Chapter 5

Still Mimi:

We got him to stand up, me and the ward nurse. His leg was wrapped in loose bandages, a concession to the drains and open wounds. Not much of a walk, but he did stand, and he did go to the bathroom and sit. He pushed the door shut.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I said. “I’ve pretty much seen it all.”

“I realize that, lady, but if I’m taking a crap, I may make a face and I don’t want you laughing at me.”

Now I’m laughing at the absurdity.

“See,” he said from behind the door. “Already...”

“You’re a hoot.” I heard movement, then the toilet flushed. “You okay?”

“I’m standing.”

I pushed the door open. “Very good,” I squealed.

“Aggravating thing, aren’t you?”

“You’re smiling. I was shooting for ‘smiling’.”

“Well, I think my eyes are blue again. They HAD to be brown.”

“Horrible, horrible joke, Buddy,” I told him, snickering.

“Made you laugh,” he smiled. The smile dimmed as he took a step with his injured leg. I started toward him. He raised his hand. “No, I got this.”

“Okay then, big boy,” I laughed as I pulled the covers back on his bed. He sat, then gingerly turned himself to lie down. I kept track of his IV. Of course, me taking care of his IV, him using both hands to get into bed, nobody took care of that ridiculous hospital gown. Naturally that meant that the gown flowed completely away from its function of maintaining patient modesty.

Full frontal. He felt the draft, his hand moved to grab the gown. He turned bright red.

“I’m sorry, Mimi...”

“I saw it before, okay?”

“Yeah, but I was catheterized.”

“Okay. Big deal. No accessories this time. I’m a nurse, Buddy. I’ve seen a bunch of ‘em.”

“And you’re gonna hold up a score card?”

“No.” I looked him straight in the eyes. “I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. Completely clinical.” And the analytical side of my brain was engaged in mortal combat with the romantic side. I got a wet washcloth and gently wiped his face.

“I could use a bath. I feel sticky.”

“I’ll see what I can get you,” I said. I left. Came back with a pan and more washcloths and towels.

“W-w-wait a second. Shouldn’t somebody else be doing this?”

“You’re a perv, Buddy. Wantin’ to show yourself off to some stranger.”

“No,” he said, “just that you know entirely too much about me already.”

“So a little more won’t hurt. Let me get some water.”

I filled the basin and came back. “Now, let’s be a big boy about this. Strictly clinical, okay?”

And I bathed him. I’ve done several of these, mostly back during my clinicals when I was studying the craft, so I know how to be businesslike. Always strangers.

Buddy’s no stranger. I know it. And here I am, allowing myself to do this. The romantic side of my brain is looking at the unconscious carcass of my logical side. Logic is overrated.

I bathed him. Top of his head to his toes, listening to him groan happily when I did his feet. I did his chest and his back and his armpits, using deliberate pressure on the last to keep from tickling him.

Now there’s one last area.

“Keep your mind out of the gutter, Buddy. I know that you’re sweaty and gunky there, too.”

He closed his eyes. I would like to say that I was absolutely professional in my handling of that particular area. I’d like to say that. I’d be lying just a little bit.

Yes, he’s clean there. I was thorough and gentle and actually paid proper attention to those tight areas where sweat and gunk build up, but I also washed that abused dong of his, along with a nicely filled sack of balls.

Lastly, I tossed that washcloth and water out and got a fresh one and redid his face. “Dammit, you broke out in a sweat, Buddy.”

“Lady, you ... You’re not the one who should’ve done that.”

“Why not?”

“That’s why I’m sweating. You ... My...”

“Oh, get over it, Buddy.”

“Easy for you to say. Can’t look at you now without thinking ‘this lady’s washed my crotch’.”

I laughed. “Okay, I can live with that.”

“Can you, now?”

The next day I checked my bank account from my iPhone. True to the agent’s promise, there was a two thousand dollar insurance deposit. I begged off from Buddy’s presence and did a little more shopping. I needed more than one or two changes of clothes. That’s not bad. Buying a bottle of perfume, though. Luxury. I deserve a luxury. Right?

When I walked back into Buddy’s room, I think he caught a whiff. His nostrils flared and his pupils dilated. Maybe it’s a good choice for me. That’s the romantic side. The analytic side is kicking my head asking why I want the guy to notice me like THAT.

On Friday they let me take Buddy home. He’s gonna limp for a while. We have physical therapy starting on Monday. And he’s gonna be off for a couple of weeks, at least.

Saturday I took him with me and drove his truck to visit my old apartment. As we drove up the little street to my cul de sac apartment lot, there were already big piles of ruined furniture and personal belongings in front of several homes we passed.

