WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [73]
The nurse crouches down, collecting the spilled food. I don’t like her—she’s the one who’s always trying to keep me from walking. I think I’m just too wobbly for her nerves, because even Dr. Rashid admits that walking is good for me as long as I don’t overdo it or get stranded.
I’m parked in the hallway just outside my door, but it’s still several hours before my family comes and I think I’d like to look out the window.
I could just call the nurse. But what fun would that be?
I shift my bottom to the edge of my wheelchair, and reach for my walker.
One, two, three—
Her pale face thrusts itself in front of mine. “Can I help you, Mr. Jankowski?”
Heh. That was almost too easy.
“Why, I’m just going to look out the window for a while,” I say, feigning surprise.
“Why don’t you sit tight and let me take you?” she says, planting both hands firmly on the arms of my chair.
“Oh, well then. Yes, that’s very kind of you,” I say. I lean back in my seat, lift my feet onto the footrests, and fold my hands in my lap.
The nurse looks puzzled. Dear Lord, that’s an impressive overbite. She straightens up and waits, I guess to see if I’m going to make a run for it. I smile pleasantly and train my gaze on the window at the end of the hall. Finally, she goes behind me and takes the handles of my wheelchair.
“Well, I must say, Mr. Jankowski, I’m a little surprised. You’re normally . . . uh . . . rather adamant about walking.”
“Oh, I could have made it. I’m only letting you push me because there aren’t any chairs by the window. Why is that, anyway?”
“Because there’s nothing to see, Mr. Jankowski.”
“There’s a circus to see.”
“Well, this weekend, maybe. But normally there’s just a parking lot.”
“What if I want to look at a parking lot?”
“Then you shall, Mr. Jankowski,” she says, pushing me up to the window.
My brow furrows. She was supposed to argue with me. Why didn’t she argue with me? Oh, but I know why. She thinks I’m just an addled old man. Don’t upset the residents, oh no—especially not that old Jankowski fellow. He’ll fling pockmarked Jell-O at you and then call it an accident.
She starts to walk away.
“Hey!” I call after her. “I haven’t got my walker!”
“Just call me when you’re ready,” she says. “I’ll come get you.”
“No, I want my walker! I always have my walker. Get me my walker.”
“Mr. Jankowski—” says the girl. She folds her arms and sighs deeply.
Rosemary appears from a side hall like an angel from heaven.
“Is there a problem?” she says, looking from me to the horse-faced girl and then back again.
“I want my walker and she won’t get it,” I say.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t. All I said was—”
Rosemary holds up a hand. “Mr. Jankowski likes to have his walker beside him. He always does. If he asked for it, please bring it.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Get his walker.”
Outrage flashes across the horse girl’s face, replaced almost instantly by hostile resignation. She throws a murderous glance my direction and goes back for my walker. She holds it conspicuously in front of her, storming down the hall. When she reaches me, she slams it in front of me. Which would be more impressive if it didn’t have rubber leg caps, making it land with a squeak rather than a bang.
I smirk. I can’t help it.
She stands there, arms akimbo, staring at me. Waiting for a thank you, no doubt. I turn my head slowly, chin raised like an Egyptian pharaoh, training my gaze on the magenta and white striped big top.
I find the stripes jarring—in my day, only the concession stands were striped. The big top was plain white, or at least started out that way. By the end of the season it may have been streaked with mud and grass, but it was never striped. And that’s not the only difference