Page 42 of Diesel

“You sound like my daughter.” But her expression had softened, some of the stubbornness fading from her eyes. “She worries too much too.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.” We both knew the reason but didn’t say it out loud.

Silence stretched between us. When she finally nodded, her movements were slower than usual. She was also more tired than I’d seen her before.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll call Dr. Patterson. But he’s not going to see me today. It’s Sunday, and he’s probably on the golf course.”

“Call anyway,” I insisted.

Grumbling under her breath about pushy young people who didn’t know when to mind their own business, she reached for the cordless phone on the side table. Her fingers moved over the buttons with slight stiffness, then she held the phone to her ear.

The conversation was brief. Dr. Patterson’s office was closed, as expected, but the answering service took her information. Three days. They could fit her in on Wednesday afternoon.

“Satisfied?” Greta asked after hanging up.

“No.” Three days was too long. That foot could get worse in three days. The swelling could spread. Infection could set in. All the worst-case scenarios I’d been trying to keep at bay rushed forward. “We’re going to the ER.”

Her brows shot up. “We absolutely are not.”

“Yes, we are.” Standing, I grabbed her orange shoe from where she’d dropped it on the floor. “Put this back on. We’re leaving.”

“Ollie, I am not going to the emergency room for a bruised foot.”

“It’s more than bruised. It’s swollen and discolored, and you can barely move it.” The shoe dangled from my hand. “Please, Miss Greta. Just let them take an X-ray. Make sure nothing’s broken. Then if it’s fine, we’ll come right back home and I’ll never bother you about it again.”

She looked at me, really looked at me, and something in her expression shifted. The stubbornness remained, but underneath it, I caught a glimpse of resignation. Maybe even a little fear.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Fine.” She snatched the shoe from my hand and started working it back onto her swollen foot. “But if this is nothing, you’re buying me lunch. Somewhere expensive.”

“Deal.”

Getting her into my car took longer than expected. Each step down from the porch made her wince, and by the time we reached the passenger door, a thin line of sweat had appeared on her forehead despite the cool morning air.

“You okay?” The question came out soft and full of worry.

“Peachy.” But she gripped the door frame hard enough that her knuckles went white. “Just get me in the damn car before I change my mind.”

Once she was settled in the passenger seat, I closed the door and jogged around to the driver’s side. The engine turned over on the second try, and I pulled away from the curb with more care than usual, avoiding potholes and taking turns slowly.

“You drive like you’re eighty,” Greta said after the third turn. “We’re not going to get there until next week at this rate.”

“I’m trying not to jostle your foot.”

“My foot is fine. Your driving is the problem.” She adjusted her seatbelt, settling back against the seat. “When I was your age, I drove like I had somewhere to be. None of this tiptoeing around.”

“When you were my age, seatbelts were optional and cars didn’t have airbags.”

“Exactly. We knew how to live dangerously.”

Despite everything, a smile tugged at my mouth. Leave it to Greta to complain about safe driving while on the way to the emergency room for an injury she’d been ignoring.

The hospital loomed ahead after ten minutes of careful navigation. St. Mary’s Regional Medical Center, the sign announced in large blue letters. The emergency room entrance was clearly marked, a covered drive-up area where ambulances could unload patients.

Finding a parking spot took another five minutes. Sunday morning meant the lot was relatively empty, but I still had to circle twice before finding something close to the entrance.