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His mother is standing outside the hospital room, bending over a plastic storage bin. It’s full of things from the room, blankets and pillows from home, books, and a plant. When she hears Ty speak her name, she sets a mug down and turns to face us.
“Hello, everybody. And all at once, too! What an unusual surprise.” She hugs us each in turn, then nudges the storage box with her toe. “Can’t believe I had all this stuff in that room. Shoot. I practically moved in!”
“Well, you were here for a while,” Tyson says, peering into the bucket.
“And Ty did put you up in a palatial suite.,” Cole adds, looking at Ty. “Might as well make use of the space. Bet that didn’t come cheap.”
“It was worth it.” Tyson pulls me close to him, until we’re touching, hip to hip.
I’ve become used to the gesture from Ty any time Cole says something that might have, in the past, prompted a harsh remark from Tyson. It’s his way of keeping calm and controlling his reaction. I lean against him.
“How’s Mr. Reynolds doing?” I ask. “Is he ready to go?”
“The nurse is finishing up paperwork and then we’re good to go. He’ll have physical therapy for some time after he’s released, of course, but someone will come to the house for that. It’ll be such a relief to have him at home. I think it’s what he needs to truly recover.” Mrs. Reynolds looks from Tyson to me and back again. “And you two lovebirds are just the icing on the cake. I can’t thank you enough Jordan, for how you mended the rift between my two boys.”
“I think they would’ve done it on their own, in time. Don’t you, Tyson?”
“No, probably not,” he says, flatly. “I was an idiot. Cole was an idiot. We needed a non-idiot to smack some sense into us.”
Mrs. Reynolds shakes her head. “I’m afraid I agree with Tyson on this one. It seemed a lost cause. Oh, here comes the nurse. It’s time.”
We pile into the room. Mr. Reynolds is sitting at the edge of the bed in loose sweatpants and a T-shirt. It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of his hospital robe in weeks, and there’s a new liveliness in his face.
“I see the gang’s all here,” says the nurse, pushing a wheelchair in front of her. “Doctor says you’re free to go, and he went over all the discharge instructions with you already. I’ve got it all written down in this packet, as well as information on starting physical therapy, and scheduling your follow-up visits.”
She hands the stack of papers to Mrs. Reynolds and helps Mr. Reynolds get into the wheelchair. He’s unsteady, wobbling and leaning on her for support. Once he’s settled in the chair, she steps back.
“How are you feeling? Feeling okay?” She waits for him to nod. “Good. Now, this is just to get you to the car. At home, you’ll need to be careful moving around, and ask for help when you need it. Don’t let your pride make you try to do too much. Any questions before we head out?”
Cole speaks up. “Yeah, can we take him for ice cream on the way home or does he need to eat Broccoli and Spinach, or all that kind of junk?”
The nurse laughs. “Ice cream is totally okay. Enjoy it.”
Cole does a little dance. “Hear that? Ice cream for all. All right, let’s not waste another minute. Into the car, everybody!”
“Here, I’ve got you,” Tyson says, grabbing the handles to push the wheelchair. He leads the way out of the room. Cole picks up the box for his mother and we parade out of the hospital together, a family.
Cole and Tyson help Mr. Reynolds out of the wheelchair and into the passenger seat of his car.
“We’ll see you at the ice cream shop, Dad,” Cole says, hugging his father around the shoulders. “Is peanut butter crunch still your favorite?”
“You got it,” Mr. Reynolds replies. I wonder if he’s feeling anxious about getting into a car again. If so, he’s hiding it well, smiling when Tyson comes in for a hug.
Cole rides with his parents while Tyson and I get into his car, following behind them as we make the journey home.
“It was nice to see him out of that hospital gown,” I say. Tyson downshifts, following Cole’s car into the ice cream shop parking lot.
“He was serious about that ice cream,” Tyson mutters under his breath. “Is now really the time for ice cream?”
He turns to look at me, eyebrows raised. I nod enthusiastically. “Um, yeah, Tyson. It’s always time for ice cream. You’ll learn some day.”
With Cole’s help, they steady their father on his way into the shop. We slide into a big booth, wedged together on the cushioned seat. It’s a tight squeeze given the size of Tyson and Cole, but there’s a pleasant closeness to it.
“Eating contest, Anders? I’ve got five dollars that says you can’t snarf down more than I can.” Cole slaps a five-dollar bill down on the table.
Tyson groans, pinching his nose between his fingers. “So you can both die together from your blocked arteries?”
“You’re on,” I tell Cole, flashing a grin at Tyson.
