Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [105]
“That’s good. Be so good to see her. And you talked to Miss Sara?”
“Oh, yeah. And she’s marinating in a mood over me seeing John. I think she thinks I should be lonely and miserable, that it would be more suitable behavior for a widow.”
“Humph. All them kids is crazy as a bunch of bedbugs, too, ’eah? They don’t know how short life can be.”
“They don’t know a lot of things, Ella, but they have to learn their lessons in their own time.”
“Isn’t that fuh true? If you ask me, you became a widow a long time ago.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said and nodded in agreement. “Sometime when Aunt Daisy is on the mend I’ll tell you some stories that will curl your hair.”
“God, I pray she’s gonna be on the mend today.”
“Me too. Sara wanted to come but I told her it wasn’t necessary. Besides, she has to work.”
“Well, she’s got bills to pay.”
“She’ll come as soon as she can take some time off.”
“I haven’t laid my eyes on that child since I don’t know when.”
“Well, she’s sure something else, I’ll tell you.”
“Humph. What’s it like to be twenty-five?”
“In today’s world? Must be hard.”
We rode the rest of the short trip in relative quiet, just moving with the traffic. We were tired and anxious but both of us were so glad, so relieved that Aunt Daisy was in the hospital, where she belonged.
I pulled in the parking lot and found a space.
“You hungry?” she said.
“No, I grabbed a bowl of cereal. My stomach wanted breakfast.”
This time it was easier to find Aunt Daisy’s room and there she was, right through the window, still sleeping. We decided to deliver the pie and went back to the nurses’ station.
The head nurse on duty was a beautiful young woman whose name tag read Tolli Rosol, RN. That had to be a shortened version of a family surname. I was guessing but it reminded me that down here in this part of the world we had more last names used as first names than any other part of the country. Unlike certain people in the entertainment world we didn’t name our children after fruit and inanimate objects. We were insanely proud of our ancestors and went to great lengths to honor them.
“I’m Ella Johnson, Daisy McInerny’s friend? And I made y’all this so you might keep checking on her. You know, make sure she’s doing all right?”
“You really made this pie for us? That is so sweet! Thank you!”
“You’re welcome. I’ll bring you another one tomorrow.”
“You do that and Ms. McInerny will get spoiled rotten,” Nurse Rosol said.
“Humph,” Ella said and smiled. “Too late. She’s already rotten.”
Ella and I went back to Aunt Daisy’s room and resumed our positions. Ella went in for half an hour and then she came out and I went in. We did this Chinese fire drill of sorts until I was sick to death of my magazines and it was nearly five o’clock. There was no change in Aunt Daisy’s condition whatsoever. The only sound was the steady bleep from her heart monitor.
“Do you want to go get a bite to eat? I’ve got about forty-five minutes before I have to go get Patti. And there’s rush-hour traffic.”
“I guess so.”
Back in the cafeteria, we had a bowl of vegetable soup and a small mixed green salad that I devoured and Ella pushed around, barely eating at all.
“No good?” I said.
“Tastes like dishwater,” she said.
“Yeah, it actually does but that’s when I compare it to yours. Next to the one I make it tastes like heaven!” I looked at my watch. “I’ll be back in an hour, if she’s on time. Can I bring you anything?”
“No, honey. I still have my book to finish. But thanks and you drive carefully, okay?”
“Sure.”
Ella was deep into Harlan Greene’s Mr. Skylark, the story of John Bennett and the Charleston Renaissance. It was in the Porgy House among Aunt Daisy’s collection of books related in any way whatsoever to DuBose and Dorothy Heyward. She picked it up, saying if I was going to get myself all involved in this period of history, she wanted to know more, too. If I put all their laments of aging aside, Aunt Daisy and Ella fought hard to remain relevant and to keep their brains sharp. I had to believe it made a