Page 14 of Geordie

“I'll take him home and make sure he's settled in,” says someone from outside the room that I can't see.

A woman comes into view, dark hair pulled into a long ponytail, a long blue sweater over a white T-shirt, a wee brown leather bag resting at the curve of her hip, the thin strap of the purse crossing her chest, cuffed jeans, and white gym rubbers. She's holding a brown box tied with twine.

“And you are?” the doctor inquires.

She takes the few steps to the bed to offer her hand to the doctor. “I'm Lily, a friend of Geordie's.”

“Doctor Richards,” he says and smiles at Lily.

So, the goddess of the kitchen has a name. Lily, a flower that signifies purity and innocence, which I haven't seen so far.

He rises, skirting the bed. “Excellent, you have help. I'll tell them to process your discharge. You should make a follow-up appointment with your regular doctor within two weeks.”

Lily watches the doctor leave, then stares at the open door for a few seconds before turning her attention to me.

“I appreciate the save, but I can find my way home without help.”

The corner of her lovely mouth lifts. “That's not what I heard. It sounds like you're in need of a lift or it's an ambulance pulling up to your apartment while a crowd of neighbors gawk at you strapped to a gurney as they wheel you into your home. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want that kind of notoriety.”

“Why are you here, lass? When we met, you wouldn't even give me the courtesy of your name.”

She nervously pushes a length of hair behind her ear, as a blush colors her cheeks. “When I dropped by the winery, they said you were in the hospital. I decided I'd visit you here instead of waiting for you to return to work. I've brought a peace offering.” She places the box on the wee table that slides over my bed. “I was having a bad day when you dropped off your delivery, but that's not an excuse for how I treated you. I came to apologize for my rude behavior.”

I maneuver my fingers under the twine, pulling it away from the box and pushing open the lid. What greets me is the sight of traditional shortbread, a shortbread with flecks of lemon, oat and walnut biscuits, oat cakes with a small jar of marmalade to spread over the thin surface, and dark parlies all nestled in blue and white tissue paper, the color of the Scottish flag. A familiar aroma wafts from the box, like a care package from home. The thoughtfulness has me speechless.

“Our pastry chef at Dalliance is amazing. I suggested a box of chocolate-chip cookies, but when he found out you were Scottish, he used family recipes to create these cookies or biscuits.” She gives a nervous laugh. “I can't get used to calling them biscuits; it has a different meaning here.”

“Thank you,” I croak out while offering the box for her to sample.

She shakes her head, the dark ponytail resting on her shoulder with the movement. “Thank you, but they're all for you.”

“Mr. MacTavish?” A man I've never seen in green scrubs fills the doorway. “They sent me to fit your boot and crutches. Once that's done, the doctor says you can leave.”

Lily picks up the box of biscuits. “There's a small waiting room at the end of the hallway. Ask someone to let me know when you're ready to leave,” she says.

After I receive instructions on how to walk with my boot and crutches, I dress in the clothes I came in. I imagine I'm a sight in my dirt biking gear, as I'm wheeled through the hospital by the attendant with Lily trailing behind us. It's only a few minutes' wait while she pulls her vehicle into the patient loading zone for me to board. I'm glad she has an SUV. It's easier for me to slide into the passenger seat since I'm tall. There's not much talk during the ride to my apartment other than directions. The non-talking is filled in by the non-descriptive music playing on her radio.

I instruct Lily to pull into the back parking lot, into a visitor's slot. I'd spoken to William yesterday, and he had my truck and bike towed to my place. The transition out of the vehicle is uneventful. Steadying myself on the crutches, I hobble to the elevator with Lily by my side, her cradling the brown pastry box. She's giving me furtive glances to see if I can make my way to the elevator without falling on my face. I grit my teeth, balancing the best I can, maybe going a bit faster to show her I’m able. I’ll not be a subject of more pity, I had enough in the hospital. Once at my apartment, I fish my keys out of my pocket, nearly dropping them as we walk into the dark space. I hit the light switch.

“Oh my God, what's that stench?” Lily screeches, using the corner of her sweater to cover her mouth and nose. “Did you kill someone in here and forgot to get rid of the body?” She rushes to the window over the sink and pushes it up, then searches the apartment, banging windows open. I throw my keys on the counter, then amble over to the sink to pull out the garbage. When she returns, I point to where the offending odor is emanating. It's the spoiled chicken that I'd forgotten to throw out before I left.

Lily reaches around me, snatching up the garbage bag that lines the can. “Where's your garbage?”

“There's a shoot at the end of the hall labeled Trash Room. You can dispose of it there.”

Like a flash, she's out the door and I amble my way to the couch. When she returns, her nose is still wrinkled and she’s looking about. “Don't worry, I don't have any other hidden trash in the apartment.”

She ignores me and moves back into the kitchen, then grabs an orange, apple, and a lemon that are all past their sell-by date. Rummaging around in the cupboards and drawers, she produces a cutting board, knife, and a pot she fills with water.

I watch her with interest. “What are you doing?”

“I'm creating a potpourri to get the stench out of this apartment.”

“There's disinfectant spray under the sink. You can use that.”

Lily slices the fruit and drops them into the water. “It's not good to spray with chemicals. This is a natural solution to your problem.” She dumps the rest of the cut-up fruit sections into the pot and starts searching through the cabinets. “Where do you keep your spices?”

“Really, you don't have to go to all this trouble.”

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