Last Licks

Pulling the curtain open, the doctor announced, “Some visitors for you, Mr. Barnstable.”

Ollie responded with a “Hanh?” He tried to see over his big belly, which mounded up the hospital sheet like a minor hill, then winced and let out a loud groan, reaching his hand down to his right thigh. “Why don’t they do something? This leg is killing me.”

At least, that’s what Sunny thought he was saying. The words came out awfully mushy—like when he actually recognized her. “Shunny! Wa’ry’doonere?”

Sunny correctly interpreted that into, “Sunny! What are you doing here?” But then, she had the advantage of having dealt with plenty of peremptory phone calls from Ollie the Barnacle after one of his multiple-martini lunches.

“We heard you got hurt and came to see how you were doing,” she said. “You remember my dad.”

“Hiya,” Ollie said to Mike. “S’awful here! Tryna kill me!” He attempted to shift on the skinny mattress and let out a howl. “My leg!”

“You have to keep still,” Mike advised. “Otherwise, you aggravate the broken bone.”

“From the looks of things, I’d say they gave you something for the pain,” Sunny said.

“Yeah.” Ollie’s big, round face had paled to a light pink from its regular red. “Shtuff makes m’soun’ thrunk!”

Ollie assured them, however, that he’d been sober as a judge during his accident. “I shaw th’deer lyin’ there, an’ I wash tryna help ’im off th’ road.” His look of civic responsibility might have been more convincing if he hadn’t been peering blearily up at them.

He blinked and suddenly sounded a little less drunk . . . and a lot more scared. “They want to cut into my leg.” Again, he pointed to his thigh.

“They probably want to put in a plate to hold everything together,” Mike said, his voice calm and soothing. “You know, the femur is one of the strongest bones in your body. It has to bear a lot of weight.”

Sunny couldn’t help glancing at Ollie’s bulk on the gurney. Then she turned to her dad. “How do you know about all of that?”

Mike shrugged. “When you take friends to appointments with orthopedic surgeons, you hear a lot.”

“They said if I go along with this surgery thing, I could be out of here in a couple of days.” Ollie looked hopefully at Mike. “Is that true?”

“Yes, but you won’t be going home,” Mike warned. “You’ll probably have to put in some time at a rehab facility—not to mention a lot of work.”

Ollie’s face stopped looking loopy and became honestly confused. “Rehab? Where?”

“If you want my advice, I’d say you should go with Bridgewater Hall,” Mike promptly replied. “They’ve got a good reputation, do a lot more therapy work with the patients. Also, I hear the food is decent.”

“Bridgewater Hall,” Ollie repeated, sagging back against the folded blanket that was serving as his pillow. Maybe the painkiller was finally kicking in. “Couldja tell ’em that for me?” He closed his eyes and was out like a light.

“Well, you managed to calm him down,” Sunny told her dad. “That was pretty impressive. How did you know about Bridgewater Hall?”

“It was my first choice after I had the heart attack and didn’t know if you were coming up to help out,” he replied a little grimly. “Sounded great to me, except for one little thing.”

“What was that?” Sunny asked.

“They told me I couldn’t afford it,” Mike replied. “But I figure Ollie is loaded. He should be able to swing their fees.”

2

After Ollie finally settled down, Sunny got a chance to talk with some of the doctors. Surgery to implant a brace on the broken bone was tentatively scheduled for the next afternoon, and shortly afterward a social worker would be turning up to get the ball rolling on some place for rehab. Mike made sure to mention Ollie’s preference for Bridgewater Hall. The discussion took a while, and by the time Sunny and her dad got out of the hospital, true dark had already established itself.

As they drove home, Mike discussed the pluses and minuses of other nursing homes in the area. “I think physical and occupational therapy, they’re the big considerations,” he explained. “Otherwise, you’re just being warehoused, lying in bed, watching daytime television. Bridgewater Hall has two hours a day, one in the morning and then one in the afternoon. Everywhere else I looked into only had an hour. The place isn’t all that big—only seventy-five beds both for the old folks who are permanent residents and the short-timers in for recuperation. But the rehab patients have a separate wing of the building with exercise space and equipment. And the therapy staff has a reputation all over the state. They get good results.”

“The physical therapist who came to the house and worked with you was pretty good,” Sunny pointed out. “Getting results when he could only come once a week—well, that depended a lot on my nagging.”

Mike sighed. “I know I gave you a hard time about my exercises. It’s easier taking orders from a stranger than from your own kid.”

“Having a hard time taking me seriously because you once changed my diapers?” Sunny inquired, grinning.