A Cry in the Dark
Page 16
“I want to eat lunch in my chair in my own home, so hurry it up,” Hank said.
The nurse didn’t respond.
“I told you I was comin’ to get him,” Wyatt said in a cold tone, directed at me.
“And I promised Hank that I would do it,” I said. “I made a promise, and I don’t break them, Mr. Drummond.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So you’re callin’ me Mr. Drummond now?”
“If you’re going to accuse me of things I haven’t done, then I think formality is appropriate.”
Hank glanced from Wyatt to me and back again. “Did you accuse her of something?” When Wyatt didn’t answer, Hank said, “What do you think she’s gonna do? Rob me?”
“I don’t know,” Wyatt said, his voice a growl of frustration. “And that right there is the problem. None of us really know her.”
Hank’s gaze found mine and he gave me a sad smile. “Oh, but I do, boy.”
Tears filled my eyes, and I reached for his hand and squeezed it. Wyatt was right. Hank barely knew me, and vice versa, but we shared a secret that drew us together in a way that went beyond normal relationships.
Hank dropped my hand and turned to Wyatt. “Carly’s stayin’ with me whether you like it or not, so deal with it or get the hell out.”
Wyatt gave him a defiant glare, yet there was something deferential about it, which caught me by surprise. I’d seen him tell off his brother and stare down hard men at the tavern. But Wyatt was kowtowing to Hank, and I wanted to know why.
A nurse came in a few minutes later, looking exasperated. “I know you’re in a hurry to go home, but we had to get all your paperwork in order, Mr. Chalmers.”
She turned to me and Wyatt. “Which one of you is Mr. Chalmers goin’ home with?”
“That would be me,” I said.
“Me,” Wyatt said, getting to his feet.
She chuckled. “We got a custody battle goin’ on?”
“We’ll both be takin’ care of him,” Wyatt said. “At his place.”
She glanced between us again, shaking her head a little in amusement. In all likelihood, most older patients didn’t have a line of people wanting to take care of them. “Whatever y’all do is your own business. I just need to know who to teach about carin’ for his wounds. Someone will also need to make sure he’s checkin’ his insulin.”
“Both of us,” Wyatt said. “We’ll be workin’ in shifts.”
I expected Hank to protest, but he sat in silence, his previous amusement gone.
The nurse pulled back his covers and exposed the bandaged stump of his right leg. “We took the drain out yesterday, which is why he’s ready to go home today, so you don’t have to take care of that part, but you do need to watch the incision for any signs of infection or cellulitis.” She glanced up at us. “A fancy way of saying the tissue is dyin’.”
My stomach churned.
For the next fifteen minutes she showed us how to care for Hank’s stump. She made both of us take turns unwrapping and rewrapping it, and to my surprise, Wyatt didn’t flinch. Once Hank’s leg was rewrapped, the nurse gave us a list of supplies and prescriptions for the various medications—pain, antibiotics, injectable insulin, and a pill to help manage his diabetes—we’d need to pick up before taking Hank home. She reminded Hank that he needed to check his blood sugar more regularly.
“Yeah,” he grumped. “I know.”
“Do you want me to show your caregivers how to check your sugar and give you insulin injections?”
“I’ve been managing my own damn diabetes for over fifteen years,” he groused. “I had a leg amputated, not my brain.”
I couldn’t help wondering what I’d gotten myself into. Taking care of Violet had been relatively straightforward compared to the whole business of changing bandages and monitoring medications. I was sure I was going to screw up. Part of me couldn’t help but wonder if Wyatt was right. Maybe I was overstepping. But Hank needed help, and I needed a place to stay where I felt like I was earning my keep. And this gave me an opportunity to look for Seth’s evidence. Sometimes you had to listen to fate.
