When I woke up, it was in the ICU of Mercy Hospital South. Mama was hovering over me like a hummingbird on a hibiscus.
Trust me, regaining consciousness is not like what they show in the movies. I didn’t wake up suddenly and ask, “Where am I?” It was a gradual process, my consciousness flickering on and off like a light bulb on a bad circuit. But every time it flickered on, there was Mama. Although Mama is taller than I am, she still doesn’t scrape five feet, so hovering over a hospital bed was no easy task for her.
Other faces hovered as well, and as the light bulb stayed on longer, I began to focus and sort them out. I saw Susan several times, and Charlie at least once. I thought I saw dear Wynnell, although that might have been an orderly who didn’t bother to shave. As for those periodic flashes of intense blue, they were undoubtedly Greg’s eyes. Nurse Beasely told me later that she would gladly trade places with the lowliest of Candy Stripers if she could have a boyfriend like Greg. Was he really taken? she wondered. I assured her that he was, and to punish her pushed my call button a few more times than was absolutely necessary.
Little by little my family and friends pieced together for me a rather ragged version of my rescue, which was about as fractured as my skull. “Subdural hematoma,” the doctors said. A hairline fracture, which had caused two small blood vessels to burst in my brain. Fortunately the bleeding stopped spontaneously, and since no surgery was required, I was released from the hospital in just over a week.
It wasn’t until Christmas Day, however, that I got the full, unabridged story of the events that led up to my nicked noggin. Mama and I were having Christmas dinner with the Rob-Bobs since Susan and Charlie were off in Paris with Buford and the Tweetie Byrd. The Rob-Bobs, bless them, had been kind enough to invite Greg as well.
The fact that Rob is Jewish apparently has little effect on the way they celebrate Christmas. The place was decked out as lavishly as the Biltmore Estate, only on a smaller scale, of course. They had not held back on the food either, and the gilded Regency groaned under the weight. The beaming Bob had clearly outdone himself.
“Roast suckling pig,” he said as he placed a pewter platter the size of a surfboard in the middle of the table.
We stared in disbelief at the centerpiece. It was indeed a pig—small, granted, but a whole pig with an apple stuck in its mouth. The pitiful creature had undoubtedly been shaved, but otherwise was gruesomely intact. It had tiny hooves that looked as if they were made of burned plastic, ragged ears that were charred along the edges, and a three-inch tail. Mercifully, Bob had replaced the piglet’s eyes with stuffed green olives.
The pheasant under glass was real as well, as were its feathers. Ditto for the individual servings of quail en brochette. It was clear from the start that this was going to be another one of those meals where the food earned mileage on the plate, but never actually touched the lips.
I allowed myself to envy Tweetie for a moment. Although she had to put up with Buford—who sort of resembled the suckling pig—she was probably enjoying a Le Big Mac at EuroDisney with my kids.
Mama gaped at the graphic display of medieval food. A true Southern lady, she has the ability to comment on any situation and make it sound like a compliment.
“It’s all so incredible,” she said.
Bob beamed.
“He does have a way with food,” Rob agreed. A Southern gentleman, he shared Mama’s ability.
We were all chatty that meal. What better way to avoid eating? Even Bob, who actually ate, did his fair share of talking.
“It was Garland’s cousin Toxie, you know, who left behind those cigarette butts.”
“You don’t say! Not Amy? She had the cold. I thought she might have caught it skulking around outside.”
“No, it was Toxie all right,” Rob said. “We went down to her club last night and talked to her. Man, can she ever sing.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Almost as good as Liza,” Bob said. “But enough about her.” He raised his wineglass. “To Abby,” he said. “May she have more lives than her cat, Dmitri.”
“Here, here,” everyone chorused.
“And to Bob,” Rob said, “who wields a shovel as well as he does a spatula.”
Mama laid down an empty fork. “Excuse me?”
“It’s time we told her,” Bob said, sounding as proud as a mother hen. He looked at Greg.
Greg cleared his throat. “Well, when Abby called that morning, I, uh, was otherwise occupied.”
My heart sank. “Not with that bimbo Bambi!”
Greg smiled weakly. “Her name is Deena, and she’s not a bimbo. But no, I wasn’t with her.”
“Then where were you?” Mama is nothing if not protective of me.
Greg swallowed hard and glared at Rob. “I was in the hospital myself.”
“What?” Since food had yet to pass my lips, swallowing was no problem for me.
“I had a—well, I skidded off the road,” Greg said miserably. “I was on my way over to see you and hit an ice patch.”
“A likely story,” Mama snapped.
It isn’t right to kick one’s mother under the table, but I couldn’t help myself.
I stared at Greg. “Were you hurt?”
“Naw, just a few bumps and bruises, but she insisted on keeping me overnight.”
“Who is she?” Mama was at it again. “Silicone Sally?”
Greg glared. “You must be referring to Deena, Mrs. Wiggins, and that’s not who I mean. The she I’m talking about is the doctor.”
Rob waved his hands, presumably to get our attention, but maybe to dispel the bad vibes that were piling up faster than the bones on Bob’s plate.
“Anyway,” Rob said, “the hero is Bob. You see, he was—well, you tell them, Bob. And don’t be modest about it.”
Bob grinned and had the grace to blush. Modesty becomes some men.
