Page 91 of His Wounded Heart

“I did. You remembered that?”

“Yeah.” She came out with a Heineken for her and a Samuel Adams for me.

“So, sit down and tell me what has you and Bella upset.” She sits down beside me.

“I just said Bella is upset. What makes you think that I’m upset too?”

“There’s just a tiny bit of red around your eyes. I think, possibly, maybe, you’ve been crying.”

“Damned pasty complexion. It gives me away every damned time.”

“You better keep your voice down or you’ll wake up your daughter with your swearing and she’ll be here with her hand out,” I tease.

Trenda sighs. “No, I think she is down for the count. I took her to the hospital to visit Bernie and Violet. I thought that would be an okay thing to do. I figured Violet’s on the mend and so is Bernie.”

“And?”

“Bernie’s now up on the floor where they have people with lung problems. He has something called pleural effusion, and they just did a procedure where they took out fluid between his chest wall and his heart.”

“Fuck. Doesn’t that go hand in hand with congestive heart failure.”

She ducks her head and nods.

“Hey, hey. Trenda, that’s not a death sentence. I know it sounds bad, but I’ve had friends with that diagnosis who have done really well, they’ve just had to…”

“Exactly. Bernie was in a tizzy, bitching about what they wanted him to do. Things like exercise, eating healthy, no drinking and he has to quit smoking.” She’s sounding sadder with each doctor directive she’s telling me. It’s with the last phrase that I lose it.

I pull her into my arms and swipe her tears with my thumbs.

She pulls back. “Uh-uh, no way.”

“Huh?”

“No more crying in your arms for me. I’m sick of that mess.”

I look down at her, totally confused.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

“I am not a crier, ask anybody. People cry on my shoulder. That’s the way it is. If someone needs to cry, they come to me. If I were to cry tonight, that would be the third time, and three strikes and you’re out. I don’t want to be out, so no crying. I want to go to third base, not three strikes, do you—”

I press two fingers against her mouth. “Do you know that sometimes you talk a lot when you’re scared or upset?”

She nods her head.

“Can I talk now?”

She nods her head.

“Good.” I take my fingers away.

“But, I don’t want to—”

“Uh-uh, my turn to talk.”

“Oh, right.” She stops talking and I chuckle.

“Trenda, I told you about my sister, remember?”