Every Girl Gets Confused (14 page)

“Did you have to say ‘every step of the way'?” He groaned. “Anyway, I came in to see if you wanted to go to lunch. Might be our last chance to have some alone time before my surgery day.”

“Eduardo might be offended if we take off and leave his tamales uneaten.”

“Uneaten?” Brady laughed. “That's a good one. I just stopped back there to snag one and they're all gone.”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Mr. Sanders. And Mrs. Sanders. And even the bride-to-be. Guess they like Eduardo's tamales.”

Better than that, I felt sure they liked Eduardo. Perhaps if he worked his magic on the dress, all of the squabbling would be behind us.

One could hope, anyway.

I think grief is a very private matter.

Doris Day

N
adia arrived back in town the night before Brady's surgery. From behind the closed door of my office, I shared my concerns with her and Madge seated across the desk from me. I knew Nadia would understand, even sympathize. And I needed someone else to know my thoughts and add their prayers to mine.

“I just can't figure him out,” I said. “Half the time he acts perfectly normal. The other half he's quiet and withdrawn and I can't get him to say what he's thinking. Was he like this last time? With the first surgery, I mean?”

Nadia shook her head and appeared to be thinking. “No, last time it all happened so quickly. He was injured and had the surgery shortly thereafter. He didn't have much time to process things. I think that's the problem here—he's had too much time to think.” She rose and paced the little office, her heels making a clicking noise as she moved back and forth. “Maybe I made a mistake asking him to take on the shop in my absence. Maybe it's not enough to keep his mind occupied.”

“If anyone wants my opinion, I think it's good for him.” Madge fiddled with a loose thread on her oversized sweater. “If he wasn't here, what would he be doing? Sitting on the sidelines at the games? Hanging out with his teammates, wishing he could play?” She shook her head and released the thread. “No, I think this is for the best. He's in a completely different world, playing a different game, and staying busy. Busy is good, and trust me when I say the shop has been plenty busy—thanks to Katie.”

“It's good up to a point.” Nadia's eyes flooded and she stopped pacing. “I just want what's best for him. He's been through so much already.”

Seeing her get emotional suddenly got me misty-eyed too. I pondered her words as I tossed and turned later that night, and they stayed with me as I drove to the hospital the following morning with Alva seated next to me, chattering all the way about the weather.

I'd never seen so many people crammed into a waiting room. Me. Nadia. Madge. Stan. Beau. Alva. Who was running the store? Ah yes, Twiggy. And Dahlia. Poor Dahlia. Drowning in alterations and forced to work the front of the shop too. But what else could we do? We had to show Brady our support, didn't we?

Strangely, the person who looked the most nervous was Aunt
Alva. She wore her Mavericks T-shirt, probably not one of her wiser moves. I knew she meant to lend support, but Brady flinched when he saw it. Not that he had time to think about it for long. The pre-op process flew by, and before we knew it, he was whisked away to the operating room and the rest of us were left to our own devices in the surgical waiting area.

“Will they keep him overnight this time?” Stan asked. “Last time he got to go home the same day.”

“Depends on the extent of the tear,” I said. “The surgeon is being a little more cautious now because the second go-round is trickier than the first. He told us all about it at the last office visit. I think he's really concerned, if you want my take on it.”

“Ah.” Stan didn't look pleased with my answer, but what could I do?

We all spent the first few minutes quietly talking, but after a while we ran out of words. I picked up an outdated magazine and tried to read it, but stopped cold when I saw an ad for season tickets to the Mavericks. To my right, Alva and Nadia talked about Paris. Nadia made it sound so glamorous, especially the clothing. To my left, Madge and Stan carried on some sort of conversation about a movie they'd both seen. That left one logical candidate to converse with—my brother Beau.

“You doing okay?” He gave me a concerned look.

“Yeah. Just a little worried.”

“Don't worry, Katie. You know what the Bible says. Today has enough trouble of its own.”

“It's today I'm worried about,” I said, then added, “and tomorrow. And the next day.”

“Worry doesn't empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength. Grandpa Fisher used to say that.” Beau gave me a sympathetic look. “I guess it's easier to say than to do.”

