Page 10 of Holiday Hideaway
Tilly wrapped one arm around his waist and guided him out the back door to the Jeep. His weight felt solid. She opened the passenger-side door. “Okay, George, just kind of slide into this seat, and I’ll buckle you in. How are you feeling?”
“Awful,” he mumbled. “How do you know my name? Who did you say you are?”
“A concerned stranger,” Tilly replied. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”
She was sitting in the emergency room waiting area when her phone rang.
“Where were you?” Ruth demanded. “I waited in the car down on Lakeshore for nearly an hour; then I drove past the house, but there were no cars.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Tilly said. “George fell off that ladder from like twenty feet up. I couldn’t just leave him there. It was freezing. He could have died. So I put him in his Jeep and drove him to Barnwell Memorial.”
“He fell twenty feet? And he’s still alive?”
“Mrs. Holloway?” A nurse stood in the doorway to the treatment area, beckoning to Tilly. “The doctor would like to speak to you now.”
“Me?” Tilly looked around, but the only other person in the waiting room was a teenage boy staring sullenly down at his phone.
“Gotta go, Ruth. The doctor wants to talk to Mrs. Holloway.”
“Oh boy,” Ruth chortled. “Keep me posted.”
George was dressed in a green hospital gown and was reclining on an examining table, his right leg elevated, the ankle encased in a cast, a bandage on the back of his head.
The doctor was very young, possibly a rising kindergartner, Tilly thought.
“Mrs. Holloway? Your husband had a bad fall, but fortunately, he is mostly in one piece. And the ankle fracture was a nice clean break, also fortunate.”
“Clean,” George mumbled, looking up at her with a puzzled expression. “I’m clean.”
“He has a mild concussion,” the doctor said. “We put some stitches in his head and immobilized the ankle in a cast, but he can’t put any weight on it for at least two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” George repeated, like a deranged parrot. “Two weeks?”
“Correct,” the doctor said. “That ankle needs to be kept elevated at all times, in order to minimize the swelling. So, obviously, bed rest. And about the concussion. You’ll need to stay close by and observe him.” He handed her a slip of paper. “Here’s a list of what you’re watching for. The first twenty-four hours are critical to his recovery, so you’ll want to stay in the same room with your husband, obviously.”
“He’s not my husband,” Tilly finally said.
“Really?” The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Then you are?”
“Er, just a casual acquaintance.”
“Are you confident you can care for him for the next two weeks? See he gets his pain meds, eats regularly, keeps that ankle elevated, help him with the crutches?”
“Not really,” Tilly said. She was starting to panic. “Shouldn’t he stay here, with, like, trained health care professionals?”
“I don’t want to stay here,” George spoke up. His eyes looked unfocused, like he might nod off, the way he had during the drive to the hospital.
Tilly swallowed hard. She couldn’t keep up this charade. “Maybe you should call his fiancée. Her name is Vanessa.”
“No!” George said. “I don’t want her to know.”
The doctor looked even more confused, but he touched George’s arm and handed him a clipboard. “Just need you to sign your release form. Here. And here.”
George scribbled something on the clipboard and sat back.
“All set, then,” the nurse said, handing him a pair of crutches and helping him into a wheelchair.
As the nurse helped George onto the wheelchair, Tilly was treated to a flash of his bare but well-muscled derriere.
