Safe was good. “But she’d be taking Kyle’s room.” Since Victoria wouldn’t let her fiancé sleep upstairs with her until they were officially married.
“Kyle loves the idea of giving up his room. And having you and me at his condo so Victoria has no choice but to welcome him in her bed.”
“Did she agree to that?” Because it wasn’t like her friend to stray from a plan.
“Not yet. But she will.”
“You two are such schemers.” Who had grossly underestimated Victoria’s resolve.
“Kyle gets to sleep with Victoria. Your mom has a place to stay until we get the house cleaned out and fixed up. It’s a win-win.”
We. Roxie’d done so much on her own, for so long, was so tired… She almost collapsed against him at the word we.
“Come on. We need to talk to your mom about the house.”
There it was again. We. Although, “I think we should wait. She’s not strong enough.”
“She looks strong enough to me. If I’m wrong, there are plenty of doctors and nurses who will swarm the room at the first sign of trouble.”
“Maybe I should talk to her in private.”
“Maybe having someone else in on the conversation will help.”
It was worth a try. “But if it upsets her—” like Roxie anticipated it would “—we drop it.”
“Let’s play it by ear.” Fig led her back into the room.
“Mami, we need to talk about what we’re going to do with all the…stuff that’s accumulated in the house over the years.”
She clamped her lips together and glanced nervously at Fig.
“I think you’re a truly special lady for working so hard to acquire things for your boys,” Fig said. “But we need to find a way to get all the clothing and toys to them so they can put it to good use.”
Mami relaxed. Roxie could have kissed Fig.
“My boys need to come home. So I can show them everything I have for them.”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Mrs. Morano. If you work with Roxie and me and a few of our friends to sort through all the items in your house and divide them into what goes to which son, I promise to get your boys to come and pick it all up personally.”
Not “I promise to try” or “I promise to do my best,” but “I promise to get your boys to come.” As if Roxie hadn’t been trying to do just that for years. What the heck made him think he’d succeed when she couldn’t? Roxie swung from wanting to kiss him to wanting to snap his neck. “May I speak with you outside?” Once there she turned on him. “What the heck were you thinking?”
“Trust me,” he said.
“The words ‘I promise’ and ‘trust me’ coming out of a man’s mouth don’t mean a whole hell of a lot to me. But when you say ‘I promise’ to my mother, she’ll believe you, and I won’t stand by and see her hurt and disappointed when you can’t deliver.” Like she’d been all the times Roxie had thought her brothers would finally come through for her after they’d spewed their worthless “trust mes” and “I promises.”
“Well, you can believe them when they come from me.” Roxie started to say something but he cut her off. “I have a plan. I’m sure it will work.”
CHAPTER SIX
AFTER they left the hospital, Fig made Roxie breakfast back at the condo. Then they took advantage of having her house to themselves to do some preliminary cleanup.
“I think there’s a push broom in here somewhere,” Roxie said, crawling across a mound of bulging plastic garbage bags into the far corner of what he’d learned was the family room.
Fig walked down the hall. “What’s behind this door?” He tried the knob.
“No!” Roxie yelled. “Don’t go in there.”
But he’d already shouldered open a space large enough for him to stick his head inside. Unbelievable. Bags and boxes and loose…stuff were piled from floor to ceiling in every corner, chest high up to the window on the far wall, sloping down to thigh high around the door. Dust motes hung in the air, illuminated by the sunlight. Based on the dank smell and the layer of dust covering everything, that door hadn’t been opened in years. He sneezed.
“Step away from that door,” Roxie ordered, awkwardly trying to hurry to flat, stable ground.
“This door?” Fig pushed on it again in an attempt to create an opening big enough for him to squeeze through. When he succeeded, he slipped inside. As soon as he released his hold on it, under the weight of more bulging white garbage bags stuffed with clothes, the door promptly slammed behind him.
Roxie knocked. “Are you okay?”
“Afraid I was sucked inside by the monster behind the door?”
“Ha-ha. Open up.”
“Easier said than done.” He bent to lift some bags to toss them away to make room. Only, each time he moved one, something or things slid into its place. He sneezed again.
“Please tell me you’re not allergic to dust,” Roxie said through the door. “I told you to buy yourself a mask when we picked up the work gloves and cleaning supplies.”
He hadn’t wanted to insult her by wearing a mask in her home. The gloves, however—two pairs—were a necessity. A few minutes later he had enough of an area cleared to fully open the door.
Roxie walked in, her eyes wide. “Holy cow.”
“How long has it been since you’ve been in here?”
“Seven years.”
Fig climbed up on two stacks of old newspapers to survey the mess from a higher vantage point.
“Articles from Dad’s bowling wins and the boys’ sporting events,” Roxy said.
He picked his way deeper into the room, climbed over an old red metal tricycle. Something tilted beneath him. He started to slide and caught hold of the head on a life-size plastic Santa to steady himself.
“Be careful,” Roxie cautioned. “Where are you going?”
“To open the window to get some fresh air in here.”
