Page 88 of Flowers in Your Hair

I’m so fucking proud of her. The day everything happened with Gramps, Isaac met with her, and offered her a contract with the Winery. All her dreams are coming true, and I get to be the one by her side to watch it all. She seemed almost nervous to tell me, especially since she waited a few days until things had calmed down. She had nothing to be nervous about. If anything I was a little bummed she hadn’t told me right away, so we could’ve celebrated. But, she had a point, things were a little crazy with Gramps in the hospital, so it was probably best to wait, especially since she wanted some time to read over the paperwork and details of the contract first.

The physical therapist helps clean up the splattered chocolate pudding, still using words of encouragement. I can visibly see Gramps getting irritated with her, but it’s not her fault, or his.

He’s frustrated because something he could do with ease a week ago now feels impossible. He slowly lowers his head to the bed, shutting his eyes. “Sorry I’m such a sourpuss, Ava, ” he apologizes to the physical therapist.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Earl,” she says, patting the top of his arm. His hands are still full of tubing and medical tape after getting his blood drawn multiple times a day. “I know this feels impossible, but you’re already improving. Day by day, you’ll get stronger.”

Gramps opens his eyes, softly smiling at Ava. I can tell she’s his favorite, and I can see why. She’s good at her job, and has a natural ability for it.

After she finishes up the therapy session, she helps get Gramps settled in for an afternoon nap. He’s tired all the time nowadays as his body tries to heal. Gramps reaches with a shaky hand for the remote on his rolling table. His movements are slow, and the furrow between his brows shows me just how focused he is on the task. They told us to let him be as independent as possible, so I sit in the crappy hospital recliner, watching his progress.

What feels like five minutes later, he has the remote gripped in his hand, and is able to press the button to turn the TV on. The hand that holds the remote drops to his lap, and he uses his pointer finger to scroll the channels. He’s sort of cheating, but I’ll give it to him.

He settles on an episode of M.A.S.H., and I sit back to watch the show with him.

“Did you finish the workstation?” Gramps surprises me by asking. His voice is still hoarse from the tube.

I clear my throat, sitting up in the chair. “Yeah, I did.”

“What does she think of it?” he asks.

“I haven’t given it to her yet.”

“Why the heck not?”

I clasp my hands together in my lap, cracking a few of my knuckles. “Haven’t had a chance, since you’ve been in the hospital. I want it to be a surprise, but haven’t been able to get over to her house when she’s not there.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Where is she now?”

My eyes narrow, because I know where he’s going with this. “Working a wedding.”

“So why the heck aren’t you doing it now?”

“Because I’m here with you?”

Gramps glares at me like I’m the stupidest person alive. “Here’s a thought,” he mutters sarcastically. “Leave… and go set it up.”

“I can’t leave,” I say with a slight hint of exasperation. ‘

“Why not?” he asks. He’s testing me, getting me to say the words.

“Because, we all agreed we wouldn’t leave you here by yourself,” I explain. I know exactly what he’s going to say before he says it, but I indulge him anyway.

“That’s just plain stupid. I’m not a toddler. There are doctors and nurses here. And I can’t sleep for shit when you kids are sitting there, staring at me. It’s like you’re waiting for me to croak, and I’m sick of it.”

Annnnd there it is.

“Gramps…” I start. But he interrupts me.

“Now don’t you ‘Gramps’ me. All of you need to get back to your regular lives. I’m heading to that rehabilitation center soon, and there's no reason for any of you to be sitting at my bedside day after day. In fact, hand me your phone.” He slowly lifts his hand from the remote.

“Why?” I ask. I slowly clutch my phone in my palm, hesitant to hand it over.

“I’m going to call your dad, tell him I’m not a toddler.”

I sigh, knowing this is a battle I won’t win. “I’ll call him, and put it on speaker.”

“Thank you,” he says.

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