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“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“What did I say?” Mom looked at Ronnie.
“Yeah, whatdidshe say?” I asked, my anger sparking fresh and hot. This conversation would have been entirely different if Ronnie wasn’t in the room. For one thing, Mom wouldn’t have said a single word about Simon.
“She said she’d have to give you a list because you wouldn’t figure out what to do for yourself. You’d be too upset. Here, I wrote it out for you.” Ronnie slid her hand into the pocket of her capris and handed me a piece of pale blue paper covered with her wild handwriting.
I stayed in the room with Mom and Ronnie until the doctor came back. She thought Mom was probably good to go home that afternoon, but wanted to keep her another day because the concussion had been a major one.
First on Mom’s list was to find out where they had taken D2’s car, a classic 1972 Lincoln Continental. Part of the reason Mom’s injuries were so bad was because the vintage car only had lap seat belts. In a newer car, a three-point seat belt might have prevented Mom from cracking the windscreen with her head. In a modern car, an airbag might have prevented all her injuries.
No point in mentioning that to D2. It would only make him feel guilty. He’d loved that old tank since the day he brought it home brand new from the showroom, according to Mom. He’d kept it running and in mint condition for over fifty years. If he lost it now, he’d die of heartbreak.
I made a mental note: ask Wayne to help with the recovery of the Lincoln. He’d probably know a good restoration company, as well. I wrote his name beside that job on the list.
Next, I had to speak to the occupational therapist at the hospital and see what, if any, special equipment D2 might need when he came home. Mom wanted me to tidy up her place and make up the fold out guest bed for myself.
“The sofa of little ease?” I asked. “I think I’ll sleep in D2’s bed until he’s home.”
“Hey, if space is a problem, you can come and stay at my sister’s house. She’s got plenty of room.” Ronnie chimed in.
I ignored her. “Mom, Simon is going to be here Wednesday night on business. I may stay with him at his hotel that night.”
I hadn’t planned on saying that, or even leaving for a night, until the moment the words were out of my mouth. But I had told her on my last two visits that I’d only stay with her again if she’d invest in a new sofa. I’d even offered to buy her one myself. She’d refused. She didn’t need my charity.
I knew what she would ask next.
“Which hotel?” she said right on cue.
“The Charles Rose, I think,” I muttered, knowing Mom would disapprove of the expense.
Ronnie picked up the comb and started styling Mom’s hair, smiling happily.
Simon
Monday morning, Layla contacted the Lac Saint Louis Hospital with the news that the SJ Jacobson Foundation, of which I was chairman, would be making a substantial donation to the neurological department, to be earmarked for funding the stroke ward. She told them I would like a minute of their time to discuss the donation. Would anyone be available to comment?
Ten minutes later I had the personal cell phone number of the head neurologist, along with assurances that the news wasn’t as bad as it might have been. Donald, Sadie’s grandfather, had suffered a stroke but a strong recovery was expected. He should be able to return to independent living but probably not to the physical work he had been doing since he started Donohue Motors over fifty years before.
I pondered that news, realizing that Sadie’s mom, Cynthia, would be the sole proprietor of the garage now. It was a going concern with a strong balance sheet, mostly due to its location on an enviable chunk of land in a developing Montreal neighborhood. The company had no debts, and if she wanted to, Cynthia could sell the place for land value only. She and Donald would be able to retire very comfortably.
The head neurologist, Doctor Mansoor, a woman with an Australian accent and a briskly efficient manner, reported that Cynthia was battered and bruised but her cerebral bleeding had stopped within twenty-four hours. She would be discharged the next day if signs stayed positive.
Ronnie Flynn had already blogged about the accident and had even posted an extremely flattering photo of Cynthia and Sadie having coffee in Cynthia’s hospital room with the caption,new entries in Canada’s who’s who?Sadie was smiling right into the camera. I wondered if she had done that to challenge me, to show me that she would do exactly as she pleased.
11
THE WAITING GAME
Sadie
On Monday afternoon, D2 was moved to a private room. He was groggy and unable to speak yet, but I sat beside him, interpreting his body language and trying to ease his worry as much as I could. When I left his bedside that evening, the frustration of not being able to say goodbye shone in his eyes.
I kissed his forehead and said, “I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well, darling D2.”
The left side of his mouth lifted in the first smile he’d attempted all day. In that moment, the effort of getting to Montreal so quickly became worthwhile.
Mom was alone in her room, her dinner tray in front of her. The smell of roast turkey filled the air. My stomach rumbled in complaint. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
