We’re in the hospital room. Colleen. Denise. Me. The fragrance of coffee lifts from their Starbucks’ cups and fills my room while we have a nice little chat. I’m sitting in a chair (my first time up since surgery). My body is starting to feel stiff, sore. Mama Colleen’s antenna snaps to attention.
“You okay?” she asks.
“You mean other than that whole missing lung thing? Yeah. I’m just tired.”
“Call the nurse so they can put you back to bed.”
“I will. They’re awful busy. I hate to bother—”
What happens next still brings chills to my bones.
Colleen’s nurturing side prompts her to action. She leaps from the chair and lunges for the nurse’s call light on my bed. From my peripheral vision I see Denise’s arms and legs flail in slow motion, eyes wide, flashing, a silent scream on her lips.
A frantic “No!” rips through the air just as Colleen’s fingers squeeze the button on the . . . .
“Goodnight Colleen. Goodnight Denise. Goodnight John Boy.”
Well, it could have played out that way. Fortunately, we stopped her in the nick of time before the final push sent me to lunch with the sandman, but we came close. Very close.
You know, I truly can’t help wondering what really lurks behind that “suspenseful” mind of hers.