Page 79 of Taming Georgia

When I get back to the rescue, I take our new addition inside and hand him to Florence, one of our new workers who I came across living on the streets. She’s been doing great here. She has a room in the house at the edge of the rescue’s property that I use to house anyone who needs it. It’s a large house, and many of my employees have a room there.

“You having a good day?” I ask Florence.

She nods and gives me a smile. Half of her teeth are missing. I make a mental note to call around to the local dentists and see if any of them are willing to do some work for charity.

“I found this little guy this morning. Can you get a pen ready for him? Fresh bedding, food, water, toys—the works. And please give him a bath once he’s settled.”

“You got it, boss man,” she replies, using the title that Xavier obnoxiously gave me.

I wish she wouldn’t call me that, but given the fact that every employee here does, thanks to Xavier, I don’t bother correcting her.

I thank her and make my way to the office. Cooper greets me on the way, sniffing me everywhere to see where I’ve been.

“I got us a new friend,” I tell him, rubbing his big head. “You should go say hi. Florence has him.”

Cooper goes trotting off toward the kennels. I know it’s crazy, but I swear that dog understands English.

Once in the office, I grab some extra clothes from the closet and step into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I take a long, hot shower, getting the smell of loneliness off me. Next time I hold the new dog, which I still need to name, he won’t reek of desperation.

It never ceases to amaze me what a good shower and clean clothes can do for a person. Granted, my heart is still shattered. I’m consumed with rage over Georgia leaving, and I want to sink into a deep depression that I don’t have time for. But at least I don’t stink.

I toss my old clothes into the washing machine, careful to retrieve my phone from my side pocket before starting it.

Looking through my messages, I see an Ann Arbor number that has called several times. They must have an urgent rescue situation. I tap the screen to listen to the voice mail. A woman addresses me through the phone’s speaker, but I’m finding it hard to focus on her words. She’s stringing words together that make no sense.

Ethel.

ICU.

Critical.

The drive to University of Michigan’s hospital seemed to take hours when, in reality, it probably took fifteen minutes, as I sped at least twenty miles over the city street speed limits. Finding a parking spot in this godforsaken structure is taking forever though. I’m on the verge of insanity. I’ve gone around and around this shitty parking garage for over a half hour, trying to find a spot. I’m about to say screw it and leave my truck in the fucking aisle. Let them tow it.

Finally, I see the brake lights of a car getting ready to leave, and I put on my blinker. The car pulls out, and some jackass in his little Honda Civic starts to pull into the spot. I punch the horn in the center of my steering wheel, holding it down. The sound echoes obnoxiously as it bounces off the cement walls that surround us. The dude looks up toward me, and I give him myI will fucking end youstare. Apparently, he’s not a complete idiot because he puts his car in reverse and vacates my spot.

It takes me a minute to find my way to the intensive care unit, but I finally make it and ask for Ethel at the front desk.

A nurse greets me and informs me that I was the only emergency contact that Ethel had listed. I ask questions, and she answers them. She tells me that Ethel had a double mastectomy. Her words are so powerful that I feel like I’m going to fall over from the sheer intensity of them.

Ethel had breast cancer?

Why didn’t she tell me?

How long has she been fighting this alone?

I’m so angry that I can’t see straight. I can’t believe I wasn’t there for her. My heart breaks for the woman that is the closest person I have to family.

The nurse continues, telling me that Ethel had a postsurgical complication—a large blood clot in her leg that broke off and traveled to her lungs, causing a pulmonary embolism. I don’t know a lot about medical stuff, but I know that a pulmonary embolism can kill a person and, from what I remember, pretty easily.

My ears ring, and my vision blurs as she talks about medicines, procedures, and complications. I can’t focus on any of it. I feel as if I’m going to be sick. I need to see Ethel.

“I need to see her,” I blurt out, interrupting the nurse mid-sentence.

She nods in understanding.

I ask, “Is she going to be okay?”

“I believe so,” she says, “barring any additional complications. She’s still very weak and sore. She’s on lots of medications that make her drowsy, and she’s asleep now. But sleep is good. Her body needs to heal.”

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