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ERIC STOOD WHEN the lanky man in green scrubs stepped into the waiting room and called his name. When they were close enough to approximate privacy, his grandmother’s surgeon clasped his hands behind his back and tilted toward him.
“Ms. Zumstein’s operation went fairly well,” he stated with a wan smile.
“Fairly?”
“I’m sure you realize she was fragile already. Her recovery depends on how much fight she has left.”
Eric blinked openmouthed long past the time for a question, so the surgeon nodded, pivoted on his heel, and disappeared back through wide mechanical doors.
A hand grabbed Eric’s forearm. Dr. Quinn, Maisie’s attending physician. He stood a mere five-foot seven to Eric’s towering six-foot three; a slight hundred and sixty pounds to Eric’s two-twenty. Instinctively, he overcompensated with post-straight posture and a lifted chin. Today his eyebrows crouched together in troubled thought.
“Come with me.”
Without waiting, the doctor led Eric around a corner into a bland sitting room with seating for two to eight people. He closed the door, gestured at the chair a knee’s length from his own, then propped his elbow on a small round table of fake blond wood.
"What do you know about your grandmother’s accident? Latest accident,” he quickly corrected. His voice conveyed grave concern, his expression, too.
Eric rubbed a hand over his head. He'd been drinking coffee like an addict since his grandmother's fall earlier in the day, and now he could scarcely hold still.
“What do you mean, what do I know?” Eric touched his jacket pocket to check on his inhaler.
“How do you think she managed to remove her IV, lower the bedrail, and fall out of bed with her right arm in a cast and a broken left wrist?”
Eric’s head felt gripped by a vice. “You can’t think I had something to do with that.”
Quinn lifted his chin higher and pursed his lips.
Eric glared at his accuser askance. “My grandmother is a determined woman. If she wants to do something, she does it.”
The doctor sucked his cheek. “So you may say, Mr. Zumstein, but I’m not inclined to believe you.”
“Believe whatever you want. I wasn’t even there.”
“Really, Mr. Zumstein? The nurses saw you.”
Eric sighed with impatience. “I was down getting coffee."
Quinn folded his arms across his chest, a TV District Attorney doubting a witness.
Eric breathed. Folded his own arms. Addressed the ceiling. “You know how you tell a kid not to touch an electrical outlet, and the next minute you catch him poking it with a fork? That's Maisie Zumstein. That’s Gram." Eric shrugged and spread his hands.
Quinn looked aghast. "Are you saying she pulled out the tube because she knew she wasn't supposed to?"
“No,” Eric drew out the word. “I’m saying she’s wicked clever and more stubborn than a Billy goat.”
"If she wanted anything, her call button was right there."
"Not in her nature to ask for help."
“Enough of this nonsense,” Quinn shouted into Eric’s face. “She was sedated, Mr. Zumstein. Sedated!"
"Are you sure about that?"
The doctor forced himself to settle down. "Of course I'm sure. She was experiencing anxiety, so the nurse requested a sedative."
Eric's eyebrows rose. “Only half-true. She was throwing one of her crazy, delusional hissy fits, and I requested the sedative myself. She couldn't have gotten it, though, because she’d have been asleep.”
"My point exactly."
"She was not sedated."
"It was noted on her chart."
"And the nurses do whatever you order them to do the instant you ask?"
“Yes!”
A tap on the door, and one of the uber-obedient nurses stuck in her head.
"Ready for you, doctor."
Quinn rose to go. "I am not satisfied with this discussion, Mr. Zumstein."
Eric reached into his pocket for his inhaler, "Not my problem," he told the closing door.
***
AT TWO FOURTEEN the next morning Eric was awakened by a call from the hospital. His grandmother had suffered a stroke moments before. "She’s gone, Mr. Zumstein. We did everything we could...”
Suddenly the cold room, indeed the whole house felt hollow, sucked dry of life. Emotions too numerous to name invaded Eric’s being the way an army overwhelms a stronghold. He realized he’d smashed his fist on the adjacent end table only when the objects on it crashed to the floor. Tossing his phone aside, he sat with bare feet on hardwood littered with ceramic bits and lightbulb shards.
He covered his face and whispered, "Sorry, Gram," into the void. "I’m so, so sorry."