The Room with the Second-Best View (4 page)

“I'm fine, really.”

Al didn't believe her, not for a second. Despite the brave words, tears flowed in rivers down Millie's face to soak the crisp white sheet. She shifted on the hospital bed and sucked in a shuddering breath.

He stood at his wife's bedside, arms resting on the metal rails that
kept patients from tumbling to the floor. No danger of that happening to Millie though, when even a slight movement caused a gasp and a fresh flood of tears. “You're obviously not fine.”

“I am,” she insisted. “I don't know why I can't stop crying.”

“Shock,” Al intoned in his most gentle tone. “The doctor says it's natural after the body suffers a traumatic experience.”

“Traumatic?” Her lower lip protruded. “That's ridiculous. I fell down the stairs and landed on my rump.”

“And hurt your arm,” he added.

“I'm aware of that,” she snapped. “It feels like a dozen tiny pickaxes have embedded themselves in my wrist and are trying to hack their way out.” She attempted to roll onto her side and didn't quite suppress a sob. “Why do they make these mattresses so hard?”

Al deemed it the better part of wisdom to treat the question as rhetorical, and held his tongue. In thirty-eight years of marriage he'd rarely seen his sweet-natured wife so irritable. That must mean she was in a lot of pain. A niggling worry erupted in his mind. What if she'd broken her back, or worse, ruptured a kidney? A person could live with one kidney, but what if the fall had damaged her liver? Could a severe fall jar a person's liver loose?

A wave of fear washed over him. What would he do without his Millie? Life would not be worth living. In sudden need of the reassurance of physical contact, he reached for her hand.

“Ow!” She glared at him. “That's my sore wrist.”

He snatched his hand away and clasped it with the other behind his back. “I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Her lovely features contorted, the warning sign of the impending renewal of the salty flood. “What if it's broken? How will I finish painting the back bathroom with a broken wrist?”

Al plucked a couple of tissues from the box on the bedside. “The bathroom can wait. There's no hurry.”

“B-b-but there
is.
” She grasped the tissue with her left hand and covered her face. “You don't know what I've d-d-done.”

Alarm buzzed in a distant corner of his mind, immediately overshadowed by concern for his wife. Millie never cried like this. The sight of her overcome with sobs disturbed him at a deep level. Far more than the time she broke his electric razor using it to shave a sweater. More even than when she left the car in neutral and it crashed through the side of Junior Watson's tobacco barn.

He leaned over the rail until his face hovered inches above hers. “Look at me, Mildred Richardson.” A corner of the tissue dipped a fraction, enough for one eye to peek up at him.

“I love you.” He allowed the depth of his emotions to creep into his voice, unashamed when it broke like an adolescent boy's. “Whatever you've done, we'll handle it together.”

While her sobs did not cease, they did begin to slow. Al waited, more or less patiently, for her composure to return so she could confess what she'd done. His sense of alarm inflated. Whatever it was, he felt sure he wouldn't like it. With Millie in this state he'd be forced to hide his annoyance, swallow his displeasure, and maintain a calm demeanor. He'd probably get ulcers.

The curtain behind him whipped aside and the doctor entered, holding a chart. At least he'd identified himself as a doctor when they arrived at the hospital. He looked more like he might be working on a Boy Scout merit badge.

“Good news, Mrs. Richardson.” The young man slapped the folder against his thigh and smiled at Millie. “Nothing's broken.”

She succumbed to a fresh wave of sobs. Relief, Al assumed, though he found it hard to tell the difference.

He faced the doctor. “You're sure? You checked everything?” A pause, and he held the doctor's eye. “Her liver's okay?”

The child-pretending-to-be-a-doctor looked startled a moment and then laughed. Al forced himself not to bristle.

“Everything's fine. She's going to have a sore tailbone for a few weeks.” He shifted his gaze to Millie. “We'll give you an inflatable
donut that'll make sitting more comfortable. And we're going put a brace on that wrist to give the scapholunate time to heal.”

Millie blew her nose into the tissue. “The what?”

“The ligament between the two bones in your wrist. The MRI didn't show any tears, but you've sprained it pretty badly. You'll need to wear the brace all the time.” He shook a finger as he might to a young child, which set Al's teeth together. “No cheating.”

Fretful creases appeared in Millie's forehead. “For how long?”

“Two weeks at a minimum. Possibly as long as six.”

“Six weeks!” She turned wide eyes on Al. “I can't be out of commission for six weeks. I have too much to do.”

Al opened his mouth to ask what tasks were so important, but the doctor launched into a lecture.

“Mrs. Richardson, the wrist is a complex group of bones, cartilage, and ligaments held in a delicate balance. If an injury like this isn't allowed to heal properly, it could result in long-term pain, stiffness, and swelling.” He'd been speaking seriously, but then the patronizing tone returned. “We don't want that, do we?”

“No,” she replied, meeker than Al had ever seen her. “We don't.”

“Good.” He turned to leave, speaking as he exited. “Hang tight until the nurse brings the splint and your discharge papers. Take ibuprofen for pain. Ice the wrist and the tailbone for twenty minutes, four times a day. Oh…” He paused and looked over his shoulder. “You're going to have a nasty bruise on your bottom. Nothing to worry about. It's normal.” With a final grin, he disappeared.

