Chapter Eighteen
Mila
I’m trying to keep from dozing off in the waiting room when I hear my name.
“Ms. Ferguson? I’m Dr. Rodriguez, your mother’s orthopedic surgeon.”
I look up from my third cup of weak hospital coffee to see an older man in scrubs removing his surgical mask. Salt-and-pepper hair, light brown skin, and a tired smile. I rise to my feet. “How did everything go?”
“Great. She’s in the recovery room. Her vital signs are stable, and she’s starting to wake up from the anesthesia.”
I smile with relief. “Wonderful. Thank you.”
“The recovery room nurse will come get you once she’s more alert, likely in half an hour or so.
She’ll stay in the hospital for three days.
Today and tonight are focused on pain management.
Tomorrow morning, she’ll see the physical therapist. They’ll help her sit up at the edge of the bed and possibly take a few steps with a walker. ”
I say a quick prayer for that physical therapist.
“Because this was a double replacement,” Dr. Rodriguez goes on, “it’s necessary to be more cautious with her initial mobility, but getting her moving is important for recovery. She mentioned you’d be staying with her for a while?”
“Yes. For six weeks.” I try not to sound like it’s a punishment.
“Good. For the first week at home, she’ll need assistance with almost everything—getting in and out of bed, using the bathroom, putting clothes on, making meals. And she’ll need to use the walker for at least two weeks.”
I attempt a smile. “Can you tell her that?”
He laughs ruefully. “I know Eliza can be stubborn. But she’s in good health and should be able to handle basic activities within three or four weeks. By six to eight, she’ll be more independent, though still using a cane.”
A cane? She’s going to throw a tantrum about that, too. “Thank you so much, Dr. Rodriguez.”
“You’re welcome. Tell Eliza I’ll see her tomorrow.” He gives me one final smile before heading beyond the big automatic doors.
I sit down again to wait for the nurse and see that a text from Everett has come in.
Everett: How’s it going?
Mila: She’s in recovery, and the doctor said everything went well.
Everett: Good. How are you feeling?
Mila: A little tired. It was an early morning, and I didn’t sleep very well.
Everett: Why not?
Mila: Just worried about the surgery.
It’s a lie. I lay awake half the night thinking about him. Doubting myself and my rule. Looking for a way to make an end run around my boundaries without actually knocking them down.
Everett: Do me a favor. Don’t forget to eat. Whenever my dad was in the hospital, my mother would have starved to death if someone hadn’t fed her.
Mila: Right now, all I want is more caffeine. But I’ll get some lunch in a little bit. Did you get the poster design I emailed you last night?
Everett: Yes, and it’s amazing. Going to the printer this afternoon, and then your art will be in windows up and down Main Street. I can’t thank you enough.
Mila: Happy to help.
Everett: Let me know if you need anything.
Mila: I will. Thanks for checking on me.
Jess has also reached out to ask how the surgery went and cheekily let me know she’s been enjoying having our apartment to herself. While I’m replying to her message, a text from an unknown number comes in.
Unknown Number: Hey Mila, it’s Yasmine. I hope your mom’s surgery goes well today! I’m sure you’re crazy busy taking care of her, but if you need a break this week, I would love to pour you a glass of wine and catch up. I’m working Wednesday through Friday! ?
Mila: Thank you so much! The surgery went well. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get out, but as soon as I can, I’ll definitely take you up on the offer.
After hitting send, I scroll social media and do a little hunting for my old friends.
Gabi used to post occasionally on Instagram while she was in college, but she deleted her accounts a couple years back.
Yasmine is only active as Novel Vine on Instagram.
She’s posted photos from Friday night’s poetry reading, so I like the post and comment that I hope I can make the next one.
Once again, I search for Rachel without any results.
Recalling what Catriona Hart said about Rachel working for the family company, I open my browser and type “Rachel Hart Iron Works Florida” into the search bar.
The top result is the company’s website.
There’s a manufacturing facility and sales branch of Hart Iron Works outside Orlando, but I can’t find Rachel’s name listed anywhere.
So weird.
What happened to her?
A few minutes later, a nurse in maroon scrubs approaches. “Mila?” She beckons to me with a friendly, gap-toothed smile. “You can come see your mom now.”
“Okay.” I stand up and follow her, tucking my phone into my purse.
“I’m Jenny,” the nurse says, leading the way through the big doors, past a central nurses’ station, and down a wide corridor to the left. “I’ll be your mom’s nurse today.”