“You stay in the truck,” I said. “Don’t want you picking up another bug.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I had HIS rubber boots. They fit my feet like boats. I walked awkwardly away from the truck, snapping picture after picture with my iPhone. Car. Still there. With an inch and a half of mud on all the horizontal surfaces. I used my key to open the door. Still had standing water in the floorboard. Nothing to salvage. Well, okay. I retrieved the proof of ownership from the glove box.

Inside my neat little apartment, I cried. Pictures, everything, covered with foul, stinky mud. The furniture had floated, now was chaos. I went into the kitchen with a goal in mind. I ‘inherited’ one of Grandma’s cast iron pots. I’ll keep that. Actually, a few things in the kitchen survived and would benefit from a good washing.

A trip through the closet and my dresser, both of which were sodden messes, I gathered jeans. I like jeans and I think they’ll wash. The dresser? Some sports bras. All that went into black plastic bags. I carried several out to the truck. Buddy watched. I comforted him because he was dying to get out and help me.

“No way. I got this. You sit right there.”

Everything else ... Gone. Not worth retrieving.

Pictures, pictures, pictures. Punctuated with tears. The putrid smell got to me. I looked for a couple of photo albums, found them in a corner where they floated. I put them into the cast iron pot, carried that out to the truck, got a plastic bag, went back in, gathered those kitchen utensils. Some of them were like that cast iron pot, artifacts of Grandma’s kitchen.

Finally, I tried a water faucet. Had running water. I washed my hands, went to the truck with the last of my belongings and took off the boots as I sat sideways in the driver seat. I tossed the boots, one at a time, backward into the bed of the truck.

“That’s it, ba ... Buddy,” I said. I let the tears run for a bit. “Everything I had. That’s what’s left.”

He reached over, consoling me with a touch.

“I’m sorry, Mimi.”

I sniffled, “Let me call the landlord.” I picked up my phone, ran through the contact list, punched his number. Got his receptionist.

“Tell him that he can clear it ALL out. The insurance company’s getting pictures. They should pick up the car next week, too.”

“I’m so sorry, Mizz Clemons,” the lady said.

“Thank you. Stuff happens, I guess.”

“Yes, honey, it does. I’ll pray for you to get things straight.”

“I appreciate the prayers,” I said. I disconnected the call. Buddy reached over and touched my shoulder.

“I’m sorry all over the place, Mimi. I’m sorry you lost all this. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you...”

“You have helped me, Buddy,” I said. We drove away.

He reached over, squeezed my hand. “If I can do anything to help...”

“It’s been a tough year. Divorce. Now this.” And I don’t know what made me do it, but I put my hand back over the console and held his.

He looked at me. I came to a stop sign, glanced over. “I need that, Buddy.”

“Friends can hold hands, Mimi,” he said. “Things’ll get better. You do NOT appear to be the kind of person who takes a hit and stays down.”

“Sometimes, though...” I felt better holding his hand. I really did. It helped as I drove us out of the flood zone, headed back to his home. Once on the highway, I didn’t need to concentrate as much. I was quiet, though, thinking about the sad mess that was my life, exemplified and amplified by walking around in Buddy’s oversized rubber boots in what was left of my life.

A conversation came to mind. “Buddy?”

“Yes?”

“When you were in the hospital, you said something. I want to make sure I heard it correctly.”

“What was that?”

Here goes Mimi being brave. “You said that when this was over, you’d like to keep seeing me. Was that the drugs?”

“Drugs didn’t make me say it. Drugs might’ve made me think it was possible, though.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That you’d think I was some kind of screwup that hits on chicks he hauls out of floods...”

“One, I’m NOT a chick. Two, you didn’t hit on me. And three, we’re both adults and perhaps I may desire a friendship or whatever...”

“I didn’t refer to YOU as a chick. I meant some hypothetical...”

“That’s just it. I’m real. You’re real. And if we’d met at a library or whatever, by now, a week into knowing each other, we might’ve dated a couple of times. But since you pulled me off the roof, I’ve been right there with you except when you were sleeping. Sort of accelerated.”

“By now you could be fed up with me.”

“I know a lot more about you than I would imagine I’d know in a couple of months of dating.”

“Clinical, though,” he said.

I glanced over at him. Guy’s got a neat grin. “Yeah ... strictly clinical.” I sighed. I was getting ready to dive off a cliff. “I know more about you than I should and I still want to, oh, damn, Buddy, ‘date’ just kinda doesn’t apply here, does it?”