I paused as memories overtook me. “I can't believe you remembered it word for word. He used to say that all the time.”

“Yeah. It's also embroidered on a sampler in Queenie's kitchen. I see it every time I'm getting food.”

“Oh,
that
explains it.” I grinned.

“Grandpa Fisher was great with inspirational sayings.” Beau's eyes clouded. “But Grandpa Fisher isn't with us anymore. And Queenie's marrying Reverend Bradford. And becoming a Presbyterian. And Mom and Pop are off on cruises. And you and I live in Dallas.”

“Speaking of which, would you believe Mama actually called me and tried to talk me into moving back to Fairfield?”

“Welcome to my world.” Beau rolled his eyes. “She used to call me every day. Then it was every other. Then, once she and Pop started traveling, it dropped to once a week. I'm happy to see she's shifted gears to you.”

“Do you ever think about going back?” I asked.

“All the time. Fairfield's my home. But my heart is here.” A boyish smile lit his face. “Twiggy's here. And my new job is here.” He gestured to Stan and Madge, then leaned in close to whisper, “Notice anything stirring over there?”

I had noticed, actually. Madge and Stan, once mortal enemies, were together more than they were apart these days, and the usual quarreling was dissipating. Seemed so strange to see them on the same team. And stranger still that they were talking about a movie they'd both seen. Together, perhaps? Kind of sounded like it. Not that I was listening in. Much.

“I asked him about it a couple of weeks ago and he blew me off.” Beau chuckled and reached for a magazine. “But I'm not blind. I can see when someone's twitterpated.”

“Twitterpated?” Stan looked up from his conversation with
Madge to give my brother a curious look. “What the heck is twitterpated? Some sort of disease?”

“Yeah, it's a disease, all right.” Madge winked at me, and for the first time I realized the truth—she had a crush on Stan. The very man she'd always claimed to hate was in fact the man she adored.

Okay, maybe not adored. Maybe
tolerated
was a better word. But her toleration seemed genuine enough, especially once they started talking about the movie again.

Beau smiled and read his magazine. I tried to do the same, but my thoughts were in a whirl. Before I had time to grab hold of them, the surgeon emerged. He took a seat and talked us through the surgery.

“It went as well as could be expected. The tear has been fixed, but it'll never be perfect. He knows that. He'll compensate for it, so after a while I don't even think people will notice.”

“Thank God.” Stan swiped his brow with the back of his hand. “You saying he'll play again?”

“That's not what I'm saying at all.” The surgeon shook his head. “And because I don't see that as a likelihood—at least in the near future—I'm more worried about Brady's mental state than his physical recovery. I've known Brady awhile and I haven't seen him in this state of mind before. He's going to need a lot of support from all of you while he recovers.”

My heart truly felt as if it might break as I listened to the doctor's words. Was Brady really facing the end of his career? If so, how would he handle it?

“What he doesn't need is people trying to make him feel bad because he can't get back in the game.” The surgeon gave Stan a pointed look.

“So, are you saying he won't be able to play again?” Stan asked. “As in . . . ever?”

“I don't have any way of knowing that. I'm just saying that jumping back in will cause further damage to the knee. The tear in the meniscus was severe. We had to graft muscle from his hip to piece things together. So only time will tell. But I can guarantee you it won't be soon. I only mention this because people who lose sight of their dream sometimes go into a depression. I'm counting on all of you to keep his spirits up, no matter what he's facing.”

These words hit me so hard that I had to excuse myself to go to the ladies' room for a good cry. Nadia and Madge joined me minutes later and we pretty much had a meltdown in triplicate.

After a while Madge blew her nose and then looked at the two of us. “I say we wipe these frowns off our faces and go into that recovery room with all the hope and enthusiasm we can muster.”

“He'll see right through us if we're too over-the-top,” Nadia said.

“So, hopeful but not hyped up?” I asked. “I think I can do that.”

Moments later we were all seated in the waiting room, listening to Aunt Alva snore. Loudly. The recovery room nurse came to fetch us just a few minutes later. I tried to wake Alva, but she wouldn't budge.

Nadia and I followed on the nurse's heels until we reached Brady's little cubicle. I peeked around the curtain just to make sure he was company-ready. The sight of the man I loved lying on a bed with a pained expression on his face left me heartbroken.