Millie scowled after him. “There's nothing normal about a black-and-blue bum.”

Reassured that his wife was in no imminent danger, Al returned to his place beside the bed, intent on forcing a full disclosure of whatever information she'd kept from him. “About that thing you mentioned.”

“Thing?” She plucked at the sheet and did not meet his eye. “What thing is that?”

He planted his feet. “You know exactly what thing I'm talking about. The thing you haven't told me. The thing you did. Out with it.”

To his dismay, tears once again pooled in her eyes and spilled over rims already red with crying. He plucked another tissue and handed it to her.

“It's just that—” Her voice cut off with a squeak. She swallowed and tried again. “I know you don't want the wedding guests staying at our house, b-b-She drew in a breath and finished the sentence on a sob. “But I already invited them!”

Now the weeping returned in earnest. While Millie blubbered, Al concentrated on drawing deep, cleansing breaths through his nose and passing her the occasional fresh tissue when the others became soggy.

How could she invite people into their home without asking him first? The dumplings and pie proved that she knew he would not approve, and yet she'd done it anyway. He'd been deceived. Manipulated. Played for a sucker by his own wife.

He opened his mouth to voice his outrage, but closed it again. She had a heart of gold, his Millie. He could almost see the way this situation must have come about. Dr. Susan, who was not only Millie's boss but also something of a substitute daughter since their own lived in another country, was planning a wedding. What woman didn't relish weddings? Suppose one day at work Dr. Susan voiced concern that there was no place for her relatives to stay. Softhearted Millie would immediately have wanted to fix the problem. A fixer-upper—that described Millie perfectly. Since she had the means to help, she would have volunteered without thinking twice.

Inhaling a final deep breath, Al laid a hand—extra softly—on her shoulder. She looked up at him, misery plain on her blotchy features.

“If you've invited them, then they're welcome in our home.”

His swift capitulation must have stunned her. The weeping halted mid-sob. “Do you mean it?”

“I do. We'll receive them with open arms.” He glanced down at her injured wrist. “Or I will. You can receive them with open
arm
.”

“But the upstairs bathroom—”

He laid a finger across her mouth. “I will paint the upstairs bathroom.” Bending low over the bed railing, he removed his finger to brush a featherlight kiss across her lips. “We are a team, Mildred Richardson. Whatever we do, we do it together.”

A new flow of tears began. These didn't bother Al in the least, accompanied as they were by Millie's good arm snaking around his neck to pull him more firmly toward the lips he loved to kiss.

Chapter Three

A
nd after the kitchen and laundry, there's the upstairs bathroom. I got most of the sanding done yesterday before my…” Millie shifted on the inflatable cushion while she searched for a word. She refused to call her fall an
accident
because that sounded like she'd crashed the car. Referring to it as a fall made her sound like a klutz. Everyone in town was probably talking about her clumsy tumble down the stairs. While Millie enjoyed hearing newsy tidbits as much as the next lady Creeker, the idea of being the primary topic of today's gossip rankled.

Seated in his chair at the kitchen table, Albert poured milk on his Cheerios. “Your setback?”

Not bad, though
setback
insinuated some level of failure. “My unfortunate incident,” she concluded. There. At least that made her sound more like a hapless victim and less like a graceless bumbler.

“Right.” Albert reached across the distance and poured milk into her bowl as well. “So after dishes and clothes, all I need to do is paint that little bathroom, right?”

She awarded him a grateful smile and picked up her spoon with her left hand. He was being so sweet about helping her. He even called his boss and arranged to take a couple of days off work so he could take care of her, which she appreciated more than she could express.
Violet would certainly have stepped in, but more than a few hours' time in the company of her best friend left Millie exhausted.

“There are still a few rough spots to be smoothed over before it's ready to paint,” she told him. “I'll point them out.”

He paused in the act of picking up his coffee. “Do you think you'll be able to manage the stairs today?”

Though her initial instinct was to bristle, the slight movement when she straightened sent agony shafting up her spine. With a hiss, she changed her position on the inflatable donut, eyes squeezed shut until the pain dulled to a manageable level, and then grimaced at Albert. “Maybe I'll stay downstairs today. You'll be able to see what needs to be done. And Violet will be here this afternoon to help you.”

His head shot upward. “What? No!” He shook his head with vigor. “I'm perfectly capable of painting a ten-foot-square bathroom on my own.”

“She's been a big help.” Millie stepped up to her friend's defense. “And really, she's quite good at taping the edges. After all the painting we've done, we've developed a system.”

“You're welcome to return to your system when you can pick up a paintbrush again.” Using his spoon like a knife, he sliced through the air between them. “I will cook your meals, dust your furniture, do the laundry, and sweep the floors. I will even paint your bathroom, but I will not subject myself to prolonged exposure to Violet's absurd sayings and clichés.”

Despite the stiffness that held her body rigidly hostage, Millie managed a chuckle. “I suppose that is asking a bit much. I'll call her and tell her not to come.”

She scooped up a spoonful of cereal with her left hand and raised it slowly. Half of it slopped over the edge before reaching her mouth. With a sigh, she inspected the mess on her nightgown. No doubt within a few weeks she would master the art of left-handed eating. Until then, there would be an increase in the amount of laundry to be washed.