go being all sensible with it, spending it on something boring. Have yourself a nice night out.”
“Did you just quoteParks and Recreation?” I scoff.
“Sure did. I love Retta. That’s my favorite episode.”
I laugh, and then take the bill from Grammy. I try not to think of all the things we could put it toward that would help us out as I stuff it into my jeans pocket. I’ll never not feel guilty for the ways she takes care of me above all else.
“Thank you,” I say, giving her a light hug. “I’m going to pick up my outfit at the mall with Juniper later. I’ll stop by the thrift store another day to see if I can find a fur stole to match… I’m hoping for a vintage, Etta James kinda vibe.”
“You better stop with that mess!” Grammy says. “You will do no such thing. Talking all that foolishness! I will not have you walkinginto your school dance in somebody else’s clothes. Thrifting is for white folks who don’t bathe.”
I grin, “OK, OK. I disagree, but I hear you.”
“About to give me a damn heart attack,” Grammy mutters, closing up her purse. “You better buy something new, Lyric. TREAT YO’ SELF!” she reiterates emphatically.
We both laugh, and the mood feels comfortable and safe again between us. That is, until Dr. Gail arrives, until Grammy’s face turns ashen with fear as she prods and checks and addresses the increased swelling and itching Grammy has been feeling in her legs as of late.
“This swelling and discomfort is due to blood clots, Ms. Watkins,” Dr. Gail says after her inspection. “Unfortunately, this is one of the most common side effects of hip surgery in older patients.”
“Tuh! Watch who you’re calling old,” Grammy Viv snaps.
Dr. Gail gives an apologetic nod. “Yes, of course you’re not old. I just meant in patients over a certain age.”
“So what can we do about it?” I jump in.
“Well, I’m going to prescribe an anticlotting medicine and I recommend you buy some compression socks. This will help. And then keep up your movement as much as possible—short walks, standing up and sitting down, keep things flowing.”
My head immediately runs over the cabinet of meds Grammy is already on, how much they cost, and how adding an additional med will likely increase this amount. But that’s for me to worry about later; right now I need to get Grammy on board with the socks.
“Give me more meds, fine!” Grammy is saying. “But Doctor, I will not be wearing them ugly-ass sock things. Over my dead body.”
“Grammy!” I try. “Nobody will even be able to see them half the time. Especially if you’re wearing pants.”
“Lyric—I don’t care if they’ll be hidden. I’m not doing it. I willknow I’m wearing them, feeling like a sausage all stuffed inside them. No thank you.”
I sigh. Grammy Viv’s stubbornness is exhausting. Dr. Gail gives me a sympathetic look, and affirms one last time that the socks will help with discomfort and pain. But I can tell Grammy is over this visit. The best thing to do right now is just get her out of here. Dr. Gail types in a request for Grammy’s new meds, and then lets us know Grammy’s blood results should be up by the end of the day on the health portal. When we exit the hospital, Grammy stops and inhales a big mouthful of fresh winter air.
“All done,” I say.
“Thank the lord. Now, let’s get ourselves something sweet.”
“Donuts?”