Nadia took a seat in the chair next to him. I noticed a lone tear running down her cheek—her right cheek, the one farthest from him. How she managed to control that was a mystery. I walked over to the bed and Brady gazed up at me.

“Hey.” I managed a weak smile and felt my hands trembling as I reached out and touched the end of the bed. “How are you doing?”

“Ugh.” He shook his head.

The nurse gestured to the plastic bowl at his side. “He's been a little queasy from the anesthesia.”

“Understandable.”

Brady shifted his position in the bed and grimaced. “Doc says it might take a little longer to get up and running this time. Did he tell you?”

I gave a hesitant nod. “Yeah. But it'll do you some good to rest that knee, Brady. There's no rush to get better.”

For whatever reason, he turned his face away. In that moment I wished I could take back what I'd said. Perhaps internally he felt a rush to get better so that he could get back to the business of basketball. Why had I been so inconsiderate?

I didn't have time to drum up an apology because a wave of nausea must have hit him and he got sick—not once but twice. He looked my way and groaned. “Sorry, Katie.”

“Don't be. A woman should be able to walk the man she loves through thick and thin.”

And there you have it. I'd just told Brady that I loved him. No sooner were the words spoken than he gazed at me with such tenderness that I thought my heart would burst. Just then the nurse appeared with nausea meds in hand, which she injected into his IV. Seconds later his eyes fluttered closed. When he awoke an hour or so later, he was transported to a room. A private room. Likely a move on Stan's part to keep newsmongers away.

“Last time he was in the hospital, he roomed with a fellow who was recovering from shoulder surgery,” Nadia said. “Torn rotator cuff. A reporter made his way into the room,
claiming to be a relative of the roommate. Poor fellow was so drugged up, I think he really believed that stupid reporter was his cousin Joe. But Brady knew better.”

No doubt Brady could spot a fake. And no doubt he could spot sincerity too. I'd meant every word when I'd said I loved him. Surely he realized that. And I wouldn't take it back, even if he didn't reciprocate. Not that the boy could string two words together at the moment. Between the pain meds and the nausea meds, he didn't seem to know his own name. Or why they were wheeling him through the hallways of the hospital. Or why there were butterflies hovering over the stretcher, singing the national anthem.

Yep. Medication was definitely doing its work.

Once they got him settled in his room, he dozed off. Even in his sleep he cried out as he tried to move his leg. My heart twisted into a thousand knots and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes.

“It's going to be okay, Katie,” Nadia whispered as she patted my arm. “I promise you. We've been through this before. It'll be over before you know it.”

I nodded and tried to get control of my emotions. “I—I know. I just hate to see him in pain.”

“Trust me, no man likes to see himself in pain either,” Madge countered, her voice a hoarse whisper. “It's humbling to admit that you can't do things without help, no matter who you are. But when you're a pro ball player, it's humiliating.”

“I'm sure.” I sighed.

“Which is why we need to have a strategy for these next couple of weeks,” Madge said. “We have to be prepared to do for him without him realizing he's being done for.” She scratched her head. “Does that make sense?”

“Actually, it makes perfect sense.” I brightened a bit. “I think
I'll feel better if we have a plan anyway. It'll do me good if I'm focused on how I can make him better. I want him to know that I care about what he's going through.”

“He already knows that, sweet girl,” Nadia said. “Trust me.”

“For one thing, we can't let him know that Sanders fellow is causing problems.” Madge's nose wrinkled.

“Again?” Nadia and I spoke in unison.

“Yeah. I had a text message from Dahlia. Sanders called to cancel the dress order.”

“What?” I gasped. “But it's too late. He's already paid the down payment, hasn't he?”

“And it's the bride's big day,” Nadia said. “She signed off on the agreement.”

Madge sighed. “Yeah, but he's paying and he says he didn't sign anything, so it's not going to happen.”

“What is the man's problem?” I leaned against the wall, nearly setting off a fire alarm just behind me. I jolted to attention and stood upright.

“It's so stupid.” Madge lowered her voice. “From what I understand, the Spurs lost their game against the Mavericks yesterday, so he's in a snit.”