“The hospital can arrange a short stay at a rehabilitation center.”
“You don’t want that.”
“I want my own kitchen. My own bed. A door that does not open every two hours.”
“That seems reasonable.”
She stared at the ceiling.
“I just don’t know whether wanting it will be enough.”
I leaned forward carefully.
“Then tomorrow, don’t prove you can climb an entire staircase.”
She turned toward me.
“Prove you can manage the first step. After that, the next one.”
Laurel studied me.
“That sounds suspiciously optimistic.”
“I work on old buildings. Most stay standing because somebody fixes one piece at a time.”
She looked at my sling.
“Is that also how you raise an eight-year-old alone?”
That question landed differently.
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Sometimes you get through bedtime and call that structural integrity.”
Her mouth curved.
“Professional advice?”
“My professional advice usually includes an invoice.”
She reached for the coffee.
The following morning before physical therapy, Laurel called across the hall.
“Graham.”
I looked up.
Sophie was sitting beside me reading.
“If I manage the stairs, you’re bringing coffee from somewhere else.”
Sophie looked offended.
“Finally.”
I pointed at her.
“You stay out of this.”
Laurel laughed.
“Is that motivation or blackmail?” I asked.
“Both.”
“Deal.”
The next day, I waited until nearly eleven.
Laurel’s physical therapist had taken her to the rehabilitation staircase at 9:30. By 10:15, I had checked the hallway clock so many times that Denise finally told me to stop making it nervous.
At 10:40, the elevator doors opened.
Laurel came toward us in a wheelchair, holding crutches across her lap. Her hair was damp at the temples and exhaustion had drained the color from her face.
But she was smiling.
“How many?” I asked.
“Eight steps up. Eight down.”
“You did all sixteen?”
“Not gracefully.”
“I don’t remember grace being part of the deal.”
Her therapist stopped beside me.
“She did well. She’ll practice tomorrow, but she used the railing safely and followed every instruction.”
Laurel looked at me.
“I believe you owe me decent coffee.”
An hour later, Clare arrived with two cups from Bennett’s Cafe and a small paper bag containing a cinnamon roll.
Sophie came behind her holding a third cup.
“What’s that?” Laurel asked.
“Hot chocolate.”
“You get better treatment than we do.”
“I’m a child.”
Clare divided the cinnamon roll with a plastic knife and refused to let any of us pretend we did not want part of it.
That afternoon, Laurel finally called her mother.
She did it from the family lounge while I sat near the window, far enough away to give her privacy but close enough that she would not be alone.
Sophie sat beside me coloring.
I did not hear everything.
I heard Laurel admit that the surgery had been more serious than she first said. I heard a long silence.
Then Laurel said, “No, Mom. You are not getting on a plane tonight.”
Another silence.
“I have help here.”
Her eyes moved toward me.