Next, the nurse helped Hank get dressed. I offered to step out of the room, but she told me I should stay—dressing him would be part of the job. He put on a faded and stained blue and white button-down shirt and a pair of jeans, the right leg of which had been cut off. The nurse carefully pulled the pant leg over his stump, telling us it was important not to tug too hard and possibly disturb the sutures. Finally, she brought in the wheelchair and helped Hank out of bed, making him use his crutches to walk to the chair and sit down.
“He’ll need help at first,” she said. “At least until he builds up his upper body strength. Going to the bathroom will likely be the hardest. Toilets are often shorter than chairs. I suggest you get one of those raised seats to make it more comfortable.”
Hank hung his head, refusing to look at us. I understood his embarrassment. The nurse was talking about him like he was a child.
The nurse wheeled Hank to the lobby and told us to pull our car up to the front doors so she could help us load him in.
Wyatt and I stared at each other, something in his gaze telling me I wasn’t the only one who realized we’d signed up for a monumental undertaking.
“I take it you drove Ruth’s car,” Wyatt said. When I nodded, he turned to the nurse. “I’ve got a 1985 Ford pickup truck, and Carly has an old Cadi. High or low—which do you think would be better?”
I couldn’t believe Wyatt was considering letting me drive Hank home. Maybe he’d decided what I had: the more help, the better.
“I suppose high,” she said. “He’ll need help gettin’ in, but he’ll be able to slide out once you get him home—assisted, of course.”
Wyatt nodded, then turned to me. “How about I take Hank to his house and you can get his prescriptions and medical supplies. They’ll need to be filled here in Greeneville.”
Prescriptions could be expensive. This was going to wipe out my money, but I couldn’t very well tell him no. “Do you have insurance, Hank?”
“Medicare,” he said, still refusing to look me in the eye. He pointed to his knapsack. “My card’s in there. In my wallet.”
He handed me the bag. I felt like I was violating his privacy by digging inside, so I quickly found the wallet and started to hand it to him.
He turned away. “You get the card out. Take my cash too.”
Reluctantly, I opened his wallet and found his Medicare card and checked for cash, finding forty-three dollars.
“Just keep the whole thing,” Hank said, his cheeks tinged with pink. “I ain’t got a need for it right now.”
I glanced over at Wyatt, sure he was going to accuse me of trying to steal Hank’s money and run. But to my surprise, he told the nurse he was going to get the truck. Turning to me, he said, “Carly, will you walk out with me?”
My chest tightened, but his voice didn’t have the Asshole Wyatt tone. “I’ll see you back at your house, Hank,” I said cheerfully, then followed Wyatt out into the parking lot.
“Do you know how to drive a stick?” he asked as we followed the sidewalk of the circular drive.
“Yeah,” I said in confusion. “But Ruth’s car is an automatic.”
He reached for my hand and pressed his keys into my palm. “You take the truck and drive Hank back to Drum. I’ll get the supplies and the medication.”
My temper flared. “You’re really that worried I’m going to run off with Hank’s money?” I demanded. “I didn’t even see a credit card or debit card in his wallet, and forty-three dollars won’t get me very far.”
“Exactly,” he said matter-of-factly. “Forty-three dollars likely won’t pay for his medication either, let alone all of the supplies on that list.” He pushed the keys into my hand again. “So you drive Hank home in my truck, and I’ll pick up the supplies and meet you at his house.”
“I probably have enough to pay for it,” I said, unsure whether to be grateful or insulted.
I looked at him, seeing a glimpse of the man I’d met at the overlook—the kind of guy who stopped to help a stranger. “Thanks,” I finally said, deciding simple was better. I saw no reason to argue with him. Instead, I dug out the keys to the Cadillac and traded with him. “Ruth said she had a ride to the tavern for the lunch shift, but I’ll need to bring it back this evening.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “I plan to be back long before then.”
I wanted to say something else, to assure him that he and Hank could trust me, but I was worried I’d say something to piss him off, so I just walked over to his truck and started the engine. I sure hoped driving a manual would come back to me.
Hank was surprised when I pulled up instead of Wyatt, but he didn’t question me, simply urged the nurse to help get him up into the truck.
