“You’re sneaky like that bitch Wynonna!”
Lindsey lifts a brow and groans. Now I’m really scared. The last thing we need is for Lindsey to be the new Wynonna. “It’s Lindsey. Remember?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory!” she yells. “You’re in on it with the sneaky people.”
“Lou Ann is here to help you,” Lindsey assures her. “We’re both here to keep you safe from sneaky people.”
“Then get me out of this goddamn place. They’re listening.” Mom points to the remote. “They hear everything.”
“Is she going to be like this forever?” Last night she’d been bat-shit crazy, but in a great mood. Today she’s still bat-shit, but her eyes have turned to slits like a snake’s.
“Her temperature is still spiking at a hundred and two.” Lindsey turns her attention to the vital-signs monitor. “The bigger issue is, her oxygen level dropped to the low eighties this morning.” She points at the screen. “It’s back up to ninety-three, which isn’t great but is about normal for her.”
“What made it drop?”
“She’s not taking deep enough breaths. Her lungs are clear, so the best guess is hallucinatory anxiety.”
“I need a shotgun, a carton of smokes, and some fucking jerky.” Scratch what I said about making more sense.
I take a step back just in case the woman who looks like my mother levitates and spews soup. “Has she had the kidney scan yet?”
“Not yet. She’s a little too riled up.”
“Yeah.”
“She was given Tylenol in her IV just before we got here. It shouldn’t be too long before her temperature drops and she’s back to normal,” Lindsey predicts.
“Shouldn’t be too long” translates to another hour before Mom’s temperature lowers enough that she quits fighting the hospital staff. She persists in cursing her archnemesis, Wynonna, but I’m fine with it as long as neither Lindsey nor I are her target.
I sit in a chair beside her bed while she sleeps, answering emails but mostly watching treasure hunters on Oak Island and unsolved murders on Cold Case Files.
There’s good news and bad news regarding the results of the ultrasound. The good: the infection only spread to one kidne
y and the antibiotic should clear it up with no problem. The bad: Mom has cystocele, meaning her leaky bladder sags and can’t empty all the way. There are no good options for a seventy-four-year-old Alzheimer’s sufferer who has nerve damage in her urinary tract. We have the choice of a catheter or nothing. Both have risks and issues, and I’m going to leave it up to Lindsey to decide what’s best for Mom.
Lindsey and I leave around seven and return to a house that is even more stifling than it was the night before. This time, though, no amount of begging or pounding appeases the AC gods. My cotton sundress sticks to my back, and a bead of sweat slips down the side of my neck. I lean forward and press my forehead into the old plaster wall, bracing myself for another long night ahead.
“What are you doing?”
I turn my head and look at Lindsey. “Feeling sorry for myself.” She’s changed from her tight scrubs into a maternity wrap dress with yellow flowers on it. It looks like she might be wearing a little makeup, too. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Jim’s picking me up, and we’re going to a movie. I’ll have my cell on me if the hospital calls.”
Again, why is a young guy taking a very pregnant girl to the movies? It seems weird, and I open my mouth to give her my opinion, but I close it again. She’s an adult capable of making her own decisions and she didn’t ask for Lulu’s advice. Still, I’m going to keep my eye on Jim.
“Frankie’s getting popcorn with extra butter tonight.”
“And air-conditioning.”
She rubs her stomach. “Wanna come?”
I’m almost tempted. “What’s the movie?”
“Welcome to Hell 666: The Return of Satan.”
“I thought you gave up horror movies.”
“I tried, but I can’t go cold turkey. You should come and get out of this house.”