He climbed higher, slower, the piles more unstable. To the left he noticed a softball-sized hole in the corner where the ceiling met the outer wall. He pointed. “I think you may have something living in here.” He scanned the room for movement, but seeing none he continued on.
“I’m going to get my broom,” Roxie said. “Just in case,” she called out from the hallway.
Fig came across some old Playboy magazines, and like any red-blooded heterosexual male, he paused to look through one.
“What’s that?” Roxie asked.
He turned the magazine to the side and opened the centerfold. “Yowza!”
“What is it with men and nudie pictures? The sooner we get done, the sooner you can have the real thing. Now get crack-a-lackin’. We only have a few hours until we have to vacate the premises for the night.”
With the incentive of having Roxie again, soon, Fig tossed the mag and made haste. Something on his right moved. A globe started to roll, revealing a… “Raccooooon!”
Fig backpedaled to avoid its vicious fangs, turned and ran.
Roxie started up the incline, her broom overhead. “Ee-yah,” she yelled like some warrior cry to battle and half ran, half climbed toward him, whacking the broom in the vicinity of the vermin. His fierce protector.
Fig leaped over the tricycle, well, at least he tried to. Unfortunately his foot caught on something, and he came down hard on his right wrist. Damn, that hurt. He struggled to stand. Something gave way beneath him and he was going down again. This time backward, all the way to the carpet below. Oomph. On impact, all the air left his lungs. Papers and clothes and God only knew what else piled on top of him.
“Fig?” Roxie called out.
He couldn’t answer.
“You’d better not be fooling around,” Roxie threatened
.
He moved something off his face and tried to suck in a breath.
“Holy crap,” Roxie said. “I can see the headlines now. ‘Man Smothered to Death in Hoarding House after Raccoon Attack.’”
With all the debris closing in around him, it felt like a distinct possibility. He tried to relax, to remain calm while he waited for his lungs to regain function.
A hand plowed through his covering and touched his face. “Nod if you’re okay.”
He did.
“Thank God. We’ve got to get you out of there. That raccoon may have friends or babies. There may be a whole network of tunnels down there.”
Shoot. He hadn’t thought of that. Fig forced in a breath and elbowed some space around him so he could move. If nothing else, the commotion should keep the critters away.
He felt Roxie lifting things off of him from above.
He moved something off his belly. Pain shot from his right wrist up his arm. Not good. “Oh. Look,” he said, eyeing the object. “An old-style toy car garage. I used to have one of these.” He’d played with it for hours at a time, loved that toy.
“You think you could focus on getting out of there? I refuse to take responsibility for you getting bitten by anything while you’re reminiscing about your childhood.”
Right. The raccoon.
Fig managed to sit up and pop his head out. Ahhhh. Fresh—well, fresher than down below—air.
“Hey, there, handsome,” Roxie said with a smile.
She held out her hand to him.
He took it. With his right hand. Big mistake. Excruciating pain. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Let go.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I twisted my wrist. Nothing serious.” He reached up with his other hand. She tugged and he stood.
“Let me see.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Now.”
He held out his wrist. It hung in an unnatural position.
She cupped it gently. “This doesn’t look good.” She ran a finger—oh, so lightly—over a lump forming on his lower forearm just before his wrist. “I’m taking you to the hospital for an X-ray.”
Fig stepped back. “Oh, no, you’re not. It’s not broken. I am not going to the emergency room.” As a patient. Ever again. A cold chill washed over him.
“Oh, yes, you are,” Roxie said. Determined. “Right after I figure out where that raccoon went.”
* * *
She was a persistent pain in the patoot. Fig sat at the bottom of the stretcher, his jeans and sneakers still on, but a hospital gown replaced his T-shirt. At least she’d gotten him a small private room with a window to the outside.
“So tell me again why you ran?” she asked innocently.
“Because raccoons have rabies.”
Roxie held up the realistic-looking stuffed animal that’d turned out to be the cause of his current predicament. “Only the live ones,” she said with a smile.
“That thing was moving,” he insisted.
“Only in your imagination.”
“He looked up at me.”
“With glass eyes.” Roxie snickered. “Probably manufactured in China.” She full out laughed.
“Go ahead. Get it all out. I’m glad you find this so amusing.”
Roxie struggled to catch her breath. “Raccoooooon,” she imitated him, tears leaking out of her eyes.
“Get out,” Fig said but without heat because he didn’t really want her to leave. She kept him occupied, so he didn’t spend all his time thinking about the antiseptic hospital smell. The cool, functional room. The stretcher. The coarse sheets. And the feeling of pending incarceration that accompanied them.
“I’m sorry.” Roxie walked to the counter by the sink and plucked two tissues from the box. “Really.” She blotted the inner corner of each eye. “I’m sorry. It’s just not every day someone I know fractures a bone trying to escape a stuffie.” She turned away, her shoulders bouncing in silent laughter.