It took the two of us, but we got him in and belted up, and then we were on our way.
“Before we head out of town,” Hank said, “how about stopping at Popeyes and getting me some fried chicken and a biscuit?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you supposed to be eating that when you’re diabetic?”
“So?” he said. “I’d rather be dead than give up my fried chicken and biscuits. You still got my wallet?”
“No,” I said. “I thought you were supposed to check your insulin before you ate.”
“And we did, remember? I gave myself a damn injection. I’m good to go.”
I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do, but he wasn’t a child and my job was to help him with his amputation not manage his diabetes. “Biscuits sound good to me, but I doubt Popeyes is open. It’s barely ten o’clock, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to hang around waiting.” I shot him an apologetic look. “How about McDonald’s? They have biscuits. We can go through the drive-thru. My treat.”
“It’s not the same, but I guess it’ll work,” he said dejectedly. He gave me directions as I struggled to shift the gears.
“Turn right there!” he shouted at the last moment, pointing out the window.
I hit the brakes and nearly stalled the truck as I downshifted and took the turn. A black pickup truck almost slammed into me, but I made it around the corner without getting hit. I glanced over in panic to make sure Hank hadn’t been jostled too badly. “You okay?”
He scowled. “I’m fine, just hungry for biscuits.”
“Promise me you won’t tell Wyatt I almost got rear-ended,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“If you get me McDonald’s, I’ll take your secrets to my grave,” he said.
Considering the reason I was with him, it seemed like an alarming analogy. We went through the drive-thru in record time and were soon on our way, me with my sausage biscuit and coffee, and Hank with his breakfast burritos, sausage and cheese biscuit, hash browns, Egg McMuffin, and an orange juice.
I had serious doubts that he could eat it all, but bearing in mind that there weren’t any fast food restaurants in Drum, I got him everything he requested without comment.
Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I got out my paper with the directions to Drum. When Hank figured out what I was looking at, he snorted. “You don’t need damn directions. I know where to go.”
He gave me instructions—often too close to the actual turn—but it didn’t take me long to realize we weren’t following Ruth’s route. “Where are you taking me, Hank?”
“Don’t you worry. It’s only a couple minutes longer than the way you likely came, but it’ll bring us through Ewing.”
I shot him a frown. “Why do you want to go to Ewing?”
He glanced out the window, refusing to look at me, and his voice trembled when he spoke. “I want to see my grandson.”
Why hadn’t I thought of that? Hank had been stuck in the hospital and hadn’t had a chance to identify his body or possibly even make arrangements.
“Do you need to identify him?” I asked quietly.
“Nah,” he said. “Wyatt already gave the official ID. The sheriff’s deputy said Max did it unofficially. But I want to see him anyway.”
Wyatt had officially IDed him? That fit with Ruth’s story about him taking Seth under his wing. “Do you know where they took his body?”
He was silent for a second. “He’s at the funeral home. I need to talk to them about the funeral too.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be more than happy to take you.”
Once I got on to Highway 107, the lull of the truck and Hank’s medication had him dozing. He’d told me that 107 ran right into Ewing, and sure enough, forty-five minutes later, Ewing came into view.
“Hank,” I said softly. When he roused, I said, “We’re here. Now what?”
He sat up, his eyes sleepy and his gray hair smooshed on one side, and glanced around to get his bearings. “Go a couple of miles and we’ll turn left.”
After a moment of silence, I asked, “How are you doing? Are you in any pain?”
“Nah, they jacked me up on aspirin before they let me go. I’ll be okay until this afternoon.”
Aspirin? That’s all they were giving him? But the nurse had said he had a prescription for pain medication…
When I pulled into the parking lot, I began to worry about getting him out of the truck and inside on his crutches.
I said as much, and he waved a hand at the doors. “Just park in front. Then go inside and tell Mobley I need a wheelchair.”
