“Of course,” I say politely. “I can give you another call a bit closer to her discharge date.”
“They’d better not discharge her next week,” Debra says. “I’ve never heard of a woman her age going home after such a big surgery. I’ve told them they have to put her in a home, but she’s got them all wrapped around her finger—”
She goes on in that vein for another minute or two, then huffs loudly and says, “I’ve got to go,” like I’m the one holding her up. She hangs up, and I drop my forehead onto the kitchen table.
That woman isexhausting.
Still, I can tell that she’s going to give in. Mrs. Finnamore told me that while Debra was here, one of the doctors asked Mrs. Finnamore if she’d ever thought about moving out west to live with her daughter.
“You should have seen the look on her face!” Mrs. Finnamore said, laughing. “Debra would rather eat chalk than let me move in with her. Not that I’d want to, mind you. She’s got three of those terrible yappy dogs, always biting your ankles and getting fur all over the couch cushions.” She shuddered. “I’d rather go to a home.”
Anyway, if the wait lists for publicly funded home care are as long as that nurse said, Debra doesn’t have a lot of other options besides me. Plus, Mrs. Finnamore would throw a fit if Debra tried to send a stranger into her house.
I sit back in my chair with a grin. I’m pretty proud of myself for how I handled that. It was a bit nerve-wracking, but I got through it.
I take a celebratory sip of my soda, grab my phone again, and call John to tell him how it went.
29
A few days later, I wake up to the sounds of birds chirping outside John’s bedroom window and the quiet glug of the fish tank on the opposite side of the room. Fish 1 and Fish 2 are swimming lazily while Fish 3 hides in his (her?) favorite spot under the rocks.
“Is Fish 3 a boy or a girl?” I ask John, as he walks out of the bathroom.
“Which one is Fish 3 again?”
“The shimmery gray one.”
“TheGeophagus,” John says.
“The geographer.”
“Geophagus.”
“Geology.”
“I’m getting coffee now.”
“Get me one too, please!” I call after him.
I crawl to the edge of the bed and stare at Fish 3. “Don’t let him bully you,” I whisper. “You’re not a genealogist. You’re a good little fish.”
“Are you a bit insane?” John asks, reappearing with two cups of coffee.
“Little bit. But you love it.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
The tips of his ears have gone slightly red. I hide a smile. I have this tiny, sneaky feeling that John and I are creeping toward saying “I love you” to each other. There’s this way that he looks at me these days, with a fond sort of crinkling at the corners of his eyes that makes my heart beat funny. It’s probably still a few weeks away, but we’re definitely inching our way closer. Thinking about it makes me feel warm and slightly giddy, like I’ve drunk a bunch of coffee really quickly.
“Wordle?” I ask.
“Wordle,” he agrees.
I curl up next to him and take a sip of coffee.
“First word?” he asks.
“LOVES,” I say, because it’s fun to nudge us a little closer. “As in, Johnloveshow crazy Emily is.” I type it in. “Crap. All wrong. I hope that’s not a sign.”