“Nice to meet you.” The light is bright, the smell antiseptic with a base note of chicken broth. A few patients in hospital gowns move cautiously behind walkers, physical therapists at their sides. At room 311, Jenny pushes open the door.
It’s a private room. My mother is resting on a bed with side rails and what looks like a trapeze bar above her.
Her eyes are closed. She looks wan and unfamiliar without her makeup, the lines on her face more pronounced.
Her lips appear razor-thin, her auburn hair dull and lank on the white pillowcase.
Above the blankets, her slender, graceful arms lie slack.
I’ve never seen her look so weak or vulnerable.
She’d hate this, I think. I set my purse on a reclining chair by the window.
While Jenny checks her vital signs and IV, I glance around the room. Wall-mounted television. Bedside table on wheels. Whiteboard listing nurses’ names, a pain management schedule, and my mom’s information.
“Mila?” My mother’s voice is raspy.
“Yes.” I move to her bedside. “I’m here, Mom. Do you need anything?”
No response.
“She’ll be in and out for a while,” Jenny says apologetically.
“Okay.”
The nurse leaves the room, and I tentatively pick up my mother’s hand. Stroke the blue-veined back of it. If she was awake, she’d probably snatch it away from me. But since she’s out cold, I hold her hand for a few minutes.
I had a terrible virus when I was eight, my fever so high that I had to be hospitalized for dehydration.
I stayed two nights, and my mother never left my side.
She slept on the chair beside my bed, encouraged me to sip water, asked my aunt to bring me my favorite stuffed animal from home—a penguin I called Mr. Cool.
When they released me, she set up a bed for me on the couch in the living room and we watched all her favorite movies.
That’s when I fell in love with nineties rom-coms and knew I wanted to live in New York City someday.
It strikes me as sad that we only have these tender moments when one of us is sick or incapacitated.
As if emotional closeness requires some kind of physical vulnerability.
After I gently place my mother’s hand back on the blanket, I sink into the recliner. Pull my phone from my purse and open up The Landing Pad.
Two posts immediately catch my eye.
The first is by the mom of the lemonade-stand sisters. I look at the photo of Everett with the three little girls, and my insides feel warm and slippery. Sydney Carr is right. He would make a good dad. I wonder if he wants children.
The second post is by the Diner Detectives, and it makes my jaw drop.
New evidence.
What the hell?
I shake my head, wondering what evidence there could possibly be that wasn’t incinerated by the fire.
“Mila?”
Startled, I jump up, my phone clattering to the floor. “Mom?”
“Who else would it be?” Her voice is still raspy, but a little stronger.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like a train wreck. Can you get me out of here?”
I smile sympathetically. “No. Sorry. Dr. Rodriguez said three days.”
She scowls. “They can’t keep me here against my will.”
“Are you thirsty? How about we get you something to drink?” I hit the call button, and Jenny arrives to check Mom’s vitals. She promises to return with ice water.
My mother snaps her fingers and points toward the corner of the room. “Mila, can you bring me my bag? The small one with my toiletries.”
Dutifully, I bring her the bag, and she digs out a mirror and hairbrush. “Good grief. I look frightful.”
“Give yourself a break, you’ve been through a lot. But Dr. Rodriguez says everything went great. You’ll feel like yourself again in no time.” I decide that now isn’t the time to talk about walkers or canes.
“Can I at least wear my own clothes?” My mother looks at the hospital gown with disgust. “I packed nice pajamas.”
“Mom, you’re not going to be able to change clothes yet.”
“Why not? The pain isn’t even that bad.”
“That’s the meds talking,” says Jenny, entering the room with a tall white Styrofoam cup. She sets it on the bedside table and swings it over the bed. “They’re numbing you pretty good right now. But no changing pajamas until tomorrow.”
My mother harrumphs, sticking her brush and the hand mirror back in the bag and fishing out a lipstick. Jenny looks on with amusement as my mother paints her lips with Cherries in the Snow.
“I love it,” the nurse says. “Whatever makes us feel good, right? Mila, the lobby desk called. There was a delivery for you.”
I blink. “For me?”
“Yes. Did you order food, maybe?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She shrugs. “I’m not sure what it is, then.”
I turn to my mom. “Are you okay if I run down there for a minute?”
“Go ahead.”
“I won’t be long.” Grabbing my purse, I leave the room and hurry down the hall. After taking the elevator to the ground level, I approach the lobby desk. “Hi,” I greet the woman seated there. Her name tag says Carmen. “My name is Mila Ferguson, and—”