“Okay…” I did as he said and walked through the front doors, glancing down the hall for someone to help. I heard a faint doorbell chime in the back.
“Can I help you?” a middle-aged man asked, walking out a door down the hall. He wore a dark gray suit and a pale blue tie. His dress shoes were shiny black. His hair was black too, for the most part, with a sprinkling of gray. His eyes were warm and kind.
“Hi,” I said, taking a step closer. “I’m with Hank Chalmers. He’s here to see his grandson.”
“I’ve been expecting him,” the man stated, holding out his hand as he approached. “I’m Pete Mobley, the director.”
I shook his hand. “Carly Bla—” I cut myself off and said, “I’m Carly and I’ll be taking care of Hank for a few days.”
“Nice to meet you, Carly,” he said as he released my hand. “Hank said you’d be comin’ by too.”
He sure hadn’t let any grass grow under him.
“Mr. Chalmers is in the truck. He’s going to need assistance to get out and see his grandson. He said you’d have a wheelchair?”
“One of my employees has one ready for him. I’ll send him out to collect Hank. I’d stay with you, but I’m dealin’ with a difficult situation that needs my attention. I’ll meet you both when you’re inside.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Mobley. Thank you.”
“No need for the mister,” he said with a friendly smile. “Everyone just calls me Mobley.”
“Well, thank you, Mobley.”
“Anything I can do to help you and Hank through this difficult time. Death is tragic, but it’s even more so when a boy is gunned down in cold blooded murder.” He stood there quietly for a moment, as if giving that thought the consideration it deserved, then smiled at me one last time before heading back down the hall. “Dwight,” he called out, “can you bring the wheelchair up to meet Mr. Chalmers?”
“Sure thing,” a man called out as Mobley walked back through the door he’d come through.
I heard the squeaky wheels of the chair before I saw it appear in the hall, being pushed by a man with shaggy blond hair and a scruffy beard. He slowly ambled toward me, wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt that looked like hand-me-downs. A leering grin spread across his face the moment he saw me.
>
“Well, ain’t this a surprise?” he said.
It was the guy from Monday Night Football at the tavern, the one who’d acted weird about my supposed history in Georgia, only his buddies had called him Dewey.
“I sure didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, soft enough that his boss wouldn’t be able to hear him. “Who knew the old coot had it in him?”
I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but for all I knew, he’d take it out on Hank.
“Mobley said you’d help me get Hank inside,” I said, trying to keep my tone calm.
He gestured to the glass doors. “If you’d kindly hold it open.” As I moved toward the door, he said, “I heard you were stayin’ with him, and since you didn’t deny it, it must be true.”
My hackles rose. “How’d you hear I’d be stayin’ with Mr. Chalmers?”
Then I realized I’d announced it to the whole damn town when I’d shouted at Wyatt last night.
“Drum’s a small town,” he said. “It don’t take long for word to get round.” He leaned closer, his eyes glittering. “You know half the town thinks you did it, and you’re only stayin’ with Hank to find the fortune.”
There was no containing the bark or laughter. “What fortune?”
His grin spread and he nodded. “Good call. Play stupid. I like it.”
Whatever people were saying in town, I highly doubted Hank had any money, let alone a fortune. Still, there was no point in engaging a man like this in conversation. I was here for a grieving grandfather. I went out the door and stood to the side as I held it open.
“I’m sure Hank will appreciate havin’ a fine young thing givin’ ’im sponge baths,” Dwight said as he stopped next to me, looking me up and down. He had the audacity to give me a leering wink.
I held his gaze and tried to rein in my temper. “I highly doubt that Mr. Chalmers will be thinking about sponge baths while mourning the death of his beloved grandson.”
He shrugged with a grin. “He may be in mournin’, but he ain’t dead.”
“I’m here to help Mr. Chalmers see his dead grandson,” I said in a voice that should have frosted the glass door I was still holding. “If you can’t help me with that while treating us both with respect, I’ll be happy to have a chat with your boss.”