Page 12 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

“The doctors must think your condition is a little worse than that, or you wouldn’t be here.” She sounded a little chiding, but then nurses probably ran into reluctant patients all the time—and, really, I wasn’treluctantexactly; I was just possessed of a sense of urgency. Twenty-eight days were left, and the clock was ticking.

Since presumably she’d read my chart, I didn’t see the need to tell her that an overnight stay for observation didn’t indicate a serious injury. Maybe she just wanted me to worry a little bit so I wouldn’t bug her or the other nurses about when I was getting out. I wasn’t in a bugging mood, anyway; if I hadn’t had so much to do, I’d have been very content to lie in a hospital bed and let people bring things to me. The nausea had eased, but the pounding in my head hadn’t. I’d had to go to the bathroom twice, and moving wasn’t fun, but neither had it been as bad as I’d feared it would be.

The nurse—she probably had a name tag attached to her pocket, but the way she was leaning over the bed I couldn’t see it—turned the sheet back to check out all my scrapes and bruises, all the while asking questions about my wedding. Where it would be, what my gown looked like, that sort of thing.

“It’s going to be at Wyatt’s mother’s house,” I said happily, glad of something to distract me from my headache. “In her flower garden. Her mums are gorgeous, and I usually don’t like mums because they usually come with dead bodies attached. If it rains, which isn’t that likely in October, we’ll just move inside.”

“Do you like her?” Her tone was a little clipped, which made me think she had trouble with her own mother-in-law. That was too bad; in-law trouble could really hurt a marriage. I had liked Jason’s mother well enough, but I adored Wyatt’s mother. She gave me inside information and was generally on my side in the man-woman things.

“She’s great. She introduced me to Wyatt, and now she’s giving herself big pats on the back because she said she thought from the first we’d be a good match.”

“Must be nice, to have a mother-in-law who likes you,” she muttered.

I started to suggest that maybe the bad dye job was a bit off-putting, but stopped myself. Maybe a do-it-yourself home job was all she could afford, though nurses generally make decent money. For all I knew, she could have three or four kids at home to feed and clothe, and her husband could be handicapped, or just plain no good. There had to besomereason for the hair.

She peeled back the bandage over the biggest scrape on my left thigh, and the peeling-backhurt.I gasped, knotting my fists against the pain.

“Sorry,” she said, peering at the scrape. “This is a good one. What were you doing, riding a motorcycle?”

I managed to unclench my teeth. “No, some psycho bitch tried to run me down in the mall parking lot last night.”

She glanced up, eyebrows arching. “Do you know who it was?”

“No, but Wyatt is probably looking at the mall and parking lot security tapes right now, trying to get a license plate number and I.D.” If he could get them without a warrant, that is, because I doubted a judge would issue a warrant; the incident just wasn’t serious enough.

She nodded and replaced the bandage over the scrape. “Must be handy, having a cop for a boyfriend.”

“Sometimes.” Unless he was making me go to the police station when I didn’t want to, or tracking me down through charges to my credit card. He can be a tad ruthless in getting what he wants. Of course, I couldn’t complain too much, because what he’d wanted when he did those things was me—and he got me, too. Even with the headache from Hell, the memory of how he’d got me made me shiver. His testosterone almost reached the toxic level, but the benefits…oh, my, the benefits were wonderful.

The nurse made a note of something on a small pad she fished from one of her pockets, then said, “You’re doing fine. I’ll see what I can do about some food for you,” as she left the room.

Siana hadn’t said a word the entire time, which wasn’t unusual; she likes to size up people before she commits herself to conversation. After the door closed, though, she said, “What’s up with that hair?”

Siana could be arguing a case before the Supreme Court—which she hadn’t, yet—and she would notice the hair of everyone in the courtroom, including that of the justices, which is a pretty scary thought when you look at some of them. Jenni and I are the same way, and we all got that gene directly from Mom, who got it from her mother. I’ve often wondered what Grammy’s mother was like. I said that once to Wyatt and he’d shuddered. He’d met Grammy once, at her birthday party a month ago; I think she either impressed him or scared the hell out of him, but he’d held his ground, and after the party Dad had given him a double whiskey.

I don’t see what’s so bad about Grammy, except that she can out-Mom Mom, which, all right, is kind of scary. But I want to be just like her when I get old. I want to stay stylish, I want to drive sharp cars, and I want my children and grandchildren to pay proper attention to me. When I getreallyold, though, I’m going to trade my sharp car for the largest one I can find, and I’m going to hunch down in the seat until my little blue head is just peeking above the steering wheel, then I’m going to drive really slow and flip the bird at everyone who honks at me. It’s plans like this that make me look forward to old age.

If I can live that long, that is. Other people kept coming up with different plans for me. It’s annoying.

I waited, but no food magically appeared. Siana and I chatted. After a while another nurse came in and took my vitals. I asked about my food. She checked my chart, said “I’ll see what I can do,” and left.

Siana and I figured there would be a wait, and we decided to wash my hair. Thank goodness stitches no longer have to be kept dry, because there was no way I could go a week with dried blood and gunk giving me a gruesome Mohawk. The stitches weren’t a problem, the concussion was. As long as I moved very slowly, though, the headache didn’t spike. But I didn’t want just my hair washed, I wantedmewashed. Siana snagged a nurse who said, sure, the bandages could come off for a shower, and I carefully, but happily, showered and shampooed. I also let the bandages come offinthe shower, instead of pulling them off.

Afterward Siana blow-dried my hair; she didn’t bother with any actual styling, but that didn’t matter because my hair is straight. Just being clean made me feel better.

Still no food.

I was beginning to think the hospital staff was in on those alternate plans for me and intended to starve me to death, and Siana was about to go down to the cafeteria and get something for me herself, when finally a tray was delivered. The coffee was lukewarm but I seized it gratefully, drinking half of it before I lifted the metal cover off my plate. Fake scrambled eggs, cold toast, and limp bacon stared up at me. Siana and I looked at each other, then I shrugged. “I’m starving. This will do.” But I made a mental note to write the hospital administrator about the culinary offerings here. Sick people need food that will at leasttemptthem to eat.

After I’d eaten about half the food my outraged taste buds overcame the weakening whines from my stomach, and I replaced the cover over the plate so I wouldn’t have to look at the eggs. Cold eggs are revolting. My headache had eased some, and I realized part of it had been due to caffeine deprivation.

Because I felt better, I began fretting about the passing time. No doctor had yet been in to see me, and it was almost ten-thirty, according to the clock on the wall.

“Maybe no doctor has been assigned to my case,” I mused. “Maybe I’m just here, forgotten.”

“Maybe you should get a regular doctor,” Siana pointed out.

“Do you have one?”

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