Sisters in the Wind(23)

“Police?” I squeak.

“Of course. It’s a state police investigation.”

“Will they question me?” I ask, already planning to claim amnesia.

“Jamie declined on your behalf,” Daunis says.

Now I am Team Jamie for sure.

“But wait,” I say. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“I thought he did, Lucy.” She rolls her eyes before catching herself.

She contemplates telling me something, finally heaving a resigned sigh.

“Jamie has a habit of holding back information he doesn’t think a person is ready for.”



* * *



Daunis is doing so much for me. Too much, really. It’s to the point where my fairy godmother is getting on my last nerve.

Each day, she pleads with me to stay one more night. Even Nancy got discharged before me. First Daunis wanted to exercise caution about my concussion. Next she needed another day to arrange for the hotel suite where we’d be staying. Yesterday it was to wait until today, for Dr. Rao to remove the staples from my leg.

“Will you please tell her there’s no reason to stay another night?” I look from Dr. Rao to Daunis to Jamie, who looks down and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“There is no medical reason to stay another night,” my doctor says with the bedside manner and patience of a woman used to overzealous parents, not twenty-something giants.

She and Daunis go over my treatment plan. I’ll have physical therapy three days a week. I’ve been using a walker all week and will continue to do so for at least two more weeks before switching to crutches.

“As I’ve said before, you’re in excellent health and a nonsmoker. That has me optimistic for your recovery on the earlier end of a three-to-six-month time frame,” Dr. Rao says. “Complying with your treatment plan, and not overdoing it, will be essential for your recovery. You need to refrain from putting full weight on the affected leg for six to eight weeks at a minimum.”

She hands me a prescription for Tylenol with codeine, which I’ve been taking all week.

“When should Lucy begin weaning herself off the painkillers?” Daunis asks.

I huff loudly. Sometimes Daunis is a bigger pain than my broken femur. I look to Jamie as if to silently ask if she’s always bossy like this.

Jamie gazes at Daunis, nodding along. He must like bossy.

Finally we leave the hospital. It’s a gloomy Friday afternoon, but I don’t care. I’m overjoyed to walk the six steps from the wheelchair to the SUV Jamie brings to the curb. Each breath of cold air feels invigorating.

Jamie rushes around, putting my walker in the back of the vehicle while Daunis helps me into the middle row.

“Onward to the hotel,” Jamie announces. Then he checks with Daunis. “Or lunch?”

I chime in before she has the chance.

“Can we get cheeseburgers and fries?” I name two fast-food places—one has decent burgers, and the other has seasoned curly fries. “Please?”

Daunis starts lecturing about a diet rich in vitamin D and calcium.

“Just this once,” I plead. “C’mon, Daunis.”

Jamie winks at me in the rearview mirror.

“C’mon, Daunis,” he echoes. “We’ll have cottage cheese and sardines for dinner.”

I pretend to retch at his vitamin D–inspired menu.

“I’m not sure I like this dynamic,” Daunis says in mock seriousness. She follows up with a wide grin.

I can already taste the curly fries.



* * *



We are staying at an apartment-like suite at the casino hotel. Technically, Daunis and I are staying there; Jamie is next door in a connecting room. The suite has two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. I take the one with accessibility grab bars and an oversized shower that fits my walker. Daunis offers the use of her soaking tub once I get the okay from Dr. Rao.

“Home sweet home,” Daunis says. “It’s our newest new normal.”

“Huh?” I dither between being grateful for Daunis and being annoyed when she acts like she’s the boss of me.

She explains, “There’s normal life before the explosion. Then the hospital became a new normal. Now we are in our newest new normal.” She gives a tiny smile and an odd shrug that reaches only one shoulder. “Sometimes I like to think about an alternate universe where I’m still in the normal version.”

“Normal was life with my dad. Nothing’s been normal since then,” I say, maybe a bit harsher than I mean to. Be nice, I remind myself. “I can’t do normal; the best I can do is familiar. You and Jamie are my newest new familiar.”

She frowns. “I hope to be part of your normal, someday. If you’d like.”

Girl, I hope we’re both alive for that someday, I say in my head.

I haven’t forgotten the explosion that was meant for me. My plan is still to leave town as soon as my leg is healed enough for me to flee without a walker or crutches.





POST-BLAST WEEK TWO


JANUARY 2009

We aren’t bad roommates. I’ve lived in a group home; I know bad roommates. We’ve been living at the hotel for one week and have settled into a routine.

Jamie enjoys cooking. My favorite meal is his homemade manicotti stuffed with ricotta and a plant-based, perfectly seasoned Italian sausage. He even plates our food as if he were on Iron Chef, with a sprig of parsley, or a practically transparent lengthwise slice of cucumber tied in a pretty bow.