Page 41 of Diesel

I rang the doorbell. Something inside chimed, the melody sounded like it was trying to be “La Cucaracha” but had given up halfway through.

The door swung open, and there stood Greta in head-to-toe orange. Orange tracksuit, orange eyeshadow, orange nails. Even her orthopedic shoes had orange laces threaded through them.

“Ollie!” Her face split into a grin. “What brings you by on a Sunday? You miss me already?”

“Edith called. Said your foot got caught in her porch yesterday.”

“That old bat.” But there was affection in her tone. “Can’t keep anything to herself. Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there like a door-to-door salesman.”

She stepped back, gesturing me inside with one orange-nailed hand.

Following her through the doorway, I entered a living room that could only be described as organized chaos. Knitting projects covered every available surface, the couch, the coffee table, and the armchair by the window. Skeins of yarn in every color imaginable spilled out of baskets on the floor. A half-finished afghan in purple and green was draped over the back of the recliner, the needles still stuck through the last row.

The walls were covered in photographs. Some were framed professionally. Others were snapshots stuck up with thumb tacks. Greta at various ages, always smiling, always surrounded by people. A younger version of her stood next to a man in military uniform. Wedding photos. Baby pictures. Graduations. The entire history of her life documented in fading colors and curling edges.

“Sit, sit.” Greta waved toward the couch, which required moving three different knitting projects before I could actually sit down. “You want coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Settling onto the cushion, I watched as she lowered herself into the recliner with a slight wince that she tried to hide. “Edith said you’re fine, but I wanted to check for myself.”

“I am fine. Foot got stuck between two boards, I pulled it out, end of story. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Can I see it?”

“My foot?” she asked. “Why? You got a foot fetish I should know about?”

“Miss Greta.”

“I’m just asking.” But she was already propping her foot up on the ottoman, unlacing the orange orthopedic shoe. “There. Happy now?”

The shoe came off, followed by a white sock that had seen too many bleach cycles. Her foot was swollen around the ankle, puffy and tight. Purple bruising spread across the top, darkening near the joint. When she flexed it, the movement was stiff.

My stomach dropped. That was not fine. That was the opposite of fine.

“Greta, that’s really swollen.”

“It’s a little puffy. So what?” She waved away my concern. “I’ve had worse.”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“For this? Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll heal on its own in a few days.”

“What if it’s broken?” The possibility made me dizzy. Broken bones in elderly people were serious. They led to complications, infections, worse. “You can’t just ignore this.”

“I’m not ignoring it. I’m acknowledging it and choosing not to make a federal case out of it.” She gestured at her foot. “I’m seventy-nine years old, Ollie. Everything hurts. This is just another thing on the list.”

“That’s not a good reason to avoid medical care.”

“Who says I’m avoiding it? I’ll call Dr. Patterson tomorrow if it makes you feel better.”

“Call him now.” I wasn’t backing down from this, no matter how stubborn she became.

“It’s Sunday.” She readjusted herself in the chair, wincing when her foot moved.

“Then go to urgent care. Or the ER.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then she gave a raspy laugh. “You’re really worked up about this, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “You could’ve broken your ankle. You could’ve fallen and hit your head. This is serious, Miss Greta.”