Chapter Eight
Ollie
The drive to Greta’s house took fifteen minutes through Sunday-morning traffic. Her place was a brick bungalow, with a mailbox shaped like a rooster.
Parking at the curb, I climbed out and headed up the cracked walkway. The lawn needed mowing, but then again, Greta’s lawn always needed mowing. She’d told me once that grass could take care of itself, and if the neighbors didn’t like it, they could come mow it for her.
Nobody had taken her up on the offer.
I rang the doorbell. Something inside chimed, the melody sounded like it was trying to be “La Cucaracha” but had given up halfway through.
The door swung open, and there stood Greta in head-to-toe orange. Orange tracksuit, orange eyeshadow, orange nails. Even her orthopedic shoes had orange laces threaded through them.
“Ollie!” Her face split into a grin. “What brings you by on a Sunday? You miss me already?”
“Edith called. Said your foot got caught in her porch yesterday.”
“That old bat.” But there was affection in her tone. “Can’t keep anything to herself. Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there like a door-to-door salesman.”
She stepped back, gesturing me inside with one orange-nailed hand.
Following her through the doorway, I entered a living room that could only be described as organized chaos.
Knitting projects covered every available surface, the couch, the coffee table, and the armchair by the window.
Skeins of yarn in every color imaginable spilled out of baskets on the floor.
A half-finished afghan in purple and green was draped over the back of the recliner, the needles still stuck through the last row.
The walls were covered in photographs. Some were framed professionally.
Others were snapshots stuck up with thumb tacks.
Greta at various ages, always smiling, always surrounded by people.
A younger version of her stood next to a man in military uniform.
Wedding photos. Baby pictures. Graduations.
The entire history of her life documented in fading colors and curling edges.
“Sit, sit.” Greta waved toward the couch, which required moving three different knitting projects before I could actually sit down. “You want coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“I’m good, thanks.” Settling onto the cushion, I watched as she lowered herself into the recliner with a slight wince that she tried to hide. “Edith said you’re fine, but I wanted to check for myself.”
“I am fine. Foot got stuck between two boards, I pulled it out, end of story. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Can I see it?”
“My foot?” she asked. “Why? You got a foot fetish I should know about?”
“Miss Greta.”
“I’m just asking.” But she was already propping her foot up on the ottoman, unlacing the orange orthopedic shoe. “There. Happy now?”
The shoe came off, followed by a white sock that had seen too many bleach cycles. Her foot was swollen around the ankle, puffy and tight. Purple bruising spread across the top, darkening near the joint. When she flexed it, the movement was stiff.
My stomach dropped. That was not fine. That was the opposite of fine.
“Greta, that’s really swollen.”
“It’s a little puffy. So what?” She waved away my concern. “I’ve had worse.”
“You need to see a doctor.”
“For this? Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll heal on its own in a few days.”
“What if it’s broken?” The possibility made me dizzy. Broken bones in elderly people were serious. They led to complications, infections, worse. “You can’t just ignore this.”
“I’m not ignoring it. I’m acknowledging it and choosing not to make a federal case out of it.” She gestured at her foot. “I’m seventy-nine years old, Ollie. Everything hurts. This is just another thing on the list.”
“That’s not a good reason to avoid medical care.”
“Who says I’m avoiding it? I’ll call Dr. Patterson tomorrow if it makes you feel better.”
“Call him now.” I wasn’t backing down from this, no matter how stubborn she became.
“It’s Sunday.” She readjusted herself in the chair, wincing when her foot moved.
“Then go to urgent care. Or the ER.”
She stared at me for a long moment, then she gave a raspy laugh. “You’re really worked up about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “You could’ve broken your ankle. You could’ve fallen and hit your head. This is serious, Miss Greta.”
“You sound like my daughter.” But her expression had softened, some of the stubbornness fading from her eyes. “She worries too much too.”
“Maybe there’s a reason for that.” We both knew the reason but didn’t say it out loud.
Silence stretched between us. When she finally nodded, her movements were slower than usual. She was also more tired than I’d seen her before.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll call Dr. Patterson. But he’s not going to see me today. It’s Sunday, and he’s probably on the golf course.”
“Call anyway,” I insisted.
Grumbling under her breath about pushy young people who didn’t know when to mind their own business, she reached for the cordless phone on the side table. Her fingers moved over the buttons with slight stiffness, then she held the phone to her ear.
