Page 6 of Truce Of The Matter

“You act like I asked him. He volunteered. He sounded fine. I’ll drive when he gets here, dang.”

“All right,” I sigh. “I’ll see you soon.”

I simply end the call, saying anything else is only wasting my damn breath. Daija is spoiled. My parents coddle her and overcompensate in all areas of her life, which means she gets exactly what she wants and capitalizes on the dynamic. When she landed, she could have easily called me but she didn’t. She called him. This frustrates me to no end but it’s my fault too. Because of our dynamic, I spoil her too. As long as there is air in my lungs, I will give her whatever she wants. It’s the least I can do.

I continue to my ride. The air I needed isn’t going to be enough. Caffeine is needed too if I’m going to make it through this day. My old favorite coffee spot recently got bought out by a franchise, Brewed Beans, and I’ve been dying to try their pistachio latte. So I place an order for a mucho grande with heavy whipping cream in the app, then start my engine and make a quick run to pick it up. Their service was so fast; I make it back to the hospital in thirty minutes. When I walk back into my mom’s room, my dad and Daija are here and my mom is sitting on the side of the bed.

“They’re transporting her?” I ask, surprised to see her not laying down.

“Who is her?” my mom asks.

“Sorry, Ma. You.”

“Yeah, sweetie. They should be here in an hour,” my dad says.

“And she wants to put on some clothes,” Daija adds but with question and concern in her voice. Since she hasn’t bothered to stand or greet me, I walk over to Daija, lean in and hug her. As complicated as our relationship is, I love her more than she’ll ever know and actually miss her… a lot. She hugs me back and when I sit down next to her, I notice she’s gotten a little thicker. It’s about time her genes kicked in. She has been a toothpick forever meanwhile if I look at bread or pasta, my favorites, I gain eight pounds. It takes a conscious effort to maintain my size eleven frame. Her size four days are gone. “Don’t say shit,” she whispers to me. “My freshman fifteen decided to rear its ugly head my junior year.”

“You look good.”

“I look swollen,” she counters as she rolls her eyes.

“I’m just glad you came but I don’t think she can change clothes. They have her as a fall risk; we need to call the nurses.”

“Yes, call ’em. She wouldn’t listen to me.”

After placing my latte on the small table by my chair, I stand and walk over to my mom. “Momma, just lay back. Let me see if you can change. I don’t want you to get dizzy.”

“I feel fine, Truce,” she scoffs but I’m not giving in to her stubbornness this time. She had two horrible seizures and she’s nowhere near her normal independent self.

“Right now, and I want you to stay fine. Please, lay back,” I insist as I grab her legs and lift them back on the bed. “Let’s wait and see what the nurses say.”

When she’s totally back in her bed, I press the call button for the nurse. While I wait for them to come, I open the patient closet and grab her overnight duffle bag and start filling it with the few personal things I brought here for her along with the get-well cards and small teddy bears from family and friends.

All of her things are secure in the bag by the time the floor nurse and transport aide walk into the room. The transport aide remains by the door and the nurse ventures to the end of my mom’s bed.

“The transport van and team are here to take you to Golden Age. Are you ready, Mrs. Redmond?” she asks.

“Do I need to get dressed?” my mom asks.

“No, ma’am. You don’t. For now, the doctors want you in a medical gown. Once you are there, settled, and doing a little better, you can talk to them about that but you can put on shoes if you don’t want to walk in your grip socks.”

“There’s slippers in her bag,” I say as I place her duffle on the small sofa. Daija unzips it and finds the slippers. She hands them to the nurse. “We are going to follow her; so if there’s paperwork or something we can take it.”

“The transport team has all of the documents. One of you can ride with her if you like,” she says.

“I will,” my dad says.

“Alright. Then, we are all set. I’ll put your shoes on and we will all step out so they can get you out of here.”

The nurse lowers the bed then helps my mom sit up and turn around. After she places the slippers on her feet, Daija grabs the duffle and I grab the two flower-filled vases and balloons and we walk out with my dad right behind us. The transport team enters and gets my mom.

They allow us to follow them to the medical transport vehicle and we watch as they lift her bed onto the van. My dad walks up the ramp afterward with one of the team members. When they pull off, Daija looks at me with tears in her eyes.

“She looks so weak, Truce,” she damn near whispers.

“I know. That’s why she needs to go to rehab to regain her strength. It’s the best place for her.”

“So… she is going to get better, right?” she asks with heartbreaking concern.

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