29. Martha Stewart Broke In
MARTHA STEWART brOKE IN
Sadie
Today was the day.
Buddy was getting discharged in a couple of hours, which meant I had just enough time to make sure everything was perfect at Shepard Farm, do a quick load of laundry, oversee the new staff, and buy two new sets of sweatpants so he’d have something to relax in besides Carhartt overalls and carpenter jeans.
Then I’d be back to spring him like he was Andy Dufresne and the world outside was Shawshank, only with more apple cider donuts and fewer prison guards.
The doctors were still pushing inpatient rehab, which I didn’t blame them for, but Buddy was dead set on going straight home today, do not pass go.
He’d told anyone who so much as poked their head into his room, including the janitorial staff and Edna, the volunteer who delivered the newspapers, that the only way he’d go to a rehab facility was in a body bag, because it would be over his dead body.
My phone buzzed three times while I was folding Buddy’s shirts and placing them in the downstairs guest room where he would be recuperating since he wouldn’t be able to walk up steps, the texts were all from Dawson.
The first two offering, again, to go with me to pick up Buddy, the third a picture of Minnie curled up in a patch of sun in the stable next to Penny.
The text beneath the photo said, “They miss you. So do I.” I ‘loved’ the photo and assured him that I could pick Buddy up on my own.
Buddy still didn’t know about what I’d been doing behind the scenes at the farm or my plans to relocate permanently to Valentine Bay.
I hadn’t told anyone, not even Dawson. I wanted to tell Buddy first, I needed to see the look in his eyes, witness his unfiltered, unguarded response before I could fully commit to my plans.
Instead of telling him once more that I was fine on my own, I gave him more concrete information and messaged back:
Sadie
Discharge at 11, will update when done
After sending the message, I noticed the time, it was fifteen till.
I grabbed my purse and keys to Herbie. On my way out of the house, I took one more look around.
It was night and day from what I’d walked into nearly a month earlier.
I wasn’t sure how Buddy was going to feel about it, but I knew I was much happier bringing him home to this.
The drive to the hospital was filled with anxiety over what the day would bring.
When I finally arrived, I found a grumpy Buddy sitting on the edge of the bed in the clothes I’d brought him, with his arms crossed like he’d been waiting for hours.
The TV was blaring a fishing show at full volume.
A nurse I hadn’t met before was attempting to explain the new meds and discharge paperwork to him.
I could see that he wasn’t paying any attention to what she was telling him.
As the person who was going to be caring for him, I, on the other hand, paid close attention and took notes. Once the release forms were signed, the nurse told us to wait there, and someone would be with us shortly.
I was expecting a nurse with a wheelchair, instead, a few minutes later Gio walked into the room. “Hey, a little birdie told me you are checking out of here.”
“That’s right.” Buddy, still perched on the bed, dipped his chin in a nod.
“And you’re headed over to VbrC?” Gio prompted optimistically.
All of his doctors and specialists had advised Buddy to go to Valentine Bay Rehabilitation Center. They stressed to him, dozens of times, that the inpatient PT he’d receive would be crucial to his recovery. He was hearing none of it.
“I’m going home,” Buddy stated firmly.
Gio continued pushing the narrative. “Look, I get it, you hate hospitals. Frankly, same. But this isn’t about you being weak or even being sick.
It’s about not letting your pride get in the way of your shot at a full recovery.
The only way to guarantee that is to do the inpatient rehab. Three weeks. Tops.”
Buddy rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere for three weeks, and I don’t need a babysitter. I can do my own PT, and I’ll do twice as much if I’m at home.”
Gio gave me a look saying, Sadie, tag in here, but I just shook my head and started putting his discharge folder in my oversized bag. We’d already danced this dance dozens of times, and Buddy’s resolve had only hardened.
Gio tried again. “You don’t have to like it. But you could have permanent nerve damage if you don’t let them help you. That’s not a scare tactic, that’s math.”
Buddy shrugged. “Then I’ll be a limpy old bastard running my farm and drinking beer in my own kitchen. Thanks for the concern. Sadie, let’s go.”
As if on cue the day nurse, Helena, came in with a wheelchair and announced cheerily, ”Your chariot awaits.”
“Nothin’ wrong with my legs,” Buddy protested. “I can walk just fine.”