“Yes. Please. Let’s focus on the outcome of this fiasco. Fractured right distal radius.” He held up his damaged appendage. “In need of surgical repair. I’m right-hand dominant. I work on computers for a living.” So what if he wasn’t involved in any high-priority projects at the moment and he had enough money—thank you, Grandma Rose—that he didn’t have to work another day in his life if he didn’t want to? Having his right arm incapacitated was going to be a major inconvenience.
“Excuse me. Don’t you go looking for sympathy now, Mr. It’s-not-broken-I’m-not-going-to-the-emergency-room.”
“See. This is why I didn’t want to come. It’s like taking the car to a mechanic. They always find something wrong.”
“Hello. There is something wrong. You have a broken bone.”
“I don’t want to be here.” He didn’t want surgery, didn’t want Roxie to feel like she had to take care of him. He wanted to be taking care of her, helping to get her house in order.
“I know.” She walked over to the stretcher and took his good hand in hers.
“So joke time is finally over?”
Roxie nodded. “But the next time I see a raccoon you can bet it’ll start up all over again.”
At least she wasn’t looking at him with sympathy and fawning all over him.
“I can’t wait.”
Dr. Jared Padget, Roxie’s friend and the E.R. doc on duty, entered the room. He pointed at the stuffed raccoon propped up on the over-the-bed table. “That the little guy who caused all this trouble?”
“Yeah. Wasn’t it nice of Roxie to bring it to the hospital with us?” Fig asked, picking up the culprit with his left hand and lobbing it into the plastic trash container. Swish. Two points.
“Hey,” Roxie said. “You’re going to have to explain to Mami why her favorite stuffed raccoon’s gone missing.”
“She loves it so much she kept it locked in a room for seven years?”
“You may find it hard to believe she knows exactly what she has, but she does.”
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Dr. Padget interjected. “Which do you want first?”
No bad news. Fig’s skin started to prickle. His heart started to pound. This is how it happened. You go in for one thing and they find something else. Mass on the lung. Out-of-whack blood count. We need to admit him. The air felt too thick to reach his lungs.
“You okay?” Roxie asked, looking down at his hand with concern, which was when he realized he had such a tight grip on her, the tips of her fingers had turned a deep red.
He eased up but didn’t release her. Couldn’t. He swallowed. “Good news first, please.”
“Dr. Rosen agreed to take you on,” Dr. Padget said to Fig. “As a professional courtesy to Miz Roxie.” He inclined his head in Roxie’s direction. “You’re scheduled for surgery at four-thirty this afternoon.”
“Four-thirty?” Fig looked at his watch. “That’s in three hours.” What the heck was he supposed to do locked in this room for three more friggin’ hours? “Please tell me I can leave and come back.”
“We’re not busy. It’s easier if you sit tight and we’ll send you up when the O.R. is ready for you.”
“Easier for who?” He wanted to leave. To get in his car and drive as far as he could on whatever gas he had in the tank. Because filling up left-handed would be awkward. Damn. “Is that the bad news? That I’m stuck here?”
Dr. Padget glanced at Roxie. “Uh, no.”
Great.
“Based on your mechanism of injury and your past medical history, I suspect, and Dr. Rosen concurs, that you may be suffering from some degree of osteoporosis as a long-term effect of your childhood cancer treatment.”
Fig stiffened. Osteoporosis was an old-l
ady disease, wasn’t it? Was he destined for a back hump like his grandmother? “What does that mean?”
“That you may, and we won’t know for certain until we do a bone density test, have a decrease in skeletal bone mass that puts you at an increased risk for bone fractures. It would explain why a young, strong, seemingly healthy man sustained your severity of injury from a relatively minor fall.”
“What does a bone density test entail?” Fig asked. Long, thick needles, no doubt. He remembered them well. And pain. Lots of pain. Nausea threatened.
“A simple X-ray. Or more technically, a dual energy X-ray absorption or DEXA scan.”
Fig exhaled.
Roxie squeezed his hand. “It doesn’t have to be done today, right?” she asked.
“No,” Dr. Padget said. “But soon. Depending on the test result, your primary doctor may want to start you on a combined medication and exercise regimen to slow down the bone loss and decrease your risk of additional fractures.”
“I’ll take care of it as soon as I get home.”
When the door closed behind Dr. Padget, Roxie said, “Not a big fan of hospitals, are you?”
Fig shook his head. “I’ve spent way too much time in them over the years. You sure you can’t slip me out for an hour or two? I need a shower. I feel all grungy.” Caked with dust and scented with mildew. If nothing else, at least he could wash his hands. Fig stood and walked to the sink, reached for the handle. “Damn it.” Pain stabbed through his right wrist and forearm.
“That’s why Dr. P. doesn’t want you out and about. Bang your wrist and you risk increasing the displacement of your fracture.” Roxie shut off the water. “Let me get your nurse to give you some pain medication.”
“No,” he snapped. He would not take anything that would alter his cognitive function. Roxie isn’t your mother, his rational self attempted to make him see reason. But so far Kyle was the only one who’d been able to earn Fig’s trust. And that’d taken years.
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