I sighed. “Probably. Me and Radar. Out there by the gate.”
“No, no, last year. You scored the winning touchdown in the Turkey Bowl. Five seconds before the clock ran out.”
He raised one hand over his head, holding an invisible football, as I had done in the photo. Hard to tell why him remembering that picture instead of the more recent one made me happy, but it did.
In the living room, I waited—more nervous than ever—while Melissa Wilcox inspected the roll-out couch.
“Good,” she said. “This is good. A little low, maybe, but we make do with what we have. You’ll want a bolster or something to give that leg of his a little extra support. Who made the bed up?”
“I did,” I said, and her look of surprise also made me happy.
“Did you read the pamphlet I gave you?”
“Yes. I got this antibacterial stuff for pin care…”
She shook her head. “Simple saline is all you need. Warm salt water. Do you feel ready to transfer him?”
“Hello?” Mr. Bowditch said. “Perhaps I could be a part of this conversation? I’m right here.”
“Yes, but I’m not talking to you.” Melissa said it with a smile.
“Um, not sure,” I said.
“Mr. Bowditch,” Melissa said, “now I am talking to you. Do you mind if Charlie test-drives you?”
Mr. Bowditch looked at Radar, who was sitting as close as she could. “What do you think, girl? Trust this kid?”
Radar barked once.
“Radar says okay and I say okay. Don’t drop me, young man. This leg is singing high C.”
I moved the chair close to the bed, put on the brake, and asked if he could stand on his good leg. He pushed himself up partway, allowing me to unlock and lower the leg rest that had been supporting his bad one. He grunted but made it the rest of the way—swaying a little, but vertical.
“Turn so your butt’s facing the bed but don’t try to sit until I tell you,” I said, and Melissa nodded approvingly.
Mr. Bowditch did that. I moved the wheelchair out of the way.
“Can’t stand this way for long without the crutches.” The sweat was popping on his cheeks and brow again.
I squatted and took hold of the fixator. “Now you can sit.”
He didn’t sit, he dropped. And with a sigh of relief. He lay back. I put his bad leg on the bed, and my first transfer was complete. I wasn’t sweating as much as Mr. Bowditch was, but I was sweating, mostly from nerves. This was a bigger deal than taking throws from the pitcher.
“Not bad,” Melissa said. “When you get him up, you’ll want to hug him. Lace your fingers together in the middle of his back, and lift. Use his armpits—”
“For support,” I said. “It was in the pamphlet.”
“I like a boy who does his homework. Make sure his crutches are always close, especially when standing from the bed. How do you feel, Mr. Bowditch?”
“Like ten pounds of shit in a nine-pound bag. Is it time for my pills?”
“You had them before we left the hospital. You can have more at six.”
“That seems like a long time from now. How about a Percocet to tide me over?”
“How about I don’t have any.” Then, to me: “You’ll get better at this, and so will he, especially as he mends and his range of movement increases. Step outside with me a moment, will you?”
“Talking behind my back,” Bowditch called. “Whatever it’s about, that young man will not be administering any enemas.”
“Whoa,” Herbie said. He was bent over, hands on his knees, examining the television. “This is the oldest idiot box I’ve ever seen, partner. Does it work?”
7
The late-day sun was brilliant, and there was some warmth to it, which felt wonderful after a long winter and a cold spring. Melissa led me down to the outpatient van, leaned in, and unlocked the wide center console. She brought out a plastic bag and set it on the seat. “Crutches are in back. Here’s his drugs, plus two tubes of arnica gel. There’s a sheet in here with the exact dosages, okay?” She took the bottles out and showed them to me one by one. “These are antibiotics. These are vitamins, four different kinds. This one’s a prescription for Lynparza. Get refills at the CVS in Sentry Village. These are laxatives. There are no suppositories, but you should read up on how to administer them if he needs one. He won’t like it.”
“Not much he does like,” I said. “Mostly Radar.”