The conversation was brief. Dr. Patterson’s office was closed, as expected, but the answering service took her information. Three days. They could fit her in on Wednesday afternoon.
“Satisfied?” Greta asked after hanging up.
“No.” Three days was too long. That foot could get worse in three days. The swelling could spread. Infection could set in. All the worst-case scenarios I’d been trying to keep at bay rushed forward. “We’re going to the ER.”
Her brows shot up. “We absolutely are not.”
“Yes, we are.” Standing, I grabbed her orange shoe from where she’d dropped it on the floor. “Put this back on. We’re leaving.”
“Ollie, I am not going to the emergency room for a bruised foot.”
“It’s more than bruised. It’s swollen and discolored, and you can barely move it.” The shoe dangled from my hand. “Please, Miss Greta. Just let them take an X-ray. Make sure nothing’s broken. Then if it’s fine, we’ll come right back home and I’ll never bother you about it again.”
She looked at me, really looked at me, and something in her expression shifted. The stubbornness remained, but underneath it, I caught a glimpse of resignation. Maybe even a little fear.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Fine.” She snatched the shoe from my hand and started working it back onto her swollen foot. “But if this is nothing, you’re buying me lunch. Somewhere expensive.”
“Deal.”
Getting her into my car took longer than expected. Each step down from the porch made her wince, and by the time we reached the passenger door, a thin line of sweat had appeared on her forehead despite the cool morning air.
“You okay?” The question came out soft and full of worry.
“Peachy.” But she gripped the door frame hard enough that her knuckles went white. “Just get me in the damn car before I change my mind.”
Once she was settled in the passenger seat, I closed the door and jogged around to the driver’s side. The engine turned over on the second try, and I pulled away from the curb with more care than usual, avoiding potholes and taking turns slowly.
“You drive like you’re eighty,” Greta said after the third turn. “We’re not going to get there until next week at this rate.”
“I’m trying not to jostle your foot.”
“My foot is fine. Your driving is the problem.” She adjusted her seatbelt, settling back against the seat. “When I was your age, I drove like I had somewhere to be. None of this tiptoeing around.”
“When you were my age, seatbelts were optional and cars didn’t have airbags.”
“Exactly. We knew how to live dangerously.”
Despite everything, a smile tugged at my mouth. Leave it to Greta to complain about safe driving while on the way to the emergency room for an injury she’d been ignoring.
The hospital loomed ahead after ten minutes of careful navigation. St. Mary’s Regional Medical Center, the sign announced in large blue letters. The emergency room entrance was clearly marked, a covered drive-up area where ambulances could unload patients.
Finding a parking spot took another five minutes. Sunday morning meant the lot was relatively empty, but I still had to circle twice before finding something close to the entrance.
“You need a wheelchair?” The question felt necessary, given how much trouble she’d had getting to the car.
“Absolutely not.” Greta unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door before I could come around to help. “I can walk just fine.”
She could not, in fact, walk just fine. Each step was careful, her weight shifting to her good foot while the injured one barely touched the ground. But she made it to the automatic doors without falling, which was a relief.
A ruthless billionaire, a deal with strings attached, and one inconvenient attraction.
If that sounds like your kind of evening, browse Lokepub.
The emergency room was quieter than I’d expected.
A handful of people occupied the waiting room chairs—a mother with a feverish toddler if his cheeks were anything to go by, an older man cradling his arm at an odd angle, and a teenager holding a melted ice pack against his knee.
Nothing that screamed immediate life-or-death emergency.
At the check-in desk, a woman in scrubs looked up from her computer. Her name tag read “Sandra,” and her expression said she’d seen everything there was to see and wasn’t impressed by any of it.
“Name?” Sandra asked, fingers poised over her keyboard.
“Greta Kowalski.” Greta spelled it out without being asked, having clearly done this a million times before.
“Date of birth?”
“April 3rd, 1947.”
Sandra smiled pleasantly at us. “What brings you in today?”
“This pushy young man thinks my foot is broken.” Greta jerked her thumb in my direction. “I think he’s overreacting, but here we are.”
Sandra’s gaze shifted to me then back to Greta. “Can you describe your symptoms?”
“My foot got stuck in my friend’s porch yesterday. There’s a little swelling. Some bruising. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
“Can you put weight on it?” Sandra asked, her fingers clacking over the keyboard.
Greta paused. “Some,” she finally said.