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But she’s not my mother.
I don’t have one of those anymore, and hugging her only reminds me of that fact.
I quickly add Mrs. Renshaw to my mental list of triggers to avoid at all costs.
“I can’t thank you enough for taking care of my big, stubborn baby over here,” Mrs. Renshaw says, casting a sideways glance over at her groaning husband. “We are so, so blessed that the Lord brought you back into our lives.”
“Uh … you’re welcome?” I feel my cheeks heat as I follow her gaze over to my latest victim. “But I’m not so sure he’d agree with you about that.”
“I can hear y’all, ya know,” Mr. Renshaw growls.
I smile and walk over to him. “How’s my favorite patient doin’?”
“Don’t come near me, devil woman.”
“I brought Advil.”
Mr. Renshaw props himself up on his elbows. “‘Bout damn time.”
I glance down at his splinted leg while I dig the bottle of painkillers out of my hoodie pocket and smile when I see that it’s not too swollen.
“You probably need these more for your pounding head than your leg,” I tease, dropping two little brown pills in his palm.
“That damn Mexican tequila gets me every time. Now I know why they call it Montezuma’s Revenge.”
I laugh, nervously glancing around as Mr. Renshaw swallows his meds. “So, did you, like, send Carter to his room as punishment or something?”
Mrs. Renshaw snorts. “Oh, he’s around here somewhere.”
“He went looking for yooooou,” Sophie adds in a singsong voice, batting her eyelashes.
Ugh. Great.
“So …” I change the subject back to the bearded elephant in the room. “Mr. Renshaw—”
“Oh, just call me Jimbo, dammit. This ain’t no time for formalities.”
Somebody’s grouchy. Jeez.
“Okay, Jimbo. I think I straightened your shin bone out, so as long as you keep it in the splint and don’t put any weight on it for a few weeks, it should heal correctly.”
Or at least, better than before.
Maybe.
I hope.
“A few weeks!” Mr. Renshaw plops back down on his back and throws a meaty arm over his face.
“Oh, stop bein’ so darn dramatic. As bad as that wreck was, you’re lucky to still be alive,” Mrs. Renshaw snaps.
“Yeah, Dad,” Sophie chimes in.
“I mean it, Mr.—er, Jimbo. No walking or standing on it. For at least … eight weeks.”
I don’t know if that’s even right. I just figured, if I told him eight, he might make it at least four or five.
“I can’t find her anywhere, Mom. I don’t know where else to—”
