As soon as I hung up, I flew into frantic action. I booked the first flight out, threw God-only-knew-what into a suitcase, and called my boss’s voice mail to explain I wouldn’t be at work on Monday—which wasn’t really a problem, because I didn’t really have a boss.
For that matter, I didn’t really have a job. I was working as a temp at a graphic design firm, where I mostly updated websites. I used to run the ridiculously upscale art gallery Kurt and I had bought with my mother’s inheritance, but we sold that—for a huge loss, I might add—as part of the divorce settlement. We also sold the extravagantly expensive home Kurt had insisted we buy—a house with a mortgage far greater than its value, thanks to the real estate market crash—and I currently would be homeless if a friend of a friend hadn’t sublet me her apartment while she spent a year in New Zealand. As a result of the divorce, I had no home, no job, and next to nothing left of the considerable amount of money I’d inherited.
Money that, in hindsight, was the real reason Kurt was so keen on marrying me in the first place. He’d burned through it at a rate that would have horrified me if I’d know the full extent of it—but I hadn’t, because I hadn’t wanted to see it. Like an ostrich, I’d kept my head in the sand. I still try very hard not to think about that, because it makes me feel like even more of an idiot than I already do.
Anyway, I landed at the New Orleans airport around three in the morning, then rented a car and made the hour-long drive to the Wedding Tree Parish General Hospital to find Eddie and Ralph already there. The three of us had been keeping a bedside vigil,taking turns dozing in the room’s two recliner chairs and talking with a constant stream of visitors, ever since.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Dr. Warren asked Gran.
“Talking to Mother.”
Eddie pressed his lips together as if he were trying not to cry. I awkwardly patted his back. Even though he was my mother’s brother and a generation older than me, there was something boyish about him that brought out my maternal instincts. Maybe it was his babyish cheeks or his teddy bear build—but most likely, it was the way he wore his tender heart on his sleeve.
He squeezed Gran’s hand. “Mom, Grandmother’s been dead for more than forty years.”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking to her downhere,” she said in a don’t-be-silly tone. “I was talking to her up on the ceiling.”
Eddie blinked, his eyes overbright and moist. “Do you remember falling?”
“No.”
“Do you remember going to the shed? That’s where your neighbor found you.”
“What on earth was I doing out in the shed?”
Eddie shrugged. “Beats me, but it looked like you’d taken a shovel off the hook on the wall.”
I saw a glimmer in Gran’s eyes.She remembers, I thought—but instead of explaining, she turned to Dr. Warren. “When am I getting out of here?”
“That depends on where you think you’re going.” His craggy face creased in a friendly smile.
“Home, of course.”
“Well, we’ll talk about that later. You’re here for a while, Mrs. McCauley. You sustained a serious head injury, and we need to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t have any bleeding or swelling in your brain. You’ve also fractured some ribs. We’ll have to see how you do when we get you up and around.”
“But I’ll get to go home, won’t I?”
Dr. Warren patted her leg through the blanket. “We’ll talk about all your options later. Are you in any pain?”
“My head feels like it’s cracked open, and it hurts to breathe.”
“I’ll order something to make you more comfortable. Just relax and get some rest, and I’ll be back to check on you later.” He said something to the nurse. As she fiddled with the IV drip, he scribbled on the chart, then signaled for us to follow him into the hall.
“How is she?” Eddie asked as soon as the door closed behind us.
“I’d say she’s doing very well, considering her age. There are no signs of a stroke. But she’s had a severe brain injury.”
“She’s awfully confused.” Eddie folded his arms across his chest as if he were trying to hug himself.
Dr. Warren nodded. “That’s to be expected.”
“How long will it last?”
“She’s likely to improve, but at her age, and with this level of trauma...” He paused. His face got that apologetic-sympathetic-uncomfortable look people get when they have to deliver bad news. “I’m afraid this was a life-changing event.”
A life-changing event. A chill went down my arms. Such simple, everyday words, yet put together in that order, in this situation, they were catastrophic.
The doctor flipped through the chart. “She was living alone?”
