Luckily, I rented a compact car at the Raleigh Airport and I’m able to squeeze in behind the Caddy. I grab my shoulder bag and don’t bother with my luggage in the trunk. I’m too eager to see Muriel and gauge how she’s really doing.
I don’t bother with the front door, intent on letting myself through the side entrance that leads into the small kitchen. The scent of lemon oil, cinnamon and maybe ahint of antiseptic hits me, and those three things together aren’t all that pleasant. There’s a pound cake on the counter, covered in plastic wrap with a small white bow on top, which confirms my suspicions that a church lady is indeed nearby.
It’s a universal truth that if there’s cake, you can bet that within twenty feet there’s a Southern woman checking in on her neighbor.
I move through the kitchen, following the sound of laughter, and find Muriel on the living room couch. Her leg is elevated on a fortress of pillows and her gray hair is pinned back from her face with bobby pins, but of course, she has on lipstick because she’s well-bred.
The smile comes without effort as I see she’s in full command of two church ladies—Mrs. Puckett and Mrs. DeVine—and a home health nurse who looks… tired. Not defeated—just the sort of weary that comes from being bossed around by a woman who can flay you with a look and then feed you till you cry.
Mrs. Puckett sees me first, her face lighting with recognition. “Oh, my stars… look what the cat dragged in. Penny Pritchard has come home!”
Muriel’s head twists and her gaze rakes from my silk blouse to my pencil skirt and low-slung heels. She puts on an exaggerated disapproving look. “If it isn’t Miss Washington, DC. Bless her heart and her humidity-sensitive hair.”
I snort, set my bag down, and cross to the couch. Bending over, I give my aunt a warm hug, noting that she holds on a bit longer than she normally would, and I don’t miss the flash of relief when she lets go. Muriel smells like Pond’s cold cream, and a million memories of me hugging her over the years assault me in the best way.
She pretends to shoo me but squeezes my hand before letting go. “You didn’t need to come all this—”
“Yes, I did.” I straighten and glance at the church delegation. “Mrs. Puckett… Mrs. DeVine… you both are looking pretty as pictures.”
They preen, Mrs. Puckett touching her white curls with a manicured hand. “Oh, please, darling girl. You’re the one who should have jetted off to Paris to walk runways rather than that dreadful Capitol Hill. Your looks could have taken you places.”
I disregard the comment because one of the things I always hated was people thinking my looks would take me far in life rather than my brains. I turn to the other tired-looking woman. “Hi. I’m Penny Pritchard, Muriel’s niece. I assume you’re a home health aide.”
She stands and we shake hands. “I’m her occupational therapist. Dawn.”
“Well, thank you for taking care of her.”
Dawn gives Muriel a side-eye and then turns back to me with gratitude as if I’m the first person to say that today. “Your aunt’s doing well—stubborn, but that’sapparently baseline.”
“Stubborn?” Muriel sniffs. “Sturdyis the word you’re reachin’ for.”
Dawn ignores her, grabs a backpack, and slings it over her shoulder. She places a gentle hand on Muriel’s leg. “You did good today, honey. I know you’re frustrated, but this will take time. I’ll be back day after tomorrow.”
Muriel waves her off as if embarrassed by the praise. “I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I say and follow her right out onto the front porch.
She must sense that I need to talk as she turns around to face me, and I pull the door closed. “Really… how’s she doing?” I ask.
Dawn gives me a soft smile. “She’s doing just fine, but it’s a hard injury to overcome at her age. She wants to be up and running around today and that’s not going to happen.”
I nod in understanding. “I took some time off from work and I’ll be staying with her. What can I do to help her recovery?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “The woman needs no motivation. If anything, you’re going to have to encourage her to take her time. Her exercises are important, but she can’t overdo it. She’s mobile with the walker but no stairs, no bending and no arguing withtrained professionals.”
“Got it,” I say with a chuckle. Muriel has always been a force of nature and I really didn’t expect this to slow her down at all.
Dawn pats my arm. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”
I watch until she pulls away and then head back into the house. The other women are standing, purses in hand.
Mrs. Puckett bends to peck Muriel on the cheek and turns to me. “I left a chicken divan in the fridge. Just heat it at 350° for about thirty minutes. Cake is on the counter.”
“I saw,” I reply, standing by the door to hold it open. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Mrs. Puckett leans in to give me a hug, followed by Mrs. DeVine, who says, “We’re doing the Lord’s work. Of course we’d come, and we’ve got a meal train in place. You won’t need to cook for quite a while.”
“Toodles, Muriel,” the ladies call out with air kisses and then they’re gone, me leaning against the door, grinning at my aunt.
