Who I could not call was any of my own flesh and blood. I loved them. I really did. But the drama they brought with them wasn’t worth it. I’d been shot. People lived their whole lives not only never getting shot, but also not getting shot at.
My family still could out-drama a gunshot wound. This would be no challenge to them.
So I didn’t need that either.
“Sure,” I answered Cindy as she wheeled me down the hall.
“You got painkiller scripts in there,” she told me, heading toward the elevators. “Now, you know I saw what happened to you on the TV. You went all out, bein’ a hero, helpin’ to save that woman from that psycho guy. You use those pills when you need them, stop when you don’t. Be a shame you went from hero to junkie.”
Cindy spoke truth.
Cindy was also an African American nurse who worked in that suburban hospital just outside Chicago, but she used to work at a hospital deep in the city. Over the last week and a half, I’d learned that Cindy had seen a lot and most of it was not good.
I’d also learned that Cindy didn’t beat around the bush.
“I’ll do my best not to become a junkie,” I assured her as she hit the elevator button.
“Follow the doctor’s orders. Read ’em good,” she ordered. “Get your booty out of bed and get around. But don’t overdo it. You hear?” she finished as the elevator binged.
“I hear,” I muttered.
She wheeled me in the elevator and expertly wheeled me around to face forward.
“This has not been real fun,” I told the doors but did it speaking to Cindy. “But I’m gonna miss you and the girls.”
Weirdly, this was true. It was likely I’d never forget getting shot or the ensuing weeks where I had to battle the pain, struggle to recover, and do this with a Bianchi onslaught in full swing. But the nurses in that hospital were the best. I couldn’t say this with any authority. I’d never had a hospital stay before. But they were so good, I couldn’t imagine better.
“Yeah, we’re gonna miss you too,” she replied. “Mostly we’ll miss tryin’ to figure out what is up with you doin’ the Sleepin’ Beauty act when that boy comes callin’.”
Apparently they were also attentive. And to more than just my health.
I pressed my lips together.
“What is up with that?” Cindy prompted.
“Uh…” I non-responded as the elevator doors binged again and started to open.
“That boy came every day to see me,” she started as she began to push me out of the elevators, “I’d be on the phone with my stylist like a shot. I’d have my hair done. My nails done. My toenails done. And I’d be in a negligee.”
I tamped down visions of me in a negligee reclining in a hospital bed, which were too ridiculous to fathom, even for me (and there was very little too ridiculous to fathom about me), and I thought about Gina.
Gina had brought me some new nightgowns and a robe to wear during my hospital stay. They were pretty in a cute way that was very Gina and so not me.
I was about flash and impact all the time. I could put on the glitz just going down to the lobby to get my mail.
But when it came to bed wear, the less material the better. And if there was material, I liked it to leave as little to the imagination as possible (yes, even if I was sleeping just with me).
As cute as the ones Gina brought were, they were also appropriate for a hospital stay, thus no flash, no impact, and lots of material.
I’d opted to wear hospital gowns.
They were ugly, shapeless, and no one could get ideas about a woman in a hospital gown.
And I had a feeling Benny was getting ideas.
Cindy started wheeling me toward the exit doors and she did this still talking.
“So the girls, we’ve been talkin’ about that since he brought you in covered in your blood. Now, I didn’t see that part, but it’s made the rounds big time. Hot guy. Hot girl. GSW. Blood. Drama. Resulting television crews. That happens.”
I was sure it did.
But it was time to put a stop to this.
“He’s my dead boyfriend’s brother.”
“Ah,” she uttered knowingly, still wheeling. Her voice had gone from no-nonsense nosy to soft with nurse concern when she went on. “Sorry to hear about your loss, hon. When’d he die?”
“Seven years ago.”
She stopped wheeling.
“Uh…what?”
I twisted my neck to look up at her to see her staring down at me.
“Vinnie died seven years ago.”
“And you’re fakin’ sleepin’ when his hottie brother comes a-callin’ because of why?”
“Because Benny, the hottie brother, wants to talk,” I told her.
“About what?” she asked.
I had no clue.
But with the way he traced my lower lip with his thumb when he told me we were going to talk. With the way he picked me up off the forest floor and sprinted to his SUV with me in his arms after I was shot. With the way he caught my pass years ago when I was drunk after Vinnie died and stupidly, crazily, sluttily threw myself at him…
Well, with all that, I was thinking all this attention wasn’t about remembrance of sisterly love, what with the lip-tracing and tongues-tangling parts being included.
“I don’t know,” I shared with Cindy.
Her brows shot up. “And you faked sleepin’ and didn’t find out?”
“Yep.”
Her head tipped to the side and she deduced, “’Cause no boy who looks like that comes to the hospital every day for a girl who looks like you ’cause he’s keepin’ an eye on his seven-years-dead brother’s girlfriend.”
Indication that Cindy not only had seen it all, but she understood it.
“Something like that,” I conceded.
“Everything like that,” she returned.
She was right, but I didn’t confirm that fact.
“You’re not into him?” she asked, and I felt my eyes get wide.
“He’s Benny,” I said in response, figuring that said it all.
“He sure is,” she agreed, knowing it said it all because she’d seen him, repeatedly (though, once would do it).
“But he’s my dead boyfriend’s brother.”
“Girl,” she started, wheeling me toward the doors again, “God doesn’t care who you let in there, just as long as the feelin’s are honest when you let him in.”
I looked to my bag on my knees. “It’s my understanding God does care who you let in there.”