Page 11 of Mom Ball

I watch it roll a few feet, then jump forward like it’s a grenade I have to grab. Once it’s in my possession, I hightail toward the end of the hallway without looking back.

Forget getting a refill. I pass another coffee counter and don’t stop until I’m at the nurse’s station. Easton, or Dr. West, stands at a filing cabinet. I have to remember where I am before I address him since I see him outside of work a lot now that he’s engaged to Aniston.

“Brooke, you’re late.”

I lift my brows and check my Apple watch. “Actually, I’m right on time.”

“I meant for you.” He laughs. “You’re always beating me to work.”

I nod and laugh.

“Here’s the first X-ray of the day. Reception just brought it back.”

He hands me a folder on the counter beside him. I pick it up and roll my eyes at Bessy McCain’s name. She calls herself a holistic doctor, but still comes in on occasion. Then she complains if Dr. West prescribes medicine that isn’t natural herbs. Oh, and she never wears shoes.

“Good start to the day, huh?” he says.

“Makes the car line look like a cakewalk.”

He laughs.

I take the chart and make my way to the front waiting area. Bessy’s bare feet welcome me when I open the door. I can’t help but stare at them as I call her name. They dangle above the floor, as she’s vertically challenged. Yet another reason she should wear shoes.

She hops down from her chair and scurries toward me. That tile floor has to be cold. The hospital is always cold.

I tug my jacket tighter around my chest and force my eyes toward her face. “Morning, Mrs. McCain.”

She nods.

I lead her down the hallway, thankful we don’t have to pass the break room. It’s bad enough that I drive by Nate’s house every time I leave the orchard. Now I see him at church and at work?

What’s next? Will he show up at the hair salon?

I sigh and open the door to the X-ray room. “Okay, Mrs. McCain.” I allow her to enter, then close the door behind us. “Your chart says you have something going on with your heel.”

Imagine that. Someone who never wears shoes is having trouble with her foot.

“Yeah, I have this spot on it that’s a hurtin’ and my essential oils ain’t cuttin’ it.”

“Let’s have you sit on the table and prop your leg up.”

I should’ve suggested something different, but for an older woman with a frumpy build, Bessy is very flexible. She swings her leg high and wide, flashing me in the process.

And shoes are not the only essential she leaves out of her wardrobe.

I blink like ten times to try and erase the image from my brain. We see a lot in the medical field, but it’s not common to see that area when X-raying a foot.

Of course, she’s wearing one of those snap-button house dresses we refer to as muumuus in the South. It’s free flowing and not much different from our hospital gowns. Except it does close all the way.

Thank God.

Her dress flattens out when her leg is lowered. Relieved at that, I turn her foot and prepare the machine to take images.

I hurry behind the window and instruct her how to turn after every few photos. She does surprisingly well, and I get some detailed scans of what I’m guessing is a shard of glass.

“Mrs. Bessy, the doctor will have to make a conclusion on what exactly it is, but it appears something is lodged in your heel.”

“Well, I declare.”

---