“Well, I got up earlier than usual that morning, despite the time we went to bed.” He turned to me. “I was going to bake you some cinnamon rolls. From scratch. When I walked by the guest room the door was open and it was empty. I thought of waking up Rob, but he can be a bear when he hasn’t had his eight hours.”
Rob nodded. “A grizzly.”
“I had a hunch that you had gone over to C. J.’s to search the—the—”
“Table liseuse.”
“Yeah. So I called there. First it was busy, then nobody answered.”
“I must have just left.”
“Yes. But C. J. should have answered, unless something had happened to her.”
I recoiled in my chair. “You thought I killed her?”
Everyone laughed, albeit nervously. Bob blushed scarlet.
“That’s not what I meant. But you might have been provoked into something and found yourself in deeper water than you’d planned.”
“Abby’s a good swimmer,” Mama said loyally.
“Mama, please. Go on, Bob.”
“Well, there’s not much to tell. I drove over to C. J.’s and just as I turned the corner, there you were, driving off. So I followed you.”
“Why didn’t you follow faster?” I didn’t mean to sound so sharp. But even with my insurance, the week in the hospital had cost me a pretty penny.
“I followed as fast as I could, Abby, but you drive like a bat out of hell.” He glanced at Mama. “Pardon the language.”
“Pardoned,” Mama said. “Please go on.”
“Yes, well, I lost you on South Boulevard, and was about to give up when I remembered you said Garland Riggs owned the Broken Tree Nursery, and that it was somewhere down near Pineville. So then I drove around trying to find a phone book and—”
“You drove around looking for a phone book?” I nearly yelled.
Okay, what else was the poor man supposed to do? He wasn’t from the area. I couldn’t expect him to just know where Broken Tree Nursery was. But it scared the dickens out of me to think that Southern Bell Yellow Pages was the only thing that had prevented me from becoming compost down in Magnolia Manor.
“Hey, hey, Abby,” Rob said, and rightly so.
“Sorry, Bob,” I hastened to apologize. “I really am grateful. You are my hero. Now please go on.”
Bob smiled graciously. “Well, there isn’t much else to tell. I got to the nursery and found your empty car. There wasn’t anything else for me to do but follow the monstrous tracks of that ridiculous pickup of his.”
“That and conk him over the head with a shovel,” Rob said proudly.
The doorbell rang and my unassuming hero sprang to answer it. In a minute he returned, with both C. J. and Wynnell in tow.
“We pulled up at exactly the same time,” C. J. gushed. “Imagine that! I read a book once where—”
“Merry Christmas!” Wynnell said. Bless her soul.
“Merry Christmas,” we chorused.
“Here.” Wynnell thrust a package at me before C. J. could open her mouth again. “Open it, dear.”
Against my better judgment I tore into my gift just to shut C. J. up. It worked for a few minutes. Perhaps in a former life Wynnell wrapped mummies for a living, or manufactured chastity belts. Even Houdini would be slowed by her efforts.
“Ooh,” I heard Mama gasp as I ripped away the last sheet of Santa Claus paper.
“Ooh,” the others chorused.
I stared silently at the gift my thoughtful friend had made with her own two blessed hands. The lime-green corduroy jumper with purple patch pockets and yellow buttons the size and shape of egg yolks was truly beyond intelligible words.
“I felt kind of bad, having given you that store-bought sweater before. I mean, you could have died, Abigail.”
I gave Wynnell a big hug. I hadn’t realized the woman felt so strongly about me. But if the tears that drenched my back were any indication, she was the best friend I ever had.
“Thank you,” I said, on the verge of tears myself.
“Ahem,” Greg said and tapped on his water glass.
I released Wynnell and gratefully gave Greg my attention.
“I have a present for Abby, too,” he said and pulled a little black velvet box out of his right pants pocket.
“Uh-oh,” Mama muttered.
Greg cleared his throat. “Abby, I—”
“Later,” I mouthed. I wasn’t about to be proposed to in front of a room full of people.
He didn’t notice my desperate attempt to stop him. “I want you to know—”
“Please, not now. Not here,” I whispered, as if no one else could hear me.
But Greg was determined. Wynnell may as well have tried to stop Yankees from spilling across the Carolina border. I held my breath, helpless to save both Greg and me a lot of embarrassment.
“—I appreciate your help in nabbing Garland Riggs. In fact, the entire department is very grateful. So we got you this.”
He opened the little black box and held it out to me. Inside was a small but exquisite gold charm in the shape of a cat.
I exhaled loudly, for all the world sounding like a punctured tire. But I couldn’t help it, given the bizarre mixture of relief and disappointment I felt.
“And for you,” Greg said, turning to Bob, “the department has unanimously declared you Citizen of the Week. Anytime you want to ride along with us in our civilian program, you just let me know. But no hands-on stuff again.”
Everyone laughed. Bob blushed.
“Thanks,” he said. But I suspected he would rather have the gold cat charm.
“My cousin Elmo went on a ride with the Shelby police once,” Jane said, “but he wasn’t exactly an invited guest. You see, he’d been reaching under a police car to retrieve a quarter he’d dropped when—”
“Shut up,” Mama said gently.
“Shut up,” we chorused, and a merry Christmas was had by all.