Page 12 of The Cutting Edge
“Seven is already pushed," she wails. Her bottom lip starts to quiver and I can tell that her very long day is about to come crashing down on us.
“I’m pretty sure Mrs. Markham is on the eighth floor, isn’t she.” I feel a twinge of guilt over gaslighting my daughter, but it’s for a good cause, so I don’t dwell on it.
“No, it was seven,” she says confidently. “I’m a very good rememberer."
“That you are,” I say. “Do you mind if we just check the eighth floor, for my peace of mind, just in case?”
She looks over at the elevator buttons. Eight is dark.
“I guess we can check,” she says. We ride up wordlessly, and when the elevator stops at seven, newspaper grump gets off. Neither Poppy nor I say a thing, we just keep riding to the eighth floor.
The doors slide open and we’re greeted with an explosion of primary colors. The pediatric floor.
“Ooh! Let’s stay here, Dad! This looks fun!”
“But we don’t know anyone on this floor,” I say. “Remember? We’re driving Mrs. Markham home.”
"Oh yeah, right," says Poppy dejectedly.
"Looks like you were right all along, Poppy! This is the wrong floor."
"I told you, Dad,” she says, raising her eyebrows. ”I’m a very good rememberer.”
“That you are,” I say. “ Would you please push the button for the seventh floor? I'm sure Mrs. Markham is wondering where we are.”
Poppy grins and mashes the button with determination. Crisis averted.
“Rememberer.Is that a real word?” I ask.
She contemplates. “I’m pretty sure it is.”
“Let’s look it up when we get home,” I say. Ten minutes later Mrs. Marham is safely ensconced in the front seat of my car, gripping a purple sick bag emblazoned with the hospital logo. And for a brief second, my mind wanders at the marketing effectiveness of having your logo splashed across something that was designed to make puking in public easier.
A text from dings, breaking my distraction. Instantly I find myself hoping it’s a response from Coco, but no luck.
It’s Lana, confirming Mrs. Markham’s address, and telling me that she and the nurse will meet us at her house in twenty minutes. Poppy’s nanny, Rosie, is already on her way, and with a little luck, we’ll get both Poppy and Mrs. Markam in bed and settled for the night as quickly as possible.
The drive is relatively smooth, but I can’t help keeping an eye on that sick bag. That’s a dick move, isn’t it? This poor grandma has just been effectively poisoned by her doctors, and thanks to my idiocy at the rink today, she’ll have some stranger taking care of her when she’s feeling most vulnerable instead of her friend, Coco.
At a stoplight, I glance down at my phone. Still no response from Coco, and I have to admit, I’m starting to worry. What if her head injury was worse than the ER doctor initially thought? My mind starts to whirr with worst-case scenarios, and I have to flick myself on the chin to snap out of it. She’s probably fine. Or sleeping. Shit, should she be sleeping this soon if she’s got a concussion? Is that still a thing?
Thankfully for everyone, Ms. Markham makes it all the way home without incident. As I pull into the driveway of her charming craftsman cottage, I can’t help but wonder which of the neighboring houses belongs to Coco. Lana’s, Rosie’s, and another car are already parked on the street, and I don’t want Mrs. Markham to have to walk any further than necessary. Blooming yellow rose bushes line both sides of the driveway, and three white rocking chairs sit side by side on the front porch, like an open invitation to stay a while and gossip over sweet tea.
“Let me help you out of the car,” I say, offering my arm to steady her. She takes a tentative step out, but it’s a long way down from my Escalade to the driveway.
“I think I’ve got it,” she says, and then she folds like a lawn chair. I catch her before she collapses on the driveway, my thoughts instantly jump back to when Coco fell into my arms earlier tonight. The way she smelled like cinnamon rolls. The way the weight of her felt against me.
“Oh no,” says Mrs. Markham, feebly waving the purple sick bag. “I don’t know if I can make it.”
I ask Mrs. Markham, “May I?” and cautiously pick her up in my arms as she nods yes. Lana and the nurse rush to us to help, but I’ve already got it.
“Thanks,” I nod to Lana and the nurse. “House keys?” I ask Mrs. Markham.
She motions to her floral handbag, which rests on its side on my passenger seat, “They’re right on top.”
“I’ve got them,” says Lana, plucking the keys from the top of her purse as she slides the purse smoothly onto the crook of her elbow.
“This is Lana,” I say, “Lana, meet Mrs. Markham.” She smiles as Mrs. Markham nods weakly.