Gio blocked the door and took the wheelchair from Helena, who appeared relieved not to have to deal with getting Buddy safely to his vehicle. “We know you can walk but this is the standard escort policy for all patients due to liability reasons,” Gio explained.
“I’ll sign whatever I need to sign sayin’ I won’t sue ya. I’m not gettin’ in that thing.”
Watching Buddy’s defiance made me wonder how in the hell I was going to force him to go to PT, which was mandatory for his recovery.
Gio was the only one in the room who looked like he was trying to have a little fun.
He spun the wheelchair in a small circle, then backed it up to the bed like he was parking a Porsche in a tight garage.
Buddy glared at him, but I could see the corner of his mouth twitching—he didn’t want to give Gio the satisfaction of making him laugh.
“Come on,” Gio said, patting the seat. “I’ll wheel you out in style. We can wave at the nurses on the way, see if you get any numbers.”
Buddy shot Gio a look. “Don’t need numbers. Got all the women I need.”
That was interesting. Gio obviously didn’t know that his Nonna was signing succulents with hugs and kisses to Buddy, or that she’d been visiting him daily from seven a.m. to eight a.m. before visiting hours.
I’d only found out about it because Ida slipped and told me.
I wasn’t sure how Nonna had been able to keep the secret from her grandson, considering he worked at the hospital, but I found it interesting.
Gio smiled widely. “I heard the night nurse left you a get well note and a piece of butterscotch in the drawer. Is she one of your women?”
Buddy actually blushed as he waved his hand dismissively. I had to hand it to Gio, the distraction tactic worked because Buddy let Gio help him slide from the bed into the wheelchair, one hand bracing the armrest.
“You’re a menace,” Buddy muttered.
Gio grinned, pushing Buddy toward the door. “And you’re as stubborn as a mule. That’s why we’re friends.”
We headed down the hall, and the nurse at the desk’s eyes lit up, most likely from relief that her most cantankerous, difficult patient was no longer her problem. “Bye, Mr. Shepard. You take care of yourself.”
Buddy lifted his hand. “Tell Dr. Jankowski I’m not coming back.”
The nurse gave him a thumbs-up. “Will do.”
Gio steered us into the elevator, spun Buddy around, and pressed the button for the lobby. I trailed behind, carrying Buddy’s ancient gym bag and the batch of discharge papers. Buddy’s arms were folded across his chest like a child refusing to eat his vegetables.
In the elevator, Gio leaned against the wall. “So what’s your first meal out of prison, huh? Burgers? Pizza? Hot wings? I know you’re not gonna say kale salad.”
Buddy grunted. “Grace’s chicken fried steak, extra gravy.”
Grace and her husband ran Main Street Eats diner and Buddy ate there every Sunday for as long as I could remember. He always ordered the same thing, chicken fried steak, extra gravy. He never wavered from that meal.
Gio clapped his hands in approval. “Good choice.”
I smiled, and Buddy caught my eye in the mirrored elevator door. For a second, his expression softened. He looked tired—older and smaller than the man I held in my memory—but there was a defiance to the tilt of his chin, a glint in his eye that reminded me of the Buddy who was invincible.
When the elevator chimed, Gio wheeled Buddy out so fast his shoes squeaked on the linoleum. He made a show of popping a wheelie at the exit, which made the volunteers at reception giggle.
Outside, the air was wet with late-morning fog, and the hospital parking lot shimmered like a mirage.
When we got to the truck, Gio braced the wheelchair, and Buddy used the frame of the car to pull himself up.
His legs wobbled for a second, but he gritted his teeth and made it into the seat without a word.
I slid his bag in after him and tried to assist him by buckling him in, but he fought me on it, insisting he do it himself.
I walked around to the driver’s side and before we pulled away, Gio set the wheelchair off to the side and leaned in the open passenger window.
“Listen to your granddaughter,” he said, voice warm but insistent.
“If she tells you to do your exercises, do ’em.
’Cause I don’t want to see you back here. ”
Gio smacked the door twice, then stepped away from the truck. As I prepared to drive away I saw that he got distracted, looked down and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He typed on his screen, then his brow creased and confusion clouded his expression.
I was pulling out of the parking lot as Gio lifted his head and called out to Buddy, “Nonna says to answer your messages.” Gio lifted his phone, as if it was evidence. “Why is Nonna texting you?”
“Tell her my battery died,” Buddy shouted back. “My charger wasn’